|From: Joachim K||6/19/2021 9:49:41 PM|
|The Biologic Urge to Readjust the Map of Europe|
June 19, 2021
In the two years since Dymphna died I have dedicated myself to putting my affairs in order, so that the future Baron won’t have too hard a time when I shuffle off this mortal coil and go to claim my 72 virgins. One of the most difficult and time-consuming tasks has been to clean out, cull, and reorganize the material in the filing cabinets here at Schloss Bodissey. I have to pull out all the papers and scrutinize them before deciding whether to keep them or not. In the process I have come across a number of delightful surprises, plus a few mysteries.
An example of the latter is a hand-written chart (to be discussed in detail below). It’s in pencil, in my handwriting (and very small — you can tell my eyes were still working), written on the back of a computer printout that dates it to 1990. It’s basically a compendium of territorial changes in Europe between 1916 and 1945.
(Click to enlarge)
The big mystery is: why the heck did I put the thing together? It was written fourteen years before we started blogging. The future Baron was too small at that point for the document to have been one my lesson plans for him. The material in it closely tracks what I had to absorb to take my A-levels (and special papers) in European history. But it was written twenty years after I took my exams, so I couldn’t possibly have been regurgitating it from memory. I can tell I consulted the Harvard Encyclopedia of World History (a 1948 edition inherited from my father that is now held together by duct tape. It is one of the most treasured resources in my reference library, second only to the Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology). Alas, I can no longer read it without a magnifying glass, so I won’t be checking any of the dates and facts on my chart to make sure they’re right.
For weeks I puzzled over the document, trying to figure out why I compiled it. My best guess is that Dymphna had been reading something — possibly The Guns of August by Barbara Tuchman — and wanted to know about the territorial adjustments made in the map of Europe by the Treaty of Versailles and others that followed in the wake of the Great War. She knew I was well-versed in modern European history, so she must have asked me if I would put something together that would summarize it for her. I would have been delighted by her request, because I love to do that sort of thing — or used to, when my eyes still functioned normally.
The chart is a useful resource, so I took the trouble to transcribe it as well as I could. Doing so brought back memories of all that old A-level material. Vojvodina! I hadn’t thought about that name in a while. And some of the other names — Serbia, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Moldavia, etc. — are well-known now, because they’re sovereign states, but they weren’t in 1990; they were still socialist republics within one or the other of the communist superstates.
I can still remember a few more names that didn’t make it to the chart — the Sanjak of Novi Bazar, for example, or Eastern Rumelia.
The map of Europe was drastically reorganized after 1917 (after the Bolshevik Revolution, that is) and then even more so after 1918 in a series of treaties that divvied up the territory of the collapsed empires. Adolf Hitler did his part to rearrange the map even further, and then major revisions took place after the end of World War Two until 1946 or so. After that everything was frozen in place by the Cold War for the next 45 years. Then suddenly in the 1990s you started to see names in the newspaper that hadn’t been there since the 1930s — Montenegro, for instance, and Estonia. And things are still in flux now — who knows what the map of Europe will look like after the EU finally collapses?
Here’s my transcription of the document. I tried to put it in date order as far as possible. I expanded abbreviations when I was sure what they meant; otherwise I left them as-is:
* “Asked” Soviets, July 1940
|Poland|| ||by Germany|| ||Nov 5, 1916|| ||War with Ukraine Nov 1918|
Danzig a free state
Treaty of Riga 1921
|Ukraine|| ||People’s republic|| ||Nov 20, 1917|| ||Peace treaty with Germany,|
Feb 9, 1918
Germans threw out Reds,
Fr, Whites, Reds, Poles, Reds
USSR Dec 1920
|Estonia*|| ||Independent|| ||Nov 28, 1917|| || |
|Finland|| ||Independent|| ||Dec 6, 1917|| ||Reds vs. Whites,|
Reds defeated with German help
Troops remained till Dec 16, 1918
Karelian isthmus —> Russia 1940
|Moldavia|| ||Republic|| ||Dec 23, 1917|| ||Joined Romania Nov 27, 1918|
Bessarabia —> Russia June 1940
|Latvia*|| ||Independent|| ||Jan 12, 1918|| ||Reds out Jan 1920|
|Lithuania*|| ||Independent|| ||Feb 16, 1918|| ||War with Reds, Poland till 1927|
over Vilna (Poland won by plebiscite)
Allied occupation 1923
Memel from Germany by treaty
Memel —> Germany 1939
Vilna —> Lithuania Oct 10, 1939
of the Don
| || || ||Jan 10, 1918|| || |
| ||Independent|| ||Oct 21, 1918|| ||Teschen —> Czechoslovakia|
Teschen —> Poland 1938
Sudetenland —> Germany 1938
Bohemia/Moravia —> Germany 1939
Part of Slovakia/Ruthenia
—> Hungary 1938
Slovakia, Ruthenia independent 1939
|Yugoslavia|| ||Independent|| ||Oct 29, 1918|| || |
| ||Split|| ||Nov 13-16, 1918|| ||Hungary occupied by Romania 1919|
Transylvania —> Romania
Slovenia, Croatia, Vojvodina,
Bosnia-Herzegovina —> Yugoslavia
Austria —> Germany 1938
Hungary occupied Ruthenia
Ruthenia —> Russia Jun 29, 1945
|Caucasus|| || || ||Dec 1918|| ||USSR 1921|
| || || || || ||—> Poland|
|Schleswig|| || || || || ||Plebiscite —> North to Denmark|
|Saar|| || || || || ||Allied/League administration|
—> Reich 1935
| || || || || ||—> France|
|Belgium|| || || || || ||<— Eupen, Malmédy, Moresnet|
| || || ||Mar 20, 1921|| ||Plebiscite, partition|
|Rhineland|| ||Republic|| ||Oct 21, 1923|| ||Demilitarized by treaty|
(till Jan 31, 1924)
Reoccupied by Hitler 1936
| || || || || ||—> Poland|
|Tyrol|| || || || || ||—> Italy|
| || || || || ||Occupied by Italy 1922|
—> Yugoslavia in 1945
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The title of this post is a reference to “At the Cenotaph”, a between-the-wars poem written by Siegfried Sassoon. It reportedly refers to a visit to France in 1938 by German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop to lay a wreath at the tomb of the unknown soldier. Other sources say it refers to a visit by Ribbentrop to London, where he laid a wreath at the Cenotaph. The latter version makes more sense, given that the poem specifically refers to the London monument.
