Tree of Consanguinity, ca. 1450-1510. Page 52.

[Review] The Book of Trees, Manuel Lima

The first line on the first page of The Book of Trees is “This is the book I wish had been available when I was researching my previous book, Visual Complexity: Mapping Patterns of Information.” It’s funny, because this is also the book I wish had been available when I was researching my own project, Knowledge Uprooted. It took Alberto Cairo, reading over a draft of my article, to point out that Manuel Lima was working on a book-length version of a very similar project. If the book had come out a year ago, my own research might look very different. Lima’s book is beautifully designed, well-researched, and a delightful resource for anyone interested in visualizations of knowledge.

Tree of Consanguinity, ca. 1450-1510. Page 52.

Tree of Consanguinity, ca. 1450-1510. Page 52.

Lima’s book is a history of hierarchical visualizations, most frequently as trees, and often representing branches of knowledge. He roots his narrative in trees themselves, describing how their symbolism has touched religions and cultures for millennia. The narrative weaves through Ancient Greece and Medieval Europe, makes a few stops outside of the West and winds its way to the present day. Subsequent chapters are divided into types of tree visualizations: figurative, vertical, horizontal, multidirectional, radial, hyperbolic, rectangular, voronoi, circular, sunbursts, and icicles. Each chapter presents a chronological set of beautiful examples embodying that type.

Biblical Genealogy, ca. 1060. Page 112.

Biblical Genealogy, ca. 1060. Page 112.

Of course, any project with such a wide scope is bound to gloss over or inaccurately portray some of its historical content. I’d quibble, for example, with Lima’s suggestion that the use of these visual diagrams could be understood in the context of ars memorativa, a method for improving memory and understanding in the Middle Ages. Instead, I’d argue that the tradition stemmed from a more innate Aristotelian connection between thinking and seeing. Lima also argues that the scala naturae, depictions of entities on a natural order rising to God, is an obvious reflection on contemporary feudal stratification. The story is a bit more complex than that, with feudal stratification itself being concomitant to the medieval worldview of a natural order. In discussing Ramon Llull, Lima oddly writes “the notion of a unified trunk of science has remained to this day,” a claim which Lima himself shows isn’t exactly true in his earlier book, Visual Complexity. But this isn’t a book written by or for historians, and that’s okay—it’s accurate enough to get a good sense of the progression of trees.

The Blog Tree, 2012. Page 77.

The Blog Tree, 2012. Page 77.

Where the book shines is in its clear, well-cited, contextualized illustrations, which comprise the majority of its contents. Over a hundred illustrations pack the book, each with at least a paragraph of description and, in many cases, translation. This is a book for people passionate about visualizations, and interested in their history. There is not yet a book-length treatment for historians interested in this subject, though Murdoch’s Album of Science (1984) comes close. For those who want to delve even deeper into this history, I’ve compiled a 100+ reference bibliography that is freely available here.

Medium switches in DH2014 between submission and acceptance.

Acceptances to Digital Humanities 2014 (part 1)

It’s that time again! The annual Digital Humanities conference schedule has been released, and this time it’s in Switzerland. In an effort to console myself from not having the funding to make it this year, I’ve gone ahead and analyzed the nitty-gritty of acceptances and rejections to the conference. For those interested in this sort of analysis, you can find my take on submissions to DH2013, acceptances at DH2013, and submissions to DH2014. If you’re visiting this page from the future, you can find any future DH conference analyses at this tag link.

The overall acceptance rate to DH2014 was 59%, although that includes many papers and panels that were accepted as posters. There were 589 submissions this year (compared to 348 submissions last year), of which 345 were accepted. By submission medium, this is the breakdown:

  • Long papers: 62% acceptance rate (lower than last year)
  • Short papers: 52% acceptance rate (lower than last year)
  • Panels: 57% acceptance rate (higher than last year)
  • Posters: 64% acceptance rate (didn’t collect this data last year)
Acceptances to DH2014 by submission medium.

Figure 1: Acceptances to DH2014 by submission medium.

