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255 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 11, 2024
The subtitle of this little book is “A Manifesto for Humanity’s Future,” but the explicit manifesto in the final chapter—which is a kind of policy to-do list for mankind if it wants to save itself from disaster—is the least original and impressive part of The Dawn of a Mindful Universe. (I’m not sure humanity is ready for, or inclined to accept, a physicist’s assigned to-do list.) What makes this book remarkable and worth reading is the elegance with which it summarizes modern physics, cosmology, and the science of the origin of life, and puts it all into a meaningful cultural context. For me, it was eye-opening.
I picked this book up because I heard Marcelo Gleiser interviewed in a podcast; he was very engaging, and I was intrigued. Gleiser was born in Brazil, is currently professor of physics and astronomy at Dartmouth, has worked at NASA and Fermilab, and, in addition to his academic research, has written a lot for a general audience about the history and theory of science.
Modern physics has always both interested and frustrated me. As a layman—I admit it—I don’t get it. And I’ve tried. Quantum theory and Einstein’s general theory of relativity are both presumably central to our overall understanding of the world, but they’re also mostly incomprehensible. I’ve read Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, and it made no sense whatsoever to me; I may as well have been reading a book in Tagalog.
Gravity, for example: I’ve read it explained many times as the curvature of spacetime, but I still can’t imagine it, grasp it. I know physicists can demonstrate these things mathematically to each other, but without the math it just doesn’t compute. Trying to envision it breaks my brain. For most modern people, gravity as the curvature of spacetime is just like the Virgin Birth or the Trinity: just another impenetrable article of faith handed down from above.
Bottom line: after reading The Dawn of a Mindful Universe, and despite Marcelo Gleiser’s lovely, lucid prose, I still can’t imagine gravity as the curvature of spacetime. No matter. I learned a lot of other illuminating things.
Gleiser takes issue with our “post-Copernican” view of the cosmos. He has nothing at all against Copernicus, but he regrets that when mankind realized that the earth was not the center of the universe we lost some of our moral footing. For both medieval man and indigenous peoples, according to Gleiser, the heavens revolved around us, and we, surrounded by Nature, were center-stage, living a momentous moral drama that included our fellow earthly creatures. How we lived, with each other and with the other living beings on this planet, mattered.
But when Capernicus and Galileo and Keppler told us that earth was just one of many planets, revolving a sun that was just one of trillions of stars, we lost significance. Earth, and life on earth, became relatively unimportant—possibly duplicated elsewhere, possibly merely typical, probably mediocre, and also exploitable, discardable. Surely, with billions of other earthlike planets out there, there must be other living, dynamic worlds, other forms of intelligent life, other understandings of the great drama that is the cosmos. Today our culture, fiction, and movies are filled with extraterrestrials, most of them a lot smarter, stronger, more advanced, more capable than we are. We have come to assume our own mediocrity as a species. Thus no big deal if we end up failing on this insignificant little world.
Not so fast, is Gleiser’s warning.
He tells us, from the perspective of an astronomer and astrophysicist, that we have no reason to assume that we’re not unique. We have no reason to assume that life exists anywhere else at all, and certainly not intelligent life, capable of telling a story about existence. We have absolutely zero evidence of extraterrestrial life, and given the vast distances of space, we shouldn’t ever expect to have any. As far as we know, life exists only on earth, and we should behave as if, without us, the entire cosmos is merely mechanical, unconscious, unaware, dumb. If we fail, the universe would keep on humming, but it might thus be totally lifeless, unobserved, and meaningless. As far as we know, we’re it. As far as we know, or are likely to know, we, on this world, are the only observers and only source of meaning. More likely than not, without us the universe has no eyes, no ears, no experiences, no explanations, no understanding, no meaning.
That’s somewhat chilling to consider. Imagine, as just one tiny example, the storms that we now know are always raging on Jupiter. No one has ever seen them, experienced them. Until humans sent probes to Jupiter, those storms raged completely unobserved, unknown.
Gleiser is very good at explaining what science does not know and may never know, such as the origin of life on earth, which he declares is not only unknown but “unknowable”:
Life, ubiquitous as it is, remains a profound scientific mystery. Perhaps surprisingly to many, at present scientists share no agreed-upon definition of life or, for that matter, an understanding, even at a primitive level, of how life originated on Earth. To rephrase, we don't know what life is or how it began. . . . We can't travel back four billion years to primal Earth to learn how a soup of inorganic compounds became, after a few steps, a soup of organic compounds—the stuff of living things. And then, more enigmatic still, this soup of organic compounds ended up trapped inside a membrane and found a way to eat and to self-reproduce. Somehow, somewhere on primal Earth, inanimate matter became living matter and the first single-celled organisms emerged. . . .