At the Cenotaph
by Siegfried Sassoon
I saw the Prince of Darkness, with his Staff,
Standing bare-headed by the Cenotaph:
Unostentatious and respectful, there
He stood, and offered up the following prayer.
‘Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial
Means; their discredited ideas revive;
Breed new belief that War is purgatorial
Proof of the pride and power of being alive;
Men’s biologic urge to readjust
The Map of Europe, Lord of Hosts, increase;
Lift up their hearts in large destructive lust;
And crown their heads with blind vindictive Peace.’
The Prince of Darkness to the Cenotaph
Bowed. As he walked away I heard him laugh.
|RecommendKeepReplyMark as Last Read|
|From: Joachim K||6/20/2021 6:53:21 PM|
| Contact - - -|
An alien-made artefact or just interstellar debris? What ?
Oumuamua says about how science works when data is scarce
is the public astronomer at the Institute of Astronomy at the University of Cambridge. He is the author of The Invisible Universe: Why There’s More to Reality than Meets the Eye (forthcoming 2021).
There’s an iconic moment, filmed in the shadow of the Very Large Array in New Mexico, that many people who visit this giant telescope try to duplicate. A young astronomer sits cross-legged on the bonnet of her car, the towering line of radio dishes vanishing into the distance behind her. With her laptop in front of her, she’s listening intently to a giant pair of headphones, held upside down so that the strap hangs below her chin. The shot is from the film Contact (1997), and the astronomer, Dr Eleanor Arroway (played by Jodie Foster), is listening, awestruck, to the first signal from an extraterrestrial intelligence. Having worked as a professional astronomer for more than a decade, I’ve met a number of colleagues for whom the film was an important part of their childhood. Many modern astronomers are driven by the ideals that Contact speaks to: the awe of discovery, and the search for company somewhere in this vast and empty Universe.
On 19 October 2017, the astronomer Robert Weryk spotted something rather extraordinary: a splinter of rock, just a few hundred metres across, tumbling through our inner solar system. Not much to write home about, you might think: there are more than 750,000 known asteroids and comets in our cosmic backyard, and countless millions more waiting to be discovered. But this object was very, very special. As his team would soon discover, this piece of flying cosmic debris could only have come from outside of our own solar system. The human race had found its first ever interstellar traveller.
The object was soon named Oumuamua: Hawaiian for ‘first distant messenger’ or ‘scout’ (and pronounced the way one might write an ode to a cow: ‘Oh, moo-er, moo-er’). More than three years later, the debate over Oumuamua’s true nature has spilled beyond the borders of academic astronomy and into the popular imagination. One reason why is obvious: a visitor from the stars – not in any metaphorical sense, but a real, tangible object right here, in our cosmic backyard – forces us to see ourselves as a small part of a wider Universe that exists far beyond our imaginative shores. There’s another reason, too: in our current space-faring culture, just as we’re launching missions to the planets and dreaming of visiting the stars, it’s inevitable that a tantalising question would arise – what if Oumuamua is more than a simple inanimate object?
The existence of extraterrestrial life is one of humanity’s great driving questions. The ancient Greek philosophers before Socrates debated the ‘plurality of worlds’, and who among us hasn’t looked up at the stars at some point and wondered if there wasn’t someone, somewhere, looking back? In the latter half of the 20th century, this enduring fascination crystallised into a systematic scientific search effort, known as SETI: the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. But after more than six decades of hunting for radio signals from nearby stars, we’re as alone as we ever were. When we speculate about life elsewhere in the Universe, we’re doing that most dangerous of things, from a scientific perspective: extrapolating from a single data point, that of human existence. This combination of a profound and universal yearning, undercut by a total absence of evidence, has allowed the question of extraterrestrials to become a cosmic blank canvas, onto which it’s possible to project our hopes and our fears, our deepest insecurities and our loftiest desires. Our answer to the question of whether or not extraterrestrial intelligence might exist often tells us more about the baggage we bring than anything about the Universe as it really is.
Victorians of the late 19th century, living in the era of ambitious engineering, looked at Mars and saw globe-spanning canals – evidence, they believed, of a grand industrial civilisation mirroring their own. In the Cold War 1960s, as millions lived under the shadow of potential nuclear annihilation, ‘neocatastrophism’ – the theory that extraterrestrial civilisations are inevitably wiped out by violent events – emerged as an explanation for our apparent cosmic solitude. The Argentinian Trotskyist J Posadas was convinced that advanced aliens would be socialists; more recently, the Vatican’s then-chief astronomer José Gabriel Funes suggested in 2008 that extraterrestrials might share a close relationship with God. We scientists tend to believe that intelligent extraterrestrials will be builders of technology, fluent in the universal language of mathematics. In Contact, the aliens announce their presence by beaming prime numbers at us, and many of our messages broadcast to the stars consist of physics and mathematics wrapped up in binary code. This perspective on aliens as scientific rationalists underlies most of modern SETI. It’s a viewpoint that I happen to agree with. Then again, I’m a scientist: of course I do.
These labours of imagination aren’t intrinsically bad for science. Indeed, when faced with a new intellectual frontier, lacking in evidence but with plenty of tantalising questions, speculation is inevitable. It allows us to consider ideas that populate an intellectual landscape beyond our evidential horizons. Without speculation, our thinking would never develop and science would be stagnant. Many established scientific theories started out as pure conjecture: the Arabic intellectual Ibn al-Khatib made his suggestion that plagues result from contagion by minute bodies in c1362 CE, hundreds of years before microscopes provided evidence for his ideas. The ancient Greek philosopher Democritus proposed that matter was made of tiny ‘atoms’ more than 2,000 years before any proof arrived. Nicolaus Copernicus’s theory that Earth orbits the Sun was made in 1543, decades before Galileo used his new telescope to show that Copernicus was correct. Speculation and imagination are very much the creative force driving the advancement of scientific knowledge.