A surprising number of submitted papers switched from one medium to another when they were accepted. A number of panels became long papers, a bunch of short papers became long papers, and a punch of long papers became short papers. Although a bunch of submissions became posters, no posters wound up “breaking out” to become some other medium. I was most surprised by the short papers which became long (13 in all), which leads me to believe some of them may have been converted for scheduling reasons. This is idle speculation on my part – the organizers may reply otherwise. [Edit: the organizers did reply, and assured us this was not the case. I see no recent to doubt that, so congratulations to those 13 short papers that became long papers!]

Medium switches in DH2014 between submission and acceptance.

Figure 2: Medium switches in DH2014 between submission and acceptance.

It’s worth keeping in mind, in all analyses listed here, that I do not have access to any withdrawals; accepted papers were definitely accepted, but not accepted may have been withdrawn rather than rejected.

Figures 3 and 4 all present the same data, but shed slightly different lights on digital humanities. Each shows the acceptance rate by various topics, but they’re ordered slightly differently. All submitting authors needed to select from a limited list of topics to label their submissions, in order to aid with selecting peer reviewers and categorization.

Figure 3 sorts topics by the total amount that were accepted to DH2014. This is at odds with Figure 2 from my post on DH2014 submissions, which sorts by total number of topics submitted. The figure from my previous post gives a sense of what digital humanists are doing and submitting, whereas Figure 3 from this post gives a sense of what the visitor to DH2014 will encounter.

Figure 3. Topical acceptance to DH2014 sorted by total number of accepted papers tagged with a particular topic.

Figure 3: Topical acceptance to DH2014 sorted by total number of accepted papers tagged with a particular topic. (click to enlarge)

The visitor to DH2014 won’t see a hugely different topical landscape than the visitor to DH2013 (see analysis here). Literary studies, text analysis, and text mining still reign supreme, with archives and repositories not far behind. Visitors will see quite a bit fewer studies dedicated to the internet and the world wide web, and quite a bit more dedicated to historical and corpus-based research. More details can be seen by comparing the individual figures.

Figure 4, instead, sorts the topics by their acceptance rate. The most frequently accepted topics appear at the left, and the least frequently appear at the right. A lighter red line is used to show acceptance rates of the same topics for 2013. This graph shows what peers consider to me more credit-worthy, and how this has changed since 2013.

Figure 4:

Figure 4: Topical acceptance to DH2014 sorted by percentage of acceptance for each topic. (click to enlarge)

It’s worth pointing out that the highest and lowest acceptance rates shouldn’t be taken very seriously; with so few submitted articles, the rates are as likely random as indicative of any particularly interesting trend. Also, for comparisons with 2013, keep in mind the North American and European traditions of digital humanities may be driving the differences.

There are a few acceptance ratios worthy of note. English studies and GLAM (Galleries, Libraries, Archives, Museums) both have acceptance rates extremely above average, and also quite a bit higher than their acceptance rates from the previous year. Studies of XML are accepted slightly above the average acceptance rate, and also accepted proportionally more frequently than they were in 2013. Acceptance rates for both literary and historical studies papers are about average, and haven’t changed much since 2013 (even though there were quite a few more historical submissions than the previous year).

Along with an increase in GLAM acceptance rates, there was a big increase in rates for studies involving archives and repositories. It may be they are coming back in style, or it may be indicative of a big difference between European and North American styles. There was a pretty big drop in acceptance rates for ontology and semantic web research, as well as in pedagogy research across the board. Pedagogy had a weak foothold in DH2013, and has an even weaker foothold in 2014, with both fewer submitted articles, and a lower rate of acceptance on those submitted articles.

In the next blog post, I plan on drilling a bit into author-supplied keywords, the role of gender on acceptance rates, and the geography of submissions. As always, I’m happy to share data, but in this case I will only share sufficiently aggregated/anonymized data, because submitting authors who did not get accepted have an expectation of privacy that I intend to keep.

Changes between versions of the Wikipedia entry on History.

Barriers to Scholarship & Iterative Writing

This post is mostly just thinking out loud, musing about two related barriers to scholarship: a stigma related to self-plagiarism, and various copyright concerns. It includes a potential way to get past them.

