by Robert Lanza
“After having in full confidence begun with it [epistemology],” wrote Albert Einstein, “I quickly recognized what a slippery field I had ventured upon, having, due to lack of experience, until now cautiously limited myself to the field of physics.” What a statement—and written with the benefit of wisdom and hindsight nearly half a century after he had already formulated his special theory.
Einstein might as well have attempted to construct a castle without knowledge of the mass of materials or of their fitness for this purpose. He believed in his youth that he could build from one side of nature, the physical, without the other side—the living. But Einstein was not a biologist or a medical doctor. By inclination and training, he was obsessed with mathematics and equations and particles of light. The great physicist spent the final fifty years of his life searching in vain for a Grand Unified Theory that would tie together the cosmos. If only, after leaving his office in Princeton, he would have looked out upon the pond and watched the schools of minnows rise to the surface to behold that vaster universe of which they too were an intricate part.
Abandoning Space to Find Infinity
Einstein’s relativity is fully compatible with a much more flexible definition of space. Several threads in physics indeed imply that a rethinking of space is necessary to move forward: the persistent ambiguity of the observer in Quantum Theory (QT), the nonzero vacuum energy implied by cosmological observations, and the breakdown of general relativity on small scales, to name a few. To this we may add the unsettling fact that space as perceived by biological consciousness remains a domain apart, and remains one of the most poorly understood natural phenomena.
To those who assume Einstein’s development of special relativity necessitates the reality of external, independent “space” (and likewise assume the reality of an absolute separability of objects, what quantum theory calls locality, and rest the concept of space on this basis) we must emphasize once again that to Einstein himself, space is simply what we can measure using the solid objects of our experience. Rather than spend half a dozen pages here with a more technical exposition of how relativity’s results are equally obtained without any need for an objective, external “space,” see Appendix 2, which describes special relativity’s postulates in terms of a fundamental field and its properties. Doing so, we have unseated space from its privileged position. As science becomes more unified, it is to be hoped that we can explain consciousness as well as idealized physical situations, following the current threads of quantum mechanics that have made it clear that the observer’s decisions are closely linked to the evolution of physical systems.
Although consciousness may eventually be understood well enough to be described by a theory of its own, its scaffolding is clearly part of the physical logic of nature, that is, the fundamental grand unified field. It is both acted on by the field (in perceiving external entities, experiencing the effects of acceleration and gravity, etc.) and acts on the field (by realizing quantum mechanical systems, constructing a coordinate system to describe light-based relationships, etc.).
Meanwhile, theorists of all stripes struggle to resolve the contradictions between quantum theories and general relativity. While few physicists doubt that a unified theory is attainable, it is clear that our classical conception of space-time is part of the problem rather than part of the solution. Among other nuisances, in the modern view objects and their fields have blurred together in what seems to be an eternal game of peek-a-boo. In the modern view according to quantum field theory, space has an energy content of its own and a structure that is very quantum mechanical in nature. Science is increasingly finding that the boundary between object and space is growing ever fuzzier.
Moreover, experiments in quantum entanglement since 1997 have called into question the very meaning of space and ongoing questions as to what these entangled-particle experiments mean. There are really only two choices. Either the first particle communicates its situation far faster than the speed of light, indeed, with infinite speed, and using a methodology that totally escapes even our most desperate guesses, or else there really is no separation between the pair at all, appearances to the contrary. They are in a real sense in contact, despite a universe of seemingly empty space standing between them. Thus, these experiments appear to add yet another layer to the scientific conclusion that space is illusory.
Cosmologists say that everything was in contact, and born together, at the Big Bang. So even employing conventional imagery, it may even make sense that everything is in some sense an entangled relative of every other, and in direct contact with everything else, despite the seeming emptiness between them.
What, then, is the true nature of this space? Empty? Seething with energy and therefore matter-equivalent? Real? Unreal? A uniquely active field? A field of Mind? Moreover, if one accepts that the external world occurs only in Mind, in consciousness, and that it’s the interior of one’s brain that’s cognized “out there” at this moment, then of course everything is connected with everything else.
A separate oddity is that during high-speed travel, especially near the speed of light, everything in the universe would seem to lie in the same place, unseparated and undifferentiated, directly ahead. This bizarre wrinkle comes from the effect of aberration. When we drive through a snowstorm, the flakes seem to come from in front of us, while the rear window hardly gets hit at all. The same thing happens with light. Our planet’s eighteen-miles-per-second motion around the sun causes stars to shift position by several seconds of arc from their actual locations. As we increase our velocity, this effect grows ever more dramatic until at just below lightspeed, the entire contents of the cosmos appear to hover in a single blindingly bright ball, dead ahead. If one is looking out any other window, there appears nothing but a strange, absolute blackness. The point here is that if some thing’s experiences alter radically depending on conditions, that thing is not fundamental. Light or electromagnetic energy are unvarying under all circumstances, as something that is intrinsic and innate to existence, to reality. By contrast, the fact that space can both seem to change its appearance through aberration, and actually shrink drastically at high speed, so that the entire universe is only a few steps from end to end, illustrates that it has no inherent, let alone external, structure. It is, rather, an experiential commodity that goes with the flow and mutates under varying circumstances.
