by Carlos Calle
Was that first approach of yours correct, then?
No. Even though it correctly predicted the existence of antimatter, it didn’t predict the masses and charges of the electron and the proton and had to be discarded. Years later, after many other discarded attempts, I returned to this first attempt and expanded it. I’ve continued to work on it since. As a result, my first attempt is also my last, though it’s not yet complete.
Do you think that this new theory, when completed, will be the one?
I believe so, but my colleagues disagree. In comparison to the recent developments in physics, my efforts seem old-fashioned since they don’t include the quantum constant. But when the current statistical fad in physics passes and we return to the deterministic view, which I believe is correct, this theory will be the starting point for the full unification of physics. What really interests me is whether God could have made the world differently – in other words, whether the demand for logical simplicity leaves any freedom at all. However, it may be that I’m on the wrong track. Who knows, perhaps He is a little mischievous.
THINKING WITH IMAGES
One of Einstein’s collaborators, the physicist Banesh Hoffmann, described what it was like to work with Einstein. He and Leopold Infeld worked with the great man in 1937, when he was attempting to extend his theory of general relativity to include electromagnetism. In his authoritative biography, Hoffmann wrote that when they encountered an obstacle in their research, Einstein would simply stand up and declare that he was going to do a little thinking. He would then pace around the room for several minutes, twisting a lock of his abundant hair around his finger. Suddenly his face would light up and, smiling, he would proceed to show them the solution. What was the process that took place deep in Einstein’s brain?
Professor Einstein, as a theoretical physicist all your extraordinary contributions to science were achieved by thinking. Are you aware of the way you think? Was there something special taking place in your brain that made these discoveries possible?
That’s impossible to answer, but the question has intrigued me for some time and for this reason I’ll try to explain, with the obvious caveat that neither I nor anyone else will ever know whether the answer is correct. The way I think is the result of the specific development of my mind’s focus – from temporary, personal matters to the mental grasp of nature.
In your case, was this development guided or accidental?
I suspect it was an interplay between what my environment provided and how I wanted to proceed. One is born with certain abilities, the environment provides input, and one makes choices.
And, in your case, this guided development led to a unique way of thinking?
It led to my way of thinking.
What is your way of thinking, if I may ask?
I tend to think in terms of memory pictures: images that form in the mind in response to sensual stimuli. However, I don’t really believe that the formation of such images can yet be called thinking – not even when the formation of an image calls another, and this one calls a third in a series. Real thinking only takes place when the recurrence of these images in diverse circumstances develops into a concept – the generalization of diverse images into an abstract idea. A child forms the concept of “liquid” when he experiences a variety of substances that can be spilled or drunk. One must again be careful, since not all concepts can be formed as a result of images. Truth, for instance, won’t match my description. A concept like that arises in our minds only when we agree to a convention regarding the rules of the game.
What do you think is the role of language in the formulation of thoughts?
I don’t think it’s necessary for a concept to be expressed in words. It’s obvious that when that happens, the thought is communicable. However, it’s clear to me that thinking takes place without the use of words. If this weren’t the case, the spontaneous feeling of wonder that we all experience from time to time would not happen. We wonder when we experience something that conflicts with our accepted body of concepts. If the conflict is strong enough, it may affect our world of concepts, eventually becoming part of it. In this way, our thought world grows, as an incessant escape from wonder. I experienced this kind of wonder when I was a child of four or five years. My father gave me a magnetic compass and I was fascinated by the behaviour of the needle. This behaviour didn’t fit into my world of concepts. My eventual resolution of this conflict helped to develop my world of concepts.
When during the different stages of development of your theories did images start to play a significant role?
During the early stages. The development of the special theory of relativity, for example, started with my attempting to visualize what would happen if I were to pursue a beam of light with the same velocity as the light. I should be able to observe the light oscillations at rest in front of me. As I studied Maxwell’s electromagnetism, which governs the behaviour of light, I learned that physics doesn’t allow for such a stationary beam. A conflict formed in my mind. Its resolution came ten years later with my development of the special theory.
So, in the case of the compass, the conflict was added to your world of thoughts once you learned about magnetism. But in the case of the light beam, the explanation didn’t exist and you had to develop it. Your resolution of this conflict produced the theory of relativity. Have I captured your thoughts correctly?
Yes. That’s a good summary.
RELIGIOUS BELIEFS
Albert Einstein said that he was a deeply religious man. However, he had an unorthodox religious worldview, which he expressed in several essays about the relationship between religion and science. He also discussed his religious beliefs in letters to his friends and to a few admirers who wrote to him requesting his opinions on God, prayer and religion. Einstein’s peculiar and sometimes colourful responses are often quoted out of context. In the case of his frequent references to God, these statements have been sometimes misinterpreted in support of one religious view or another. Einstein, however, was emphatic and clear about what he believed in and who his God was.