Self-Plagiarism

When Jonah Lehrer’s plagiarism scandal first broke, it sounded a bit silly. Lehrer, it turned out, had taken some sentences he’d used in earlier articles, and reused them in a few New Yorker blog posts. Without citing himself. Oh no, I thought. Surely, this represents the height of modern journalistic moral depravity.

Of course, later it was revealed that he’d bent facts, and plagiarized from others without reference, and these were all legitimately upsetting. And plagiarizing himself without reference was mildly annoying, though certainly not something that should have attracted national media attention. But it raises an interesting question: why is self-plagiarism wrong? And it’s as wrong in academia as it is in journalism.

Lehrer chart from Slate [via].

Lehrer chart from Slate. [via]

I can’t speak for journalists (though Alberto Cairo can, and he lists some of the good reasons why non-referenced self-plagiarism is bad and links to not one, but two articles about it, and), but for academia, the reasons behind the wrongness seem pretty clear.

  1. It’s wrong to directly lift from any source without adequate citation. This only applies to non-cited self-plagiarism, obviously.
  2. It’s wrong to double-dip. The currency of the academy is publications / CV lines, and if you reuse work to fill your CV, you’re getting an unfair advantage.
  3. Confusion. Which version should people reference if you have so many versions of a similar work?
  4. Copyright. You just can’t reuse stuff, because your previous publishers own the copyright on your earlier work.

That about covers it. Let’s pretend academics always cite their own works (because, hell, it gives them more citations), so we can do away with #1. Regular readers will know my position on publisher-owned copyright, so I just won’t get into #4 here to save you my preaching. The others are a bit more difficult to write off, but before I go on to try to do that, I’d like to talk a bit about my own experience of self-plagiarism as a barrier to scholarship.

I was recently invited to speak at the Universal Decimal Classification seminar, where I presented on the history of trees as a visual metaphor for knowledge classification. It’s not exactly my research area, but it was such a fun subject, I’ve decided to write an article about it. The problem is, the proceedings of the UDC seminar were published, and about 50% of what I wanted to write is already sitting in a published proceedings that, let’s face it, not many people will ever read. And if I ever want to add to it, I have to change the already-published material significantly if I want to send it out again.

Since I presented, my thesis has changed slightly, I’ve added a good chunk of more material, and I fleshed out the theoretical underpinnings. I now have a pretty good article that’s ready to be sent out for peer review, but if I want to do that, I can’t just have a reference saying “half of this came from a published proceeding.” Well, I could, but apparently there’s a slight taboo against this. I was told to “be careful,” that I’d have to “rephrase” and “reword.” And, of course, I’d have to cite my earlier publication.

I imagine most of this comes from the fear of scholars double-dipping, or padding their CVs. Which is stupid. Good scholarship should come first, and our methods of scholarly attribution should mold itself to it. Right now, scholarship is enslaved to the process of attribution and publication. It’s why we willingly donate our time and research to publishing articles, and then have our universities buy back our freely-given scholarship in expensive subscription packages, when we could just have the universities pay for the research upfront and then release it for free.

Copyright

The question of copyright is pretty clear: how much will the publisher charge if I want my to reuse a significant portion of my work somewhere else? The publisher to which I refer, Ergon Verlag, I’ve heard is pretty lenient about such things, but what if I were reprinting from a different publish?

There’s an additional, more external, concern about my materials. It’s a history of illustrations, and the manuscript itself contains 48 illustrations in all. If I want to use them in my article, for demonstrative purposes, I not only need to cite the original sources (of course), I need to get permission to use the illustrations from the publishers who scanned them – and this can be costly and time consuming. I priced a few of them so-far, and they range from free to hundreds of dollars.

A Potential Solution – Iterative Writing

To recap, there are two things currently preventing me from sending out a decent piece of scholarship for peer-review:

  1. A taboo against self-plagiarism, which requires quite a bit of time for rewriting, permission from the original publisher to reuse material, and/or the dissolution of such a taboo.
  2. The cost and time commitment of tracking down copyright holders to get permission to reproduce illustrations.