The number that caused the uproar was 1.2: this perfectly innocuous number had deeply cosmic implications
But scientists are human, and our flights of imaginative fancy are inevitably influenced by our existing ideas, our politics and our ideologies. Nowhere is this clearer than the topic of extraterrestrial life: when we wonder about the other minds with whom we might share our Universe, we’ve always tended to conjure up reflections of ourselves. And Oumuamua, a cosmic traveller flung out from some distant star system, has sparked the latest chapter of this long-running saga.
The discovery that made history came in late 2017. The Panoramic Survey Telescope and Rapid Response System (Pan-STARRS) spotted a faint speck in the sky that didn’t correspond to anything in the near-Earth object catalogues. Astronomers soon realised that this object was in the process of leaving our solar system: it had already swung around the Sun, and would soon pass Mars’s orbit on the way out. The speck – initially given the memorable moniker ‘P10Ee5V’ – was moving fast, flying away from the Sun at around 100,000 kilometres per hour. Over the course of six days, astronomers around the world used telescopes to carefully track its motion: by combining these observations with some basic knowledge of gravity, it was possible to re-trace the object’s steps, mapping out its entire orbit around the Sun. A message circulated around the astronomical world on 25 October 2017, describing the object – by now given the slightly improved name ‘COMET C/2017 U1 (PANSTARRS)’ – as ‘very weird’, and listing a few numbers that described the size and shape of its orbital path. The number that caused the uproar was something called the ‘orbital eccentricity’, measured to be around 1.2. This perfectly innocuous number had deeply cosmic implications.
Animation of ?Oumuamua passing through the Solar System. Courtesy Wikipedia
The shape of a planet’s orbit around a star is something called an ‘ellipse’, a sort of squashed circle. The amount that a planet’s orbit deviates from a perfect circle is called its ‘orbital eccentricity’. Earth’s orbit is only very slightly squashed, with an eccentricity of 0.017. You’d have to look very closely to see that we don’t orbit around the Sun in a perfect circle. Pluto’s orbit, on the other hand, is very squashed indeed: it looks egg-shaped and, at times, Pluto is closer to the Sun than Neptune is. Pluto’s obviously wonky orbit has an eccentricity of 0.25. These numbers can go higher: Eris, the second largest dwarf planet in our solar system has an orbital eccentricity of 0.44, and little Sedna, three times further out than Neptune, comes in at 0.85. Comets have some of the most eccentric orbits of all, spending most of their life out in the far frozen reaches of the solar system and only occasionally dipping close to the Sun. Halley’s Comet has an orbital eccentricity of 0.97, and NEOWISE (which lit up the skies in the summer of 2020) is almost as eccentric as they come, at 0.999.
At this point, you’ll have noticed something. All of these objects, which are part of our solar system, have orbital eccentricities lower than 1. When it comes to orbital eccentricity, 1 is the magic number. Once your orbit hits an eccentricity of 1 (or higher), you’re no longer gravitationally bound to the thing you’re orbiting: strictly speaking, you aren’t ‘orbiting’ at all, and are destined to fly off into the interstellar darkness.
So – back to our weird speck, COMET C/2017 U1 (PANSTARRS). An orbital eccentricity of 1.2 meant that there was no way that this object was in orbit around our Sun. It could only have come from outside our solar system: from interstellar space. What we had found was a visitor from another star system. A more dignified name was in order: it was soon dubbed 1I/Oumuamua.
As you might imagine, all this got the world’s attention. Within hours of the announcement, telescopes around the globe were pointed at Oumuamua, hoping to learn as much as possible about our visitor before it vanished forever into the dark. We quickly learned that the light reflecting from ?Oumuamua was reddish, similar to some asteroids in our own solar system that are covered in organic silicates, carbon and ice. Any sense of normality stopped there, however.
The first oddity was the light curve – that is, the way Oumuamua changed brightness over time. Repeating every eight hours or so, Oumuamua got brighter, then dimmed, and then brightened again. This meant that Oumuamua must be a spinning asymmetrical object: it looked brightest when its largest surface was pointing towards us, and vice versa. What was surprising was the extreme difference between these two states. Normal, slightly misshapen asteroids get maybe 20 or 30 per cent brighter and dimmer as they spin. The light from Oumuamua, on the other hand, was varying by a factor of 10. Oumuamua had to be something very long and thin: a cigar-shape, or maybe a flat pancake, a few hundred metres wide but just tens of metres across. Completely different, in other words, from the mostly spherical (or dumpily potato-shaped) asteroids that populate our inner solar system. Oumuamua, our first interstellar visitor, was like nothing we’d seen before.
Was Oumuamua a chunk of frozen hydrogen, perhaps chipped off a distant star’s equivalent of Pluto?
This is the point at which many people – including some astronomers – started using the ‘A’-word. Artificial. The comparison to a discarded rocket or a science-fiction flying saucer was inescapable: the rocket that took astronauts to the Moon, Saturn V, measured 110m by 10m – eerily similar to our interstellar visitor. Things got weirder still just a few months later. In the summer of 2018, the astronomer Marco Micheli published a paper in Nature announcing that his team had tracked Oumuamua’s motion more accurately than ever before. Their headline finding was simple: Oumuamua was speeding up. The effect was subtle – they weren’t seeing Oumuamua blasting off to the stars – but there was clearly something non-gravitational afoot. Something was pushing Oumuamua faster and faster. It wasn’t long before SETI swung into action, and some of the best alien-hunting machines on the planet were turning their attention towards ?Oumuamua. Several radio telescopes focused on the object, hunting for any possible electronic chatter it might be putting out. The result, however, was silence.
The astronomical community rose to the challenge of explaining Oumuamua, with more than 200 papers to date discussing our interstellar visitor. Explanations have ranged from the mundane (Oumuamua is the middle of a comet) to the esoteric (Oumuamua is a nugget of dark matter). Some groups proposed that the acceleration might be due to excess heat radiation: due to its unusual shape, Oumuamua could be radiating most of its heat behind it as it travelled. Such ‘radiative anisotropy’ has been known to push things around in deep space (most notably the Pioneer probe, the strange acceleration of which was a mystery for years). Other papers suggested Oumuamua’s motion could be explained by ‘outgassing’ – the Sun boiling ice under the surface, producing gas that spurted out like a rocket engine. Comets – and even some asteroids – in our own solar system do this all the time. Observations indicated that Oumuamua had no coma – a nebulous envelope of gas – but this excluded only gasses that we can see. If Oumuamua was a chunk of frozen hydrogen, perhaps chipped off a distant star’s equivalent of Pluto, all of the weird behaviour gets explained rather neatly.
