In an essay in today's Sunday Book Review, "Twilight of the Idols," Peter Dizikes notes that the "great-man" view of history implied by the traditional science biography is being made obsolete by the current, highly collaborative structures of contemporary scientific practice:
Contemporary science is ... far more collaborative than non-scientists may imagine. A giant new particle collider soon to open in Switzerland, for example, will have more than 7,000 physicists participating in its experiments. “If you try to understand that kind of work through a biography,” Peter Galison, a historian of science at Harvard, said in a recent interview, “you’re really cutting the wood against the grain, and you can easily end up making invisible the collective work that’s so crucial for that kind of accomplishment.”
Nor, Dizikes suggests, is the phenomenon of widespread collaboration observable only among experimentalists:
This trend applies even to theorists, who, in the mode of Newton or Einstein, still tackle problems in relative isolation. “The main difference today is there are so many people working on these deep problems,” the physicist Brian Greene said recently. In one 15-page span of his best-selling book “The Elegant Universe” (1999), Greene mentions 24 scientists whose work prefigured a rich period in the development of string theory, the dominant idea in theoretical physics for the past 20 years. Faithfully untangling these various threads makes it harder for any writer to create a linear narrative of discovery, in which a few key influences on one scientist lead to a singular insight.
These observations seem, perhaps, unsurprising to anyone who has surveyed contemporary scientific practice. What I found most interesting, however, were historians' recent reappraisals of the role of collaboration in some of the earlier revolutionary periods in the history of science:
Indeed, science biography has sometimes distorted its subject by ignoring the communal aspects of scientific thought. Geology once had a great-man history in which 18th- and 19th-century British iconoclasts like James Hutton and William Smith discerned the antiquity of the earth, an idea that was absorbed in turn by the geologist Charles Lyell, and then set the stage for Darwin’s theory of evolution. But as the historian of science Martin Rudwick has shown, a whole network of European scientists was advancing geological research in this period. Daniel Kevles, a historian of science at Yale, said recently, “What’s happened in the last 15 or 20 years is that we’ve learned how even the very greatest scientists — Newton, Darwin, Einstein — were always engaged in collaboration of a very important, fundamental nature with their contemporaries.”
Oddly enough, Dizikes's presentation of the example of the development of 18th and 19th century geologic science as culminating in
Darwin's theory of evolution seems at least to imply that -- despite Rudwick's research on the geologists' practices -- Darwin himself was still a lone revolutionary. This implication, however, would be false, as we now know. Recent studies of Darwin's life -- such as
Janet Browne's Charles Darwin: The Power of Place, to cite one prominent, and excellent, example -- have demonstrated that Darwin himself was at the center of a massive network, spanning the globe, of researchers, explorers, amateur naturalists, all of whose investigations were instrumental for Darwin in the completion of his own work.
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