I believe the first issue is largely a historical artifact of print-based media. Scholars have this sense of citing the source because, for hundreds of years, nearly every print of a single text was largely identical. Sure, there were occasionally a handful of editions, some small textual changes, some page number changes, but citing a text could easily be done, and so we developed a huge infrastructure around citations and publications that exists to this day. It was costly and difficult to change a printed text, and so it wasn’t done often, and now our scholarly practices are based around the idea scholarly material has to be permanent and unchanging, finished, if they are to enter into the canon and become citeable sources.

In the age of Wikipedia, this is a weird idea. Texts grow organically, they change, they revert. Blog posts get updated. A scholarly article, though, is relatively constant, even those in online-only publications. One of the major exceptions are ArXiv-like pre-print repositories, which allow an article to go through several versions before the final one goes off to print. But generally, once the final version goes to print, no further changes are made.

The reasons behind this seem logical: it’s the way we’ve always done it, so why change a good thing? It’s hard to cite something that’s constantly changing; how do we know the version we cited will be preserved?

In an age of cheap storage and easily tracked changes, this really shouldn’t be a concern. Wikipedia does this very well: you can easily cite the version of an article from a specific date and, if you want, easily see how the article changed between then and any other date.

Changes between versions of the Wikipedia entry on History.

Changes between versions of the Wikipedia entry on History.

This would be more difficult to implement in academia because article hosting isn’t centralized. It’s difficult to be certain that the URL hosting a journal article now will persist for 50 years, both because of ownership and design changes, and it’s difficult to trust that whomever owns the article or the site won’t change the content and not preserve every single version, or a detailed description of changes they’ve made.

There’s an easy solution: don’t just reference everything you cite, embed everything you cite. If you cite a picture, include the picture. If you cite a book, include the book. If you cite an article, include the article. Storage is cheap: if your book cites a thousand sources, and includes a copy of every single one, it’ll be at most a gigabyte. Probably, it would be quite a deal smaller. That way, if the material changes down the line, everyone reading your research will till be able to refer to the original material. Further, because you include a full reference, people can go and look the material up to see if it has changed or updated in the time since you cited it.

Of course, this idea can’t work – copyright wouldn’t let it. But again, this is a situation where the industry of academia is getting in the way of potential improvements to the way scholarship can work.

The important thing, though, is that self-plagiarization would become a somewhat irrelevant concept. Want to write more about what you wrote before? Just iterate your article. Add some new references, a paragraph here or there, change the thesis slightly. Make sure to keep a log of all your changes.

I don’t know if this is a good solution, but it’s one of many improvements to scholarship – or at least, a removal of barriers to publishing interesting things in a timely and inexpensive fashion – which is currently impossible because of copyright concerns and institutional barriers to change. Cameron Neylon, from PLOS, recently discussed how copyright put up some barriers to his own interesting ideas. Academia is not a nimble beast, and because of it, we are stuck with a lot of scholarly practices which are, in part, due to the constraints of old media.

In short: academic writing is tough. There are ways it could be easier, that would allow good scholarship to flow more freely, but we are constrained by path dependency from choices we made hundreds of years ago. It’s time to be a bit more flexible and be more willing to try out new ideas. This isn’t anywhere near a novel concept on my part, but it’s worth repeating.

The last big barrier to self-plagiarism, double dipping to pad one’s CV, still seems tricky to get past. I’m not thrilled with the way we currently assess scholarship, and “CV size” is just one of the things I don’t like about it, but I don’t have any particularly clever fixes on that end.

The earth moving in the ether. [via]

Understanding Special Relativity through History and Triangles (pt. 1)

We interrupt this usually-DH blog because I got in a discussion about Special Relativity with a friend, and promised it was easily understood using only the math we use for triangles. But I’m a historian, so I can’t leave a good description alone without some background.

If you just want to learn how relativity works, skip ahead to the next post, Relativity Made Simple [Note! I haven't written it yet, this is a two-part post. Stay-tuned for the next section]; if you hate science and don’t want to know how the universe functions, but love history, read only this post. If you have a month of time to kill, just skip this post entirely and read through my 122-item relativity bibliography on Zotero. Everyone else, disregard this paragraph.