Still, the puzzle of how life emerges from nonlife remains as mysterious as ever. How does an agglomeration of an inanimate matter, beyond an unknown level of biochemical complexity, become a living creature? We don't yet know how to think about the transition from nonliving to living, or how a bundle of inanimate chemicals turns into an entity with a sense of purpose.
Post-Copernican man, according to Gleiser, is guilty of a teleological fallacy—the unfounded assumption that the universe has a purpose, an evolutionary direction in favor of life and intelligence, and that these things are inevitable and ubiquitous. Rather, Gleiser argues, life and intelligence may be the purely accidental results of the precise nature of earth as a planet—its non-duplicable features, the unique events that it has undergone: its specific mass and gravity; its chemical composition and atmosphere; its distance from the sun; the asteroids and meteors that have and haven’t hit it; its single moon with its own specific distance, mass, and gravity; not to mention the sun’s precise size and nature and level of radiation, etc. All the other planets in our solar system are dead, dead, dead: they are either too close to the sun or too far away; they are either too small, with too little gravity, or too big, with too much gravity; they have either too little atmosphere and pressure or too much. Seven of the 8 planets in our solar system are environments completely hostile, in diverse ways, to the development of life, and we should expect that diversity and hostility in exoplanets as well. Gleiser argues that, rather than assume that the cosmos has evolved life as an inevitable development, we should consider that life may exist here entirely by chance, the function of a complex series of exact variables that exist here and possibly nowhere else: “The existence of many worlds, even many Earthlike worlds, does not mean the existence of many living worlds.” Don’t be fooled, he argues, by the huge numbers—by the billions of planets roughly like earth that are likely to exist in the universe. Since we don’t actually know how life began on earth, roughly may not cut it.
The same with intelligence. Have we just assumed, teleologically, that complex organisms evolve intelligence everywhere given a certain amount of time? Then consider dinosaurs, which dominated our world for 150 million years until they were wiped out when a monstrous asteroid hit. In all that time, the dinosaurs never, to our knowledge, developed intelligence, consciousness, or civilization. Hominids, on the other hand, have been around for only about 3 million years, our own species for only about 300,000 years, and civilization only for a handful of millennia. Were we inevitable, or just the chance development of a precise set of conditions? Are we conscious only by the skin of our teeth? We may never know, but we certainly shouldn’t assume that our species is mediocre.
At Christmas, my sister noticed my book on the table and expressed surprise that I was reading it, since it looked so New Agey. She’s right: the title sounds like something you’d find in a store selling incense, crystals, tarot, and spiritual paraphernalia. But Gleiser is not claiming that the earth or the cosmos have a primal spirit that we need to get back in touch with. Quite the contrary, he’s claiming that we might be the only mindfulness in the universe, and that without us the world might be mindless. Like every environmentalist—like everyone who fears climate change and the environmental degradation that we’ve wrought on this planet—Gleiser wants us to take better care of the earth, of other living things, and of ourselves. This book is his explanation why he believes that’s so important.
. . . it is hard (if not plain wrong) to justify naive optimism that life, and in particular complex intelligent life, is ubiquitous in the Cosmos. There is nothing trivial, common, or mediocre about what has transpired on our home planet. Quite the opposite: the more we learn about other worlds, the more precious our world becomes. From what we have learned of life on Earth, the many steps needed from simple amino acids to self-aware multicellular creatures capable of pondering the meaning of existence, coupled with the "eerie silence" from extraterrestrial civilizations, point forcibly toward our cosmic loneliness and not to a Star Wars universe populated with all sorts of smart creatures on distant worlds.
Of course, given the absence of evidence, we cannot conclude with confidence for or against the existence of alien life of any kind. Finding other life either directly through contact or indirectly through biosignatures on distant exoplanets is the only possible path forward toward clarity. To rephrase this point: not finding other life isn't proof of absence, only of rarity or of our inability to comprehend what this other life is. The Universe is vast, and our reach is limited. Still, we are the ones who know this. As we ponder the existence of life elsewhere, we enrich the Cosmos with our presence. The Universe has a history only because we are here to tell it.