Professor Einstein, in several instances during our conversation, you have mentioned God as the creator of the universe. Do you believe in God?
I believe in a God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a God who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings. I believe that the laws of nature manifest the existence of a spirit vastly superior to Man and one in the face of which we, with our modest powers, must feel humble. I don’t believe in a personal God, one that rewards or punishes us for our good or bad deeds. I think that this idea is naïve.
This superior spirit is the creator of the universe, then?
Yes. A vastly superior spirit created the universe and its laws. Through my work, I am satisfied with getting a glimpse of the wonderful and mysterious architecture of His world.
But if you don’t believe in a personal God, I would assume that you’re not a religious person.
On the contrary: I am deeply religious. But I don’t belong to nor do I believe in any organized religion and I don’t believe in the immortality of human beings. My religion consists of being aware of the existence of the most magnificent harmony and beauty in nature. For me, being religious is feeling a deep emotion in the discovery of the mysteries of nature and in the profound admiration of the creator of the universe. It’s very different from the indoctrination practiced by the organized religions of the world. Indoctrination is the opposite of what being religious means to me.
Why do you consider the notion of a personal God to be naïve?
It’s a primitive idea. It’s the first stage in the human development of religion and develops to placate the fears faced by primitive societies: fear of hunger, sickness, wild animals and death. A more advanced but still primitive stage results from our desire for love and nurture with a God that rewards and punishes. That’s where the ideas of heaven and hell originate. A God that punishes evil
and rewards good is an anthropomorphic God, with human qualities. I consider these ideas to be primitive and naïve.
How would you respond to people who claim that you’re an atheist because you don’t believe in a personal God, or to those who claim that you’re actually a pantheist because your God is really nature?
I’m neither. I believe that there is a single creator of the universe. My belief is derived from the same discovery that a child makes when encountering a large library for the first time. The child marvels at the wealth of information in all of those books, and even though he’s not able to understand all of what the books say, he knows that someone must have written them. A similar feeling comes to even the most learned and intelligent people when they discover the unity and order of the laws of nature. Although they may not understand these laws, they know that someone must have created them. Reverence and admiration for the creator of this marvelous harmony constitute what I call cosmic religion, which is the most advanced stage in the development of a religious feeling.
Do you think that religion and science are compatible?
Dogmatic, organized religion, with a God that intervenes in the events of nature is, in my opinion, in conflict with the rationality of science. Science has no use for this primitive religion of fear. However, cosmic religion, the religious feeling without a dogma and without a God with human qualities, is not in conflict with science. I believe that cosmic religion and science complement each other. Moreover, I think it’s most important for scientists and for artists to awaken in themselves this cosmic religious feeling and to keep it alive. Indeed, I maintain that the cosmic religious feeling is the strongest and noblest motive for scientific research.
FATHER AND SONS
Einstein and his first wife Mileva had three children: a daughter whom they named Lieserl, who was born before they were married, and two boys, Hans Albert and Eduard. Hans Albert became a college professor at Berkeley. Eduard, a gifted boy, developed schizophrenia and, at the age of 23, was interned in a psychiatric hospital for the rest of his life. The fate of Lieserl is unknown: it is likely that she was adopted. Einstein was a loving but busy father who worked even while he was at home. After Einstein and Mileva separated in 1914, his relationship with his boys went through cycles of strain and affection.
Professor, we’ve discussed your work and your views on war and the nuclear bomb. At this point, I’d like to move to another aspect of your life. Would you be so kind as to give us some insights into your personal life?
With me, every peep becomes a trumpet solo. I’m convinced that there’s too large a disparity between what I am and what people think I am. However, I understand to some extent the widespread interest in the lives of people like me who have had the misfortune of being in the public eye. For this reason, I’ll agree to answer your questions, though not without some uneasiness.
I understand, and I thank you, Professor. I’d like to ask you about your children. Did any of them follow in your footsteps?
No. None of my children became physicists, but Hans Albert was an accomplished professor of hydraulic engineering at Berkeley. He had a good mind and he would have made a good physicist, but parents don’t choose their children’s careers.
What about your younger son, Eduard?
Eduard had serious health problems that prevented his full development. He had a superior mind and learned to read on his own very early in life. He was already multiplying and dividing numbers by the age of five. His mental problems robbed him of a brilliant career in medicine or science.