An Oddly Selective History of Relativity

This is not a history of how Einstein came up with his Theory of Special Relativity as laid out in Zur Elektrodynamik bewegter Körper in 1905. It’s filled with big words like aberration and electrodynamics, and equations with occult symbols. We don’t need to know that stuff. This is a history of how others understood relativity. Eventually, you’re going to understand relativity, but first I’m going to tell you how other people, much smarter than you, did not.

There’s an infamous (potentially mythical) story about how difficult it is to understand relativity: Arthur Eddington, a prominent astronomer, was asked whether it was true that only three people in the world understood relativity. After pausing for a moment, Eddington replies “I’m trying to think who the third person is!” This was about General Relativity, but it was also a joke: good scientists know relativity isn’t incredibly difficult to grasp, and even early on, lots of people could claim to understand it.

Good historians, however, know that’s not the whole story. It turns out a lot of people who thought they understood Einstein’s conceptions of relativity actually did not, including those who agreed with him. This, in part, is that story.

Relativity Before Einstein

Einstein’s special theory of relativity relied on two assumptions: (1) you can’t ever tell whether you’re standing still or moving at a constant velocity (or, in physics-speak, the laws of physics in any inertial reference frame are indistinguishable from one another), and (2) light always looks like it’s moving at the same speed (in physics-speak, the speed of light is always constant no matter the velocity of the emitting body nor that of the observer’s inertial reference frame). Let’s trace these concepts back.

Our story begins in the 14th century. William of Occam, famous for his razor, claimed motion was merely the location of a body and its successive positions over time; motion itself was in the mind. Because position was simply defined in terms of the bodies that surround it, this meant motion was relative. Occam’s student, Buridan, pushed that claim forward, saying “If anyone is moved in a ship and imagines that he is at rest, then, should he see another ship which is truly at rest, it will appear to him that the other ship is moved.”

Galileo's relativity [via]. The site where this comes from is a little crazy, but the figure is still useful, so here it is.

Galileo’s relativity [via]. The site where this comes from is a little crazy, but the figure is still useful, so here it is.

The story movies forward at irregular speed (much like the speed of this blog, and the pacing of this post). Within a century, scholars introduced the concepts of an infinite universe without any center, nor any other ‘absolute’ location. Copernicus cleverly latched onto this relativistic thinking by showing that the math works just as well, if not better, when the Earth orbits the Sun, rather than vice versa. Galileo claimed there was no way, on the basis of mechanical experiments, to tell whether you were standing still or moving at a uniform speed.

For his part, Descartes disagreed, but did say that the only way one could discuss movement was relative to other objects. Christian Huygens takes Descartes a step forward, showing that there are no ‘privileged’ motions or speeds (that is, there is no intrinsic meaning of a universal ‘at rest’ – only ‘at rest’ relative to other bodies). Isaac Newton knew that it was impossible to measure something’s absolute velocity (rather than velocity relative to an observer), but still, like Descartes, supported the idea that there was an absolute space and absolute velocity – we just couldn’t measure it.

Lets skip ahead some centuries. The year is 1893; the U.S. Supreme Court declared the tomato was a vegetable, Gandhi campaigned against segregation in South Africa, and the U.S. railroad industry bubble had just popped, forcing the government to bail out AIG for $85 billion. Or something. Also, by this point, most scientists thought light traveled in waves. Given that in order for something to travel in a wave, something has to be waving, scientists posited there was this luminiferous ether that pervaded the universe, allowing light to travel between stars and candles and those fish with the crazy headlights. It makes perfect sense. In order for sound waves to travel, they need air to travel through; in order for light waves to travel, they need the ether.

Ernst Mach, A philosopher read by many contemporaries (including Einstein), said that Newton and Descartes were wrong: absolute space and absolute motion are meaningless. It’s all relative, and only relative motion has any meaning. It is both physically impossible to measure the an objects “real” velocity, and also philosophically nonsensical. The ether, however, was useful. According to Mach and others, we could still measure something kind of like absolute position and velocity by measuring things in relationship to that all-pervasive ether. Presumably, the ether was just sitting still, doing whatever ether does, so we could use its stillness as a reference point and measure how fast things were going relative to it.