The problem is that Oumuamua is gone. By now it’s billions of kilometres from Earth, and getting farther away all the time. Unless a very expensive chase mission is launched very soon, Oumuamua might remain shrouded in mystery forever.
There’s a name that, by now, has become conspicuous by its absence. If you’ve read even one story about Oumuamua over the past four years, you’ll almost certainly have come across it: Abraham ‘Avi’ Loeb, professor of science at Harvard University, and his claim that Oumuamua is an alien artefact.
Together with his Harvard colleague, Shmuel Bialy, Loeb published the paper ‘Could Solar Radiation Pressure Explain Oumuamua’s Peculiar Acceleration?’ (2018). In other words, could the acceleration be caused by the pressure of sunlight? This innocuous hook was the precursor to a startling conclusion: the pressure from sunlight could work, but not if Oumuamua was a lump of rock. The strange acceleration could be chalked up to solar radiation pressure if Oumuamua was an artificial construction: a solar sail, built to traverse the galaxy on a wind of light.
Loeb has done more than engage in purely dispassionate scientific theorising. What has led to him hitting headlines around the world is his evangelical mission to convince the public that aliens have visited. Loeb has written a long string of popular articles arguing that the best explanation for Oumuamua is an alien solar sail. He followed these up with a book, Extraterrestrial: The First Sign of Intelligent Life Beyond Earth (2021), in which he’s even more vehement: in it, he writes ‘Oumuamua must have been designed, built, and launched by an extraterrestrial intelligence.’ In a recent interview promoting the book (headlined ‘Astronomer Avi Loeb Says Aliens Have Visited, And He’s Not Kidding’), Loeb highlights what he calls a ‘crisis’ in science, saying that his colleagues in the astronomical community are ‘not using common sense’, and castigating his most vocal critics as ‘mediocre scientists’. In late June 2021, Loeb is scheduled to speak at Contact in the Desert, which describes itself as the ‘world’s largest UFO conference’, where he’ll share a stage with speakers discussing psychic remote viewing, crop circles and alien abduction.
What’s disturbing to many of Loeb’s (many) critics isn’t the ideas themselves, but the distinctly unscientific certainty with which he presents them to the public. He’s said that the alien hypothesis is ‘much more likely’, and that his ideas are ‘not speculative at all’. But as is so often the case, Loeb’s speculations – which is what they are – are informed by his existing ideas and politics. Loeb is heavily involved with the project Breakthrough Starshot, an engineering initiative founded in 2016 by the billionaire Yuri Milner with one goal: to build a solar sail, and send a probe to another star system. Loeb chairs the project’s advisory committee and, as a result, since 2016 has been a vocal public advocate for solar-sail technology. Around a year later, ?Oumuamua came through our solar system, and ever since Loeb has been on a one-man mission to convince the world that we picked up the trail of an alien solar sail.
Zuckerman’s long-term opposition to immigration and his SETI scepticism are two sides of the same coin
Loeb isn’t the only scientist to fall prey to ideologically motivated speculation: in fact, we can see the same dynamic in the arguments of some of his detractors. In February 2021, the astrophysicist Benjamin Zuckerman of the University of California, Los Angeles published the paper ‘Oumuamua Is Not a Probe Sent to our Solar System by an Alien Civilization’. Zuckerman’s overarching theory is simple: Oumuamua can’t be an alien spaceship, because aliens simply don’t exist. Zuckerman is an ardent SETI sceptic, and the author of the paper ‘Why SETI Will Fail’ (2002), in which he argues that extraterrestrial intelligence must at least be exceedingly rare, because otherwise they would have come to visit us.
Zuckerman is a controversial figure, for reasons that go beyond the astronomical. As well as being a professor emeritus of astronomy, Zuckerman is an ardent and lifelong anti-immigration activist. There’s a clear philosophical thread running through all of Zuckerman’s ideas: his long-term opposition to immigration and his SETI scepticism are two sides of the same coin. This is made clear in a paper Zuckerman wrote in his book Extraterrestrials: Where Are They? (2nd ed, 1995), a book he co-edited with Michael Hart, a white nationalist who openly advocates for partitioning the United States along racial lines. The paper, ‘Stellar Evolution: Motivation for Mass Interstellar Migrations’ (1985), argues that extraterrestrial civilisations, facing the death of their star, will inevitably end up fleeing their home systems for greener pastures. ‘Massive migration seems the most likely possibility,’ he writes. He also worries about the effect these migrant populations might have on our pristine corner of the Universe: at the end of his paper, he concludes ‘in a crisis such as the death of one’s beloved home star, would the affected society worry about preserving “wilderness areas”?’
The link to Zuckerman’s extreme environmentalist anti-immigration sentiments is obvious. His motivating presumption is simple: the place we live is special, and incoming migrant populations will colonise and pollute it. Applying this principle to his native California, he opposes immigration. Applying it to the stars, it guides the way he imagines other beings. Zuckerman doesn’t conceive of extraterrestrials as wise benefactors coming in peace, or even a warlike force hellbent on destruction. For Zuckerman, extraterrestrials are migrants fleeing tragedy, who will permanently and irreversibly colonise our homeland. And so we reach Zuckerman’s philosophical opposition to SETI: because our solar system remains uncolonized, extraterrestrials must therefore not exist.
The wider astronomical community, it’s fair to say, hasn’t responded warmly to Loeb’s ideas. Sceptical opinions began to roll in soon after Oumuamua’s discovery. ‘It’s not a spacecraft,’ said Michele Bannister, an astronomer at Queen’s University Belfast, in a late-2017 interview for WIRED magazine. More up-to-date papers have continued this theme: Jonathan Katz, professor of physics at Washington University in St Louis, published a paper in March 2021, the title of which speaks for itself: ‘Oumuamua Is Not Artificial’. Scientists on Twitter were less measured: Benjamin Weiner, an astronomer at the University of Arizona, accused Loeb of ‘bad behaviour’ and ‘misleading the public’.