The further relevance of all this to biocentrism is that if one removes space and time as actual entities rather than subjective, relative, and observer-created phenomena, it pulls the rug from under the notion that an external world exists within its own independent skeleton. Where is this external objective universe if it has neither time nor space?
We can, at this point, formulate seven principles:
First Principle of Biocentrism: What we perceive as reality is a process that involves our consciousness. An “external” reality, if it existed, would—by definition—have to exist in space. But this is meaningless, because space and time are not absolute realities but rather tools of the human and animal mind.
Second Principle of Biocentrism: Our external and internal perceptions are inextricably intertwined. They are different sides of the same coin and cannot be divorced from one another.
Third Principle of Biocentrism: The behavior of subatomic particles—indeed all particles and objects—is inextricably linked to the presence of an observer. Without the presence of a conscious observer, they at best exist in an undetermined state of probability waves.
Fourth Principle of Biocentrism: Without consciousness, “matter” dwells in an undetermined state of probability. Any universe that could have preceded consciousness only existed in a probability state.
Fifth Principle of Biocentrism: The structure of the universe is explainable only through biocentrism. The universe is fine-tuned for life, which makes perfect sense as life creates the universe, not the other way around. The “universe” is simply the complete spatio-temporal logic of the self.
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Sixth Principle of Biocentrism: Time does not have a real existence outside of animal-sense perception. It is the process by which we perceive changes in the universe.
Seventh Principle of Biocentrism: Space, like time, is not an object or a thing. Space is another form of our animal understanding and does not have an independent reality. We carry space and time around with us like turtles with shells. Thus, there is no absolute self-existing matrix in which physical events occur independent of life.
12
THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Soon after finishing high school, I made another journey into Boston. I had been searching for a summer job. I had put in applications at McDonald’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, even at Corcoran’s, the shoe factory downtown. But all the jobs were tied up. I had some thought of trying to find one at the Harvard Medical School again. But even while I turned this thought over in my mind, I got off the train at Harvard Square.
I do not know how I got the idea. When I think it over now, it occurs to me that I ought to have wondered at doing it, but at the same time it all seemed quite natural. I had wanted to meet a Nobel Laureate for some time. I wondered what it would be like. I would have to introduce myself. “Excuse me, Professor Einstein, my name is Robert Lanza.” And I tried to fancy what James Watson looked like, for it flashed across my mind that he was on the faculty at Harvard. He had discovered the structure of DNA along with Francis Crick, and was one of the greatest men in the history of science. I decided on going to his laboratory at once, but, alas, when I got there, I found that he had recently taken up the directorship at the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York. When I found out I could not possibly meet him, I sat down, at a loss. Now what?
“Come, there’s no use being sad!” I said to myself. “I’m in Boston after all.”
And I began thinking of all the Nobel Laureates of which I knew. “I’m sure Ivan Pavlov, Frederick Banting, and Sir Alexander Fleming are not at Harvard, for they’re all dead. And I’m sure Hans Krebs is not, for he’s at Oxford University, and George Wald—yes, he’s here, I’m certain! He shared the Nobel Prize with Haldan Hart-line and Ragnar Granit for discoveries on the visual processes of the eye.”
The corridor was dark and musty-smelling. I was just outside Dr. Wald’s laboratory when the door opened. A woman came out.
“Excuse me, miss, do you know where I could find Dr. Wald?”
“He’s home sick today,” she said. “But he should be in tomorrow.”
“That will be too late,” I replied, still struggling with the realization that even a Nobel Laureate could get sick. “I’ll only be in Boston a few more hours.”
“I’ll be speaking with him this afternoon. Can I give him a message?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. I thanked the kind woman and left.
It was time to go home. Back to Stoughton. Back to the world of McDonald’s and Dunkin’ Donuts. So I set out past Harvard Square, and very soon caught the train. “I wish there were more Nobel Prize winners here in Boston,” I thought, feeling more melancholy by the minute. And here I began to ponder anew, for Boston had many other colleges and universities. Quite a few were nationally known, and some were internationally famous. Perhaps the most important was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The Institute had recently broadened the scope of its scholarly work beyond the limits of technology. Besides technology and engineering, it had made notable contributions through research in the biological sciences.
And so I got off the train at Kendall Square and made my way to the MIT campus. It had been so long since I had been there (back in my early science fair days with Dr. Kuffler) that I felt lost at first, but I soon got my bearings.
The first question of course was “Are there any Nobel Prize winners here?” Just up the street was a building of colossal dimensions, with a huge dome and columns. “MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY” read the sign. Inside was an information booth.
“Could you tell me, please,” I inquired, “are there any Nobel Laureates at MIT?”
“Of course,” the man said. “There’s Salvador Luria and Gobind Khorana.”