Well, in theory. Earth is hurtling through space, orbiting the sun at about 70,000 miles per hour, right? And it’s spinning too, at about a thousand miles an hour. But the ether is staying still. And light, supposedly, always travels at the same speed through the ether no matter what. So in theory, light should look like it’s moving a bit faster if we’re moving toward its source, relative to the ether, and a bit slower, if we’re moving away from it, relative to the ether. It’s just like if you’re in a train hurdling toward a baseball pitcher at 100 mph, and the pitcher throws a ball at you, also at 100 mph, in a futile attempt to stop the train. To you, the baseball will look like it’s going twice as fast, because you’re moving toward it.

The earth moving in the ether. [via]

The earth moving through the ether. [via]

It turns out measuring the speed of light in relation to the ether was really difficult. A bunch of very clever people made a bunch of very clever instruments which really should have measured the speed of earth moving through the ether, based on small observed differences of the speed of light going in different directions, but the experiments always showed light moving at the same speed. Scientists figured this must mean the earth was actually exerting a pull on the ether in its vicinity, dragging it along with it as the earth hurtled through space, explaining why light seemed to be constant in both directions when measured on earth. They devised even cleverer experiments that would account for such an ether drag, but even those seemed to come up blank. Their instruments, it was decided, simply were not yet fine-tuned enough to measure such small variations in the speed of light.

Not so fast! shouted Lorentz, except he shouted it in Dutch. Lorentz used the new electromagnetic theory to suggest that the null results of the ether experiments were actually a result, not of the earth dragging the ether along behind it, but of physical objects compressing when they moved against the ether. The experiments weren’t showing any difference in the speed of light they sought because the measuring instruments themselves contracted to just the right length to perfectly offset the difference in the velocity of light, when measuring “into” the ether. The ether was literally squeezing the electrons in the meter stick together so it became a little shorter; short enough to inaccurately measure light’s speed. The set of equations used to describe this effect became known as Lorentz Transformations. One property of these transformations was that the physical contractions would, obviously, appear the same from any observer. No matter how fast you were going relative to your measuring device, if it were moving into the ether, you would see it contracting slightly to accommodate the measurement difference.

Not so fast! shouted Poincaré, except he shouted it in French. This property of transformations to always appear the same, relative to the ether, was actually a problem. Remember that 500 years of physics that said there is no way to mechanically determine your absolute speed or absolute location in space? Yeah, so did Poincaré. He said the only way you could measure velocity or location was matter-to-matter, not matter-to-ether, so the Lorentz transformations didn’t fly.

It’s worth taking a brief aside to talk about the underpinnings of the theories of both Lorentz and Poincaré. Their theories were based on experimental evidence, which is to say, they based their reasoning on contraction on apparent experimental evidence of said contraction, and they based their theories of relativity off of experimental evidence of motion being relative.

Einstein and Relativity

When Einstein hit the scene in 1905, he approached relativity a bit differently. Instead of trying to fit the apparent contraction of objects from the ether drift experiment to a particular theory, Einstein began with the assumption that light always appeared to move at the same rate, regardless of the relative velocity of the observer. The other assumption he began with was that there was no privileged frame of reference; no absolute space or velocity, only the movement of matter relative to other matter. I’ll work out the math later, but, unsurprisingly, it turned out that working out these assumptions led to exactly the same transformation equations as Lorentz came up with experimentally.

The math was the same. The difference was in the interpretation of the math. Einstein’s theory required no ether, but what’s more, it did not require any physical explanations at all. Because Einstein’s theory of special relativity rested on two postulates about measurement, the theory’s entire implications rested in its ability to affect how we measure or observe the universe. Thus, the interpretation of objects “contracting,” under Einstein’s theory, was that they were not contracting at all. Instead, objects merely appear as though they contract relative to the movement of the observer. Another result of these transformation equations is that, from the perspective of the observer, time appears to move slower or faster depending on the relative speed of what is being observed. Lorentz’s theory predicted the same time dilation effects, but he just chalked it up to a weird result of the math that didn’t actually manifest itself. In Einstein’s theory, however, weird temporal stretching effects were Actually What Was Going On.