This critique was thrown into sharp relief earlier this year, during an online discussion hosted by the Instituto de Astrofísica in Chile. The astronomer Jill Tarter of the SETI Institute in California objected to Loeb’s sensationalising, pointing out that he’s bringing the field into disrepute, and accusing him of ‘throwing the entire scientific culture under the bus’. It’s worth noting that Tarter is a legendary SETI pioneer, who’s probably done more to further the search for extraterrestrial intelligence than any other astronomer on Earth. Over her 40-year career, she has tirelessly promoted the quest to find alien life, spending more than a decade as the director of the Center for SETI Research. She was even – in part – the inspiration for Dr Arroway in Contact. All this makes what followed in February 2021 particularly shocking: in a Zoom webinar for the general public on astrophysics, Loeb launched into an attack on Tarter, shouting over the top of her and accusing her of not being supportive enough of his SETI efforts (a field in which she is a veteran, and Loeb a relative newcomer). Loeb’s behaviour drew widespread condemnation, after which he offered a somewhat half-hearted apology.
Loeb’s critics have provided a range of counterpoints to his evangelical advocacy. Oumuamua didn’t attempt to slow down to get a better look at us, and was utterly radio-silent. The modest telescope you could fit inside Oumuamua would be outclassed by even a modest network of dishes in the alien’s home system, making the 100,000-year (minimum) journey to our solar system rather pointless. Many astronomers have pointed out that these interstellar objects are likely very common in our Milky Way, with some estimating that there could be more than a trillion trillion such travellers spread throughout our galaxy. Several of them probably pass through our solar system every year: if this is the case, then Oumuamua suddenly starts to look a lot less special. Indeed, in August 2019 a second interstellar object was spotted in our solar system, a comet that was subsequently named 2I/Borisov.
At some point the speculative dust settles and the hard data arrive
This pushback from the scientific community allows us to zoom out a little, and see the role of speculation in better context. Speculation might well be the creative engine of science, but it’s only when flights of imagination are followed up by intellectually honest, rigorous critique that we have a chance of learning more about our world. Many good ideas started off as wild speculation, but so did countless bad ones. Many ancient Greeks believed that light beams originated from our eyes and, in the late 17th century, the astronomer Edmond Halley thought that Earth might be hollow. The critical thing, and the key to the scientific process, is the ability to sift the good ideas from the bad.
This scientific tug-of-war is just the latest chapter in a long-running dynamic – an argument that has happened before, and will happen again. Look back to a century or so ago, when the origin of our Universe was the biggest question in astronomy. In the late 1920s, the astronomical world was shaken by one of the most surprising discoveries of all time: the Universe is expanding. The prevailing cosmology of the era was that the Universe was unchanging and infinitely old, so to suddenly find themselves in a growing, evolving cosmos was a shock to the system for most astronomers. The expanding Universe seemed to suggest some kind of beginning point when everything kicked off – but what that might look like was anyone’s guess. In the absence of evidence, speculation took flight. The Belgian astronomer and Catholic priest Georges Lemaître in 1927 proposed that the Universe was born from a ‘primeval atom’; in 1948, Fred Hoyle, based in Cambridge, proposed a ‘steady-state model’, where new matter is continuously created as space expands, which allowed the Universe to be infinitely old after all.
But at some point the speculative dust settles and the hard data arrive. In 1964, two researchers detected the ‘echo’ of the Big Bang, and the rest is history. These days, we live in an era of ‘precision cosmology’, in which the age, size and shape of the Universe can be measured to a staggering level of accuracy. Territory that was once a playground for the imagination has been mapped in exquisite detail. Our speculative efforts have moved on to the next set of unknowns: the multiverse, dark matter and dark energy are all beyond the current frontier of knowledge, and finding answers will require our imaginations as much as our telescopes.
On the question of extraterrestrial intelligence, and Oumuamua in particular, firm proof has not yet arrived. So what of Loeb, the scientist who cried ‘alien’? As most other astronomers have pointed out, he’s very likely to be wrong. The balance of evidence just isn’t on his side. The strength of science, as a method for learning about our world, is the ability to self-correct when the data come in. But this self-correction often applies only to the field as a whole: individual scientists, when their speculations are not borne out by the evidence, sometimes fail to change their minds.
Hoyle remained staunchly opposed to the Big Bang theory until his death in 2001. If he’d lived in the age of Twitter, he would have been front-page news: ‘Cambridge professor denies the Big Bang’ would make for clickbait just as appealing as ‘Harvard professor says aliens have visited’. But Hoyle was wrong, just as Loeb is probably wrong. Ultimately, here’s the lesson we might draw from all this: because the back-and-forth between speculation and self-critique is the heartbeat of science, it’s misleading when only the first half of that dynamic makes headlines. A media landscape that truthfully represented how science works would champion Tarter more than Loeb.
The deepest questions that SETI has set out to answer might never be solved. If we’re truly alone in the Universe, our destiny might well be to search and search and come up empty-handed. But when it comes to Oumuamua, some real data could be close. Oumuamua itself might be long gone, but it won’t be long until astronomers have an unprecedented ability to scan the sky for other rogue objects. The Vera C Rubin Observatory in Chile is a futuristic and much more advanced version of Pan-STARRS, and is set to open its eyes to the sky around 2022-23. If it turns out that Oumuamua was a one-off, a unique visitor unlike anything else out there, then it might be time to fire up our imaginations once again.
But if, as most theories suggest, Oumuamua turns out to be just one of many interstellar visitors that regularly pass through our cosmic neighbourhood, then we can be pretty confident that it was indeed just a lump of inert material. This won’t be the end of the story: it will open up a new frontier of knowledge, as astronomers begin the careful process of studying these interstellar visitors, and discovering what secrets they might hold about their distant homes.
This Essay was made possible through the support of a grant to Aeon from the John Templeton Foundation. The opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Foundation. Funders to Aeon Magazine are not involved in editorial decision-making.
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|To: Tom Clarke who wrote (7156)||6/26/2021 12:05:46 PM|
|From: Joachim K|
|JUNE 24, 2021|
Police kick out group holding exorcism 'for the dead trees' at Pennsylvania Home DepotThe incident, described as 'a séance type of thing,' happened at a store in Lackawanna County
BY MICHAEL TANENBAUM
ODD NEWS Religion
STREET VIEW/GOOGLEA Home Depot store on Commerce Boulevard in Dickson City, Pa. became the site of an exorcism on June 21, according to police.