I had not the slightest idea who they were or what they did either, but I thought it would be grand to meet them anyhow.
“Who’s the most famous?”
The man said nothing. I dare say he thought it a strange question. “Dr. Luria,” said the gentleman who was sitting next to him. “He’s the Director of the Center for Cancer Research.”
“Do you know where I could find him?”
The man looked in his directory and wrote: “Luria, Salvador E. Building E17.”
Holding this slip of paper as if it was some sort of official letter of introduction, I left, excited, and lost no time crossing the campus to his office. One of his secretaries sat at the front desk, sifting through some papers. I was scared, so deeply scared I had to look at the slip of paper again.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I please speak to Dr. Salvador?”
“You mean Dr. Luria?”
I managed a lopsided smile (as well as I could, for I felt very stupid). “Yes, of course!”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I tried not to act like I was out of place, although she obviously knew I just a young boy.
“No, but I was hoping I could ask him a quick question.”
“He’ll be in meetings all day.” Then with a wink, she added, “But you might try to catch him at lunchtime.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will stop back.”
There was no time to read all his scientific papers. But I found a library in a building not a few blocks from his office. I learned that he and Max Delbrück and Alfred Hershey had just won the 1969 Nobel Prize for discoveries concerning viruses and viral diseases that provided the foundation for molecular biology.
I’ve often found time slows its passage markedly as I await lunchtime, but on this day clocks seemed gummed with epoxy. The hours passed with the speed of tectonic plates.
“I’m back,” said I. “Is Dr. Luria in?”
The secretary nodded. “Yes. He’s in his office. Just knock on the door.”
“Are you sure?” I asked a little shyly.
“Yes, go ahead. He doesn’t have much time.”
As I knocked, my stomach did a slow rollover that made me feel so nervous that I was wracked with sudden second thoughts.
“Come in.”
I looked at him, thunderstruck. He was just sitting there, eating his lunch—it appeared to be a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Was this, then, the cuisine of intellectual giants?
“Who are you?” His voice seemed on the edge of being perturbed.
I got a feeling exactly like the Cowardly Lion had when he approached the Wizard of Oz, with the clouds of fire swirling round.
“My name is Robert Lanza.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
“You mean you just came in off the street?”
This was not an encouraging start.
I replied, “I—I am looking for a job, sir. I’ve done some work with Dr. Stephen Kuffler of the Harvard Medical School, and was wondering if you could use any help.” I thought I might as well mention Dr. Kuffler, as I did not quite know what else to say to him, and perhaps it might help. I was as yet too young to appreciate fully the power of name-dropping.
“Please sit down,” he said, his tone suddenly very courteous. “Stephen Kuffler? He’s a very good fellow.”
His large eyes shone as we talked. I told him about the experiments I did in my basement, and how I had met Dr. Kuffler some years ago.
“I don’t do much research anymore,” he said. “It’s mostly administrative. But I’ll get you a job. I promise.”
I thanked him, not quite fully able to believe that it had been this easy and this brief.
“Look here,” he said. “I’m a fool to do it.” I didn’t yet realize that he was putting me, a kid off the street, ahead of a
long list of qualified in-school applicants.
As it was, all I could do was to apologize for inconveniencing him.
When I returned to Stoughton, the sun was setting. Barbara, my next-door neighbor, was working in her garden. I went running up to her.
“I got a job,” I said. “Guess where?”
“You got the job at the cinema!” (For, you see, I had very much wanted to work there, and although I had put in an application, they never called me back.)
“No! Guess again.”
“Let me think—McDonald’s? Dunkin’ Donuts? I don’t know.”
I told her of my day. When I was done, I was not surprised to see her clap her hands and exclaim, “Oh, Bobby, I’m so excited. Dr. Luria is one of my heroes. I heard him speak at a peace rally.”
I went back to MIT the next day. As I passed one of the biology buildings, I heard my name and looked up. It was Dr. Luria. “Robert! Hi!” I couldn’t believe he remembered my name. “Come along with me!”
I followed him through the entrance, down a corridor, and into an office, in which was—I believe—the director of personnel. What Dr. Luria said next stunned me: “I want you to give him whatever job he wants.”
Then he turned to me and said, “You’re a pain in the ass. There are a hundred MIT students who want to work here.”
But I got the job, and it changed my life. I worked in the laboratory of Dr. Richard Hynes, who was just an assistant professor at the time, with just one graduate student and a technician. Dr. Hynes later went on to succeed Dr. Luria as Director of the Center (MIT’s Center for Cancer Research) and to become a member of the prestigious National Academy of Sciences and one of the greatest scientists in the world. Dr. Hynes was studying a new high-molecular-weight protein, which would later be called “fibronectin.” During my work there, when I added fibronectin to transformed “cancerlike” cells, they reverted to a normal morphology. When I showed Dr. Luria the cells, he said it was the most exciting thing he had seen all week. The research I did there was eventually published in the journal Cell, which is among the most prestigious and well-cited scientific journals in the world.