To reiterate: the math of Lorentz, Einstein, and Poincaré were (at least at this early stage) essentially equivalent. The result was that no experimental result could favor one theory over another. The observational predictions between each theory were exactly the same.

Relativity’s Supporters in America

I’m focusing on America here because it’s rarely focused on in the historiography, and it’s about time someone did. If I were being scholarly and citing my sources, this might actually be a novel contribution to historiography. Oh well, BLOG! All my primary sources are in that Zotero library I linked to earlier.

In 1910, Daniel Comstock wrote a popular account of the relativity of Lorentz and Einstein, to some extent conflating the two. He suggested that if Einstein’s postulates could be experimentally verified, his special theory of relativity would be true. “If either of these postulates be proved false in the future, then the structure erected can not be true in is present form. The question is, therefore, an experimental one.” Comstock’s statement betrays a misunderstanding of Einstein’s theory, though, because, at the time of that writing, there was no experimental difference between the two theories.

Gilbert Lewis and Richard Tolman presented a paper at the 1908 American Physical Society in New York, where they describe themselves as fully behind Einstein over Lorentz. Oddly, the consider Einstein’s theory to be correct, as opposed to Lorentz’s, because his postulates were “established on a pretty firm basis of experimental fact.” Which, to reiterate, couldn’t possibly have been a difference between Lorentz and Einstein. Even more oddly still, they presented the theory not as one of physics or of measurement, but of psychology (a bit like 14th century Oresme). The two went on to separately write a few articles which supposedly experimentally confirmed the postulates of special relativity.

In fact, the few Americans who did seem to engage with the actual differences between Lorentz and Einstein did so primarily in critique. Louis More, a well-respected physicist from Cincinnati, labeled the difference as metaphysical and primarily useless. This American critique was fairly standard.

At the 1909 America Physical Society meeting in Boston, one physicist (Harold Wilson) claimed his experiments showed the difference between Einstein and Lorentz. One of the few American truly theoretical physicists, W.S. Franklin, was in attendance, and the lectures he saw inspired him to write a popular account of relativity in 1911; in it, he found no theoretical difference between Lorentz and Einstein. He tended to side theoretically with Einstein, but assumed Lorentz’s theory implied the same space and time dilation effects, which they did not.

Even this series of misunderstandings should be taken as shining examples in the context of an American approach to theoretical physics that was largely antagonistic, at times decrying theoretical differences entirely. At a symposium on Ether Theories at the 1911 APS, the presidential address by William Magie was largely about the uselessness of relativity because, according to him, physics should be a functional activity based in utility and experimentation. Joining Magie’s “side” in the debate were Michelson, Morley, and Arthur Gordon Webster, the co-founder of the America Physical Society. Of those at the meeting supporting relativity, Lewis was still convinced Einstein differed experimentally from Lorentz, and Franklin and Comstock each felt there was no substantive difference between the two. In 1912, Indiana University’s R.D. Carmichael stated Einstein’s postulates were “a direct generalization from experiment.” In short, the American’s were really focused on experiment.

Of Einstein’s theory, Louis More wrote in 1912:

Professor Einstein’s theory of Relativity [… is] proclaimed somewhat noisily to be the greatest revolution in scientific method since the time of Newton. That [it is] revolutionary there can be no doubt, in so far as [it] substitutes mathematical symbols as the basis of science and denies that any concrete experience underlies these symbols, thus replacing an objective by a subjective universe. The question remains whether this is a step forward or backward […] if there is here any revolution in thought, it is in reality a return to the scholastic methods of the Middle Ages.

More goes on to say how the “Anglo-Saxons” demand practical results, not the unfathomable theories of “the German mind.” Really, that quote about sums it up. By this point, the only Americans who even talked about relativity were the ones who trained in Germany.

I’ll end here, where most histories of the reception of relativity begin: the first Solvay Conference. It’s where this beautiful picture was taken.

First Solvay Conference. [via]

First Solvay Conference. [via]

To sum up: in the seven year’s following Einstein’s publication, the only Americans who agreed with Einstein were ones who didn’t quite understand him. You, however, will understand it much better, if you only read the next post [coming this week!].

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