There are places to hold an exorcism and places to maybe avoid holding an exorcism.
Any guess where the lumber aisle of a Home Depot falls?
A police report from Dickson City in Lackawanna County raised eyebrows this week for its =AZV7IKDokqNgRIZ0jq5jIgMdOZ1lAkkBnCMJyvvfANN9Qfw9NQm1ome4FsmXQHyIDaFE4t_Pegbafzk7hdvqtooBff6KrqgvIvzDn7VBqGnpS1S6hJgfrup1G3YQq8IqzKRDFPwG-8cyI51Tq9G2NOiD&__tn__=%2CO%2CP-R]bizarre description of an incident that happened Monday.
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"3:26pm: Commerce Blvd. @ Home Depot for disorderly people having an exorcism in the lumber isle (sic) for the dead trees," authorities wrote. "They were escorted out of the building."
A call placed to Dickson City police elicited a chuckle from one officer.
"There were two people hanging out in the lumber department doing their little exorcism thing," the officer said. "Some people at the store started picking up that something was happening that was not necessarily normal. Police were called to the store and they were escorted out of the building."
The individuals involved will not be charged, the officer said.
"It was a séance type of thing for the dead," he said.
An employee who answered the phone at Home Depot said the store had no comment on the incident.
The real shame is that in this day and age, when every unwelcome encounter at a business is filmed and shared online, no one seems to have had the good sense to get footage of what happened.
Exorcisms are scary business, whether it's the stuff you see in fictionalized accounts of true stories, like in "The Conjuring" series, or in documentaries that explore demonic possession, such as " The Devil and Father Amorth" on Netflix.
Can trees be possessed, though? Can they be used for spiritual healing and punishment? M. Night Shyamalan explored this a bit in his 2008 eco-slasher "The Happening," but that was pure fiction.
Strange as it sounds, Benjamin Franklin and Antione Lavoiser conducted placebo-controlled medical experiments in 1784 to debunk the healing practices devised by Franz Mesmer. The study was at the behest of Louis XVI, who formed a royal commission to get to the bottom of it, given the sordid history of devil controversies in Europe in prior centuries.
Mesmerism was derived from an effort to demonstrate "animal magnetism" — a natural energy transference between living beings and inanimate objects — that could be summoned and engaged without religion as the bedrock. The study Franklin worked on aimed to determine whether Mesmer had discovered a new physical force, or "fluid," in Mesmer's vocabulary.
One of the patients in the experiments was sensitive to the presence of "mesmerized" trees and passed out when he came into contact with one he had been told was "treated," even though it wasn't. Earlier, the patient had no reaction to a tree that had been secretly mesmerized, according to Mesmer's healing practices. The royal commission concluded Mesmer's "fluid" was bogus, but the experiments didn't seriously examine the question of whether mesmerism could heal people.
There's also The Devil's Tree in New Jersey, where various legends tell of an unholy oak in a large field in Bernards Township. Readers of Weird NJ shared some accounts of their paranormal experiences at the tree. They all sound pretty ridiculous.
We're probably going out on a limb even attempting to explain this behavior. The only lesson to take from it is that you can get practically anything at Home Depot, but the lumber is not there for the benefit of your exorcisms.
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|To: Tom Clarke who wrote (7160)||7/3/2021 1:00:00 AM|
|From: Joachim K|
|A Rollicking Novel for an Age of Absurdity|
JUL 2, 2021 6:00 PM BY ROBERT SPENCER
My latest in PJ Media:
Harking back to the not-too-distant past when education didn’t entirely consist of learning how racist and evil our forefathers were, H. W. Crocker III heads up his latest and arguably most riotous picaresque novel, Armstrong Rides Again!, with the Latin inscription Numquam concedere. That’s “Never concede,” kids, and after Covid-19, the 2020 election, the exaltation of perversion and insanity, the Reichstag Fire incident of January 6, and six months of Biden’s handlers stirring up war, inflation, invasion, and more, it’s a good motto for dissidents to keep in mind. In Armstrong Rides Again!, the chief refuser to concede is none other than George Armstrong Custer himself, who in the novel was not killed in the Battle of Little Big Horn, and is instead making his way through a post-Civil War world that is absurd enough to make our own almost look sane. Custer teams up with another real-life character, the nineteenth-century satirist Ambrose Bierce, and undertakes his travels with help from an Indian scout, Billy Jack, whose name is taken from the eponymous 1971 guilt-manipulation Western, one of the first of a long line of major motion pictures that spread the now all-pervasive mythology of saintly Indians suffering within a rapacious and unfeeling larger American culture.Armstrong Rides Again! is a marvelous antidote to such politically correct fantasies. In this world (as in the real one, though the fact is largely forgotten now), no group has a monopoly on good or evil, and even the most altruistic act is shot through with self-seeking. At the same time, the book is filled with sly social commentary, particularly when Custer makes his way to the fictional Latin American republic of Neustraguano (I’ll leave you to figure out what that one means).
Custer is there to come to the aid of El Caudillo, who lives in “el Palacio Blanco” and is “the hereditary soldier-emperor of Neustraguano; a defender of our nation and its faith,” whose enemies (including “a strange, spiky, herky-jerky figure,” a woman who “looked like a stage witch, perhaps touched with fever”) see him as “an exploiter of its people; defended by superstition!” This woman “works with the Indians on the borderlands. They suffer from a plague. The people wear bags as protection from it.”
A protest against El Caudillo is described by one of its supporters as “a protest for science—and against ignorance as represented by El Caudillo and that cathedral. Our nation’s square should not be dominated by a Church or represented by a monarchy—both relics of a dark, unenlightened past.” The foes of El Caudillo are found even within his government, for when the leader tells Custer how sorry he is that “the most attractive people in Neustraguano never have children,” such that his people, “over time, become uglier and uglier,” Custer notices that “the cabinet officers were rolling their eyes or burying their faces behind their hands.”
Is this beginning to sound familiar?
There is more. Read the rest here.