With your extremely busy life, it must have been difficult for you to achieve a balance between your work and your family life.
Yes. That’s been a most regrettable consequence of my scientific career. Hans Albert was born shortly before I began all my work of 1905 – that was the year of his first birthday. On one occasion my wife scolded me when she found me rocking little Albert on my knee while I made some calculations in a notebook. I don’t think the boy minded.
Did your children get special instruction in mathematics from you? Did you help them with their homework?
Even though I wanted very much to be able to teach mathematics to Albert, living apart from him made it impossible. He took a liking to geometry, as I had done when I was his age, and that pleased me no end. His mother was able to coach him, assigning him problems. As for helping with their homework, the boys were bright enough to manage on their own.
You mentioned that your son Hans Albert became a professor, like yourself. Were you very close to him?
Our tranquil moments together were few and far between. During my years in Berlin, we had the opportunity to get together for hikes or to go sailing, activities we both enjoyed. When he was grown up, the war and our occupations conspired to keep us apart. I longed to spend time together with him but such moments rarely came. I consoled myself with the joy of having had a son who inherited the chief trait of my personality: the ability to rise above mere existence by sacrificing oneself through the years for an impersonal goal.
EINSTEIN’S WOMEN
When Einstein’s sister Maja was born, little Albert, then two years old, thought that the baby was a new toy and asked his mother where the wheels were. Maja died of arteriosclerosis of the brain in 1951 in her brother’s house in Princeton where she’d moved in 1939, two years after she emigrated to the United States fleeing the Nazis. Einstein was not visibly moved by the death of loved ones, but after Maja passed away, he told a friend that he missed her more than he had ever imagined he would.
Einstein was married twice, first to Mileva Maric, a melancholic and somewhat troubled fellow physicist from Serbia who was Einstein’s classmate in Zurich, and later, during his forties, to his first cousin Elsa Löwenthal.
Professor, did you have any siblings?
I had one, my dear sister Maja.
Were you close to her?
Yes, we were very close. We grew up together in Munich and enjoyed each other’s company throughout our lives. She lived with us in Princeton during her last 12 years. I read to her every evening during her worsening illness, as her mind remained clear for a long time. I had to endure her death stoically, since my distant God makes these events more difficult. She’d been my confidante during the university years when I was courting my first wife Mileva, when my parents vehemently, and to some extent correctly, opposed that relationship. My mother had a particularly difficult time with it.
Was your mother very strict when you were growing up?
She wasn’t extraordinarily strict, but she was very involved in our education. Her greatest gift to her children was music, and it’s because of her that I’ve been able to appreciate it. She always supported me in anything I did, with the sole exception of my relationship with Mileva. Mileva was an intelligent companion – I spent countless hours with her studying and discussing physics. Our married life was happy for a few years, but things deteriorated for us, in large part owing to my work. We parted ways when our children were still small, which affected their lives. Perhaps a man of my type shouldn’t marry and have children.
Since we’re talking about some of the women who were important to you, are there others you’d like to mention?
My second wife Elsa was one of the most important people in my life. She was a tireless nurturer who nursed me through several illnesses. She ran our household with perfect efficiency, while her careless husband was preoccupied only with work. When we travelled together, I became a piece of furniture that she constantly arranged, in a futile effort to improve something about me. After she died, I became a kind of ancient figure known primarily for his non-use of socks, wheeled out on special occasions as a curiosity. I must also mention my secretary Helen Dukas and my stepdaughter Margot. Together with Elsa, they made possible my stubborn pursuit of the unified field theory without having to worry about mundane affairs. And, finally, there were the young women of my youth – I have to acknowledge them, though without naming them, for th
e happy hours in their company, playing music and enjoying life.
ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS
As the most famous scientist of the 20th century, Einstein was acquainted with all the renowned scientists of his time and befriended many. He had strong opinions on the major thinkers who preceded him and, in general, spoke with enthusiasm when he talked about them. Four scientists were at the top of Einstein’s list of great men. In his study in Berlin, he had portraits of three of them: Sir Isaac Newton (1642–1727), James Clerk Maxwell (1831–1879), and Michael Faraday (1791–1867). These scientists along with Galileo (1564–1642) were, in Einstein’s view, the greatest creative geniuses humankind ever produced, and he freely acknowledged the debts he owed to them in making his own discoveries.
Professor Einstein, Newton once said that his work rested on the shoulders of giants. Who were your giants?
Newton himself and Galileo. They created a complete system of the world based on a few laws. In comparison to Newton, what I was able to wrest from nature is insignificant. But the striving frees us from the bonds of the self and makes us comrades of those who are the best and the greatest.