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|From: Joachim K||7/3/2021 11:16:32 PM|
|The True-Life Horror That Inspired Moby-DickThe whaler ‘Essex’ was indeed sunk by a whale—and that’s only the beginning.|
The Deadliest Disaster at Sea Killed Thousands, Yet Its Story Is Little-Known. Why?
The Worst Shark Attack in History
Three Centuries After His Beheading, a Kinder, Gentler Blackbeard Emerges
Herman Melville drew inspiration for Moby-Dick from the 1820 whale attack on the Essex. Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain.
In July of 1852, a 32-year-old novelist named Herman Melville had high hopes for his new novel, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale, despite the book’s mixed reviews and tepid sales. That month he took a steamer to Nantucket for his first visit to the Massachusetts island, home port of his novel’s mythic protagonist, Captain Ahab, and his ship, the Pequod. Like a tourist, Melville met local dignitaries, dined out and took in the sights of the village he had previously only imagined.
And on his last day on Nantucket he met the broken-down 60-year-old man who had captained the Essex, the ship that had been attacked and sunk by a sperm whale in an 1820 incident that had inspired Melville’s novel. Captain George Pollard Jr. was just 29 years old when the Essex went down, and he survived and returned to Nantucket to captain a second whaling ship, Two Brothers. But when that ship wrecked on a coral reef two years later, the captain was marked as unlucky at sea—a “Jonah”—and no owner would trust a ship to him again. Pollard lived out his remaining years on land, as the village night watchman.
Melville had written about Pollard briefly in Moby-Dick, and only with regard to the whale sinking his ship. During his visit, Melville later wrote, the two merely “exchanged some words.” But Melville knew Pollard’s ordeal at sea did not end with the sinking of the Essex, and he was not about to evoke the horrific memories that the captain surely carried with him. “To the islanders he was a nobody,” Melville wrote, “to me, the most impressive man, tho’ wholly unassuming, even humble—that I ever encountered.”
Pollard had told the full story to fellow captains over a dinner shortly after his rescue from the Essex ordeal, and to a missionary named George Bennet. To Bennet, the tale was like a confession. Certainly, it was grim: 92 days and sleepless nights at sea in a leaking boat with no food, his surviving crew going mad beneath the unforgiving sun, eventual cannibalism and the harrowing fate of two teenage boys, including Pollard’s first cousin, Owen Coffin. “But I can tell you no more—my head is on fire at the recollection,” Pollard told the missionary. “I hardly know what I say.”
The trouble for Essex began, as Melville knew, on August 14, 1819, just two days after it left Nantucket on a whaling voyage that was supposed to last two and a half years. The 87-foot-long ship was hit by a squall that destroyed its topgallant sail and nearly sank it. Still, Pollard continued, making it to Cape Horn five weeks later. But the 20-man crew found the waters off South America nearly fished out, so they decided to sail for distant whaling grounds in the South Pacific, far from any shores.
To restock, the Essex anchored at Charles Island in the Galapagos, where the crew collected sixty 100-pound tortoises. As a prank, one of the crew set a fire, which, in the dry season, quickly spread. Pollard’s men barely escaped, having to run through flames, and a day after they set sail, they could still see smoke from the burning island. Pollard was furious, and swore vengeance on whoever set the fire. Many years later Charles Island was still a blackened wasteland, and the fire was believed to have caused the extinction of both the Floreana Tortoise and the Floreana Mockingbird.
Essex First Mate Owen Chase, later in life. Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Getty Images.
By November of 1820, after months of a prosperous voyage and a thousand miles from the nearest land, whaleboats from the Essex had harpooned whales that dragged them out toward the horizon in what the crew called “Nantucket sleigh rides.” Owen Chase, the 23-year-old first mate, had stayed aboard the Essex to make repairs while Pollard went whaling. It was Chase who spotted a very big whale—85 feet in length, he estimated—lying quietly in the distance, its head facing the ship. Then, after two or three spouts, the giant made straight for the Essex, “coming down for us at great celerity,” Chase would recall—at about three knots. The whale smashed head-on into the ship with “such an appalling and tremendous jar, as nearly threw us all on our faces.”
The whale passed underneath the ship and began thrashing in the water. “I could distinctly see him smite his jaws together, as if distracted with rage and fury,” Chase recalled. Then the whale disappeared. The crew was addressing the hole in the ship and getting the pumps working when one man cried out, “Here he is—he is making for us again.” Chase spotted the whale, his head half out of water, bearing down at great speed—this time at six knots, Chase thought. This time it hit the bow directly under the cathead and disappeared for good.
The water rushed into the ship so fast, the only thing the crew could do was lower the boats and try fill them with navigational instruments, bread, water and supplies before the Essex turned over on its side.
Pollard saw his ship in distress from a distance, then returned to see the Essex in ruin. Dumbfounded, he asked, “My God, Mr. Chase, what is the matter?”
“We have been stove by a whale,” his first mate answered.
Another boat returned, and the men sat in silence, their captain still pale and speechless. Some, Chase observed, “had no idea of the extent of their deplorable situation.”
The men were unwilling to leave the doomed Essex as it slowly foundered, and Pollard tried to come up with a plan. In all, there were three boats and 20 men. They calculated that the closest land was the Marquesas Islands and the Society Islands, and Pollard wanted to set off for them—but in one of the most ironic decisions in nautical history, Chase and the crew convinced him that those islands were peopled with cannibals and that the crew’s best chance for survival would be to sail south. The distance to land would be far greater, but they might catch the trade winds or be spotted by another whaling ship. Only Pollard seemed to understand the implications of steering clear of the islands. (According to Nathaniel Philbrick, in his book In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, although rumors of cannibalism persisted, traders had been visiting the islands without incident.)
Thus they left the Essex aboard their 20-foot boats. They were challenged almost from the start. Saltwater saturated the bread, and the men began to dehydrate as they ate their daily rations. The sun was ravaging. Pollard’s boat was attacked by a killer whale. They spotted land—Henderson Island—two weeks later, but it was barren. After another week the men began to run out of supplies. Still, three of them decided they’d rather take their chances on land than climb back into a boat. No one could blame them. And besides, it would stretch the provisions for the men in the boats.
By mid-December, after weeks at sea, the boats began to take on water, more whales menaced the men at night, and by January, the paltry rations began to take their toll. On Chase’s boat, one man went mad, stood up and demanded a dinner napkin and water, then fell into “most horrid and frightful convulsions” before perishing the next morning. “Humanity must shudder at the dreadful recital” of what came next, Chase wrote. The crew “separated limbs from his body, and cut all the flesh from the bones; after which, we opened the body, took out the heart, and then closed it again—sewed it up as decently as we could, and committed it to the sea.” They then roasted the man’s organs on a flat stone and ate them.
Over the coming week, three more sailors died, and their bodies were cooked and eaten. One boat disappeared, and then Chase’s and Pollard’s boats lost sight of each other. The rations of human flesh did not last long, and the more the survivors ate, the hungrier they felt. On both boats the men became too weak to talk. The four men on Pollard’s boat reasoned that without more food, they would die. On February 6, 1821—nine weeks after they’d bidden farewell to the Essex—Charles Ramsdell, a teenager, proposed they draw lots to determine who would be eaten next. It was the custom of the sea, dating back, at least in recorded instance, to the first half of the 17th century. The men in Pollard’s boat accepted Ramsdell’s suggestion, and the lot fell to young Owen Coffin, the captain’s first cousin.
Pollard had promised the boy’s mother he’d look out for him. “My lad, my lad!” the captain now shouted, “if you don’t like your lot, I’ll shoot the first man that touches you.” Pollard even offered to step in for the boy, but Coffin would have none of it. “I like it as well as any other,” he said.
Ramsdell drew the lot that required him to shoot his friend. He paused a long time. But then Coffin rested his head on the boat’s gunwale and Ramsdell pulled the trigger.
“He was soon dispatched,” Pollard would say, “and nothing of him left.”
By February 18, after 89 days at sea, the last three men on Chase’s boat spotted a sail in the distance. After a frantic chase, they managed to catch the English ship Indian and were rescued.
Three hundred miles away, Pollard’s boat carried only its captain and Charles Ramsdell. They had only the bones of the last crewmen to perish, which they smashed on the bottom of the boat so that they could eat the marrow. As the days passed the two men obsessed over the bones scattered on the boat’s floor. Almost a week after Chase and his men had been rescued, a crewman aboard the American ship Dauphin spotted Pollard’s boat. Wretched and confused, Pollard and Ramsdell did not rejoice at their rescue, but simply turned to the bottom of their boat and stuffed bones into their pockets. Safely aboard the Dauphin, the two delirious men were seen “sucking the bones of their dead mess mates, which they were loath to part with.”
The five Essex survivors were reunited in Valparaiso, where they recuperated before sailing back for Nantucket. As Philbrick writes, Pollard had recovered enough to join several captains for dinner, and he told them the entire story of the Essex wreck and his three harrowing months at sea. One of the captains present returned to his room and wrote everything down, calling Pollard’s account “the most distressing narrative that ever came to my knowledge.”
Years later, the third boat was discovered on Ducie Island; three skeletons were aboard. Miraculously, the three men who chose to stay on Henderson Island survived for nearly four months, mostly on shellfish and bird eggs, until an Australian ship rescued them.
Once they arrived in Nantucket, the surviving crewmen of the Essex were welcomed, largely without judgment. Cannibalism in the most dire of circumstances, it was reasoned, was a custom of the sea. (In similar incidents, survivors declined to eat the flesh of the dead but used it as bait for fish. But Philbrick notes that the men of the Essex were in waters largely devoid of marine life at the surface.)
Captain Pollard, however, was not as easily forgiven, because he had eaten his cousin. (One scholar later referred to the act as “gastronomic incest.”) Owen Coffin’s mother could not abide being in the captain’s presence. Once his days at sea were over, Pollard spent the rest of his life in Nantucket. Once a year, on the anniversary of the wreck of the Essex, he was said to have locked himself in his room and fasted in honor of his lost crewmen.
By 1852, Melville and Moby-Dick had begun their own slide into obscurity. Despite the author’s hopes, his book sold but a few thousand copies in his lifetime, and Melville, after a few more failed attempts at novels, settled into a reclusive life and spent 19 years as a customs inspector in New York City. He drank and suffered the death of his two sons. Depressed, he abandoned novels for poetry. But George Pollard’s fate was never far from his mind. In his poem Clarel he writes of
A night patrolman on the quay
Watching the bales till morning hour
Through fair and foul. Never he smiled;
Call him, and he would come; not sour
In spirit, but meek and reconciled:
Patient he was, he none withstood;
Oft on some secret thing would brood.
Gilbert King is a contributing writer in history for Smithsonian.com. His book Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, the Groveland Boys, and the Dawn of a New America won the Pulitzer Prize in 2013.
Books: Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; Or, The Whale, 1851, Harper & Brothers Publishers. Nathaniel Philbrick, In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, 2000, Penguin Books. Thomas Nickerson, The Loss of the Ship Essex, Sunk by a Whale, 2000, Penguin Classics. Owen Chase, Narrative of the Whale-Ship Essex of Nantucket, 2006, A RIA Press Edition. Alex MacCormick, The Mammoth Book of Maneaters, 2003, Carroll & Graf Publishers. Joseph S. Cummins, Cannibals: Shocking True Tales of the Last Taboo on Land and at Sea, 2001, The Lyons Press. Evan L. Balkan, Shipwrecked: Deadly Adventures and Disasters at Sea, 2008, Menasha Ridge Press.
Articles: “The Whale and the Horror,” by Nathaniel Philbrick, Vanity Fair, May, 2000. “Herman Melville: Nantucket’s First Tourist?” by Susan Beegel, The Nantucket Historical Association, nha.org. ”Herman Melville and Nantucket,” The Nantucket Historical Association, nha.org. Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World, “Biography: Herman Melville,” American Experience, PBS.org, pbs.org. “No Moby-Dick: A Real Captain, Twice Doomed,” by Jesse McKinley, New York Times, February 11, 2011. “The Essex Disaster,” by Walter Karp, American Heritage, April/May, 1983, Volume 34, Issue 3. “Essex (whaleship),” Wikipedia, en.wikipedia.org. ”Account of the Ship Essex Sinking, 1819-1821., Thomas Nickerson, galapagos.to
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