Annoying Atoms

Annoying Atoms

I have come to a rather grim conclusion: I don’t like atoms. Never have, never will. There is something so annoying about them. I wonder if I can get you to see it that way. This is not a phobia on my part, or a prejudice, but a considered judgment. It just isn’t cool that the universe is made of atoms—not nice, not delightful, not fun. I will make a list of all the things I don’t like about atoms. There are way too many of them to start with; no rarity value. There is far too much empty space inside them with nothing of interest going on. They are monotonous, samey, devoid of originality. They are dull, dull, dull. They are distressingly simple, lacking in interesting complexity. Their parts are even simpler: an electron is simple to the point of being virtually nothing (or if electrons have parts, these parts are irritatingly simple). They are invisible, which doesn’t endear them to our senses, and suggests reticence. They are arbitrary in their make-up: why should they be composed of a nucleus surrounded by revolving electrons? Who said that was the way things should be? They are annoyingly opaque, puzzling, secretive. They are depressingly reductive, breaking everything down into the same monotonous units. They are not beautiful. They are lifeless, machine-like. They can be used to make terrifying bombs and may one day annihilate all life on Earth (this I can’t forgive them for). Above all, to my mind, they never change, never evolve, never improve, never branch out, never surprise. They are tedious. They just stay stolidly the same, complacently, as if perfectly content with themselves. They have no history worthy of the name, no drama, no narrative arc. They just are, dully, unchangeably. They make the truth about the universe boring. They are just tiny mindless, lifeless, bits of nothing (“matter”). They have mass and charge (or their constituents do), but that is about all they can manage in the way of an inner nature. I suspect that if we could see them, we would never give them a second glance, like drab gray bricks in a building. They are like bores at a party, faceless functionaries, the least interesting things in the universe.

In case my anti-atom rhetoric has failed to move you (defenders of the dull), let me remind you of some more interesting things. Animals are a lot more interesting, and so are plants. So, even, are bacteria. We contemplate these things with interest and delight in our eyes (maybe not bacteria)—all of us, not just zoological and botanical specialists. But it takes an atomic physicist to light up when atoms are mentioned; no ordinary person loves the atom. No one wants atoms as pets or decorations (“I have some fine atoms over here”). Nature documentaries about atoms don’t have the viewership of wildlife documentaries. The atom is not audience-friendly, except to people of a particular type. It is more enjoyable to be a zoologist than an atomic physicist (of course, they will deny this). Atoms just don’t have the aesthetic properties of animals and plants. Who could love an electron? Who wants pictures of the hydrogen atom on their wall (please don’t say physics students)? Even pebbles are more aesthetically appealing—round, shiny, rubbable. Insects are more interesting and attractive (except perhaps termites, which resemble atoms in their quantity and uniformity). Black holes are more attention-grabbing. In the astronomical world asteroids approach atoms most closely in their intrinsic dullness: shapeless bits of rock and dirt wandering aimlessly through the void, of only scientific interest (is there any asteroid art?). Molecules are slightly more appealing than atoms, the more complex the better (DNA is pretty interesting). At least molecules introduce some variety into the world, instead of the monotonous homogeneity of the atomic world (a point-like nucleus surrounded by a varying number of electrons).[1] To get us interested in atoms physicists have used the analogy of the solar system, or anthropomorphized the constituents—or else restless minds would wander. I am not saying that atoms have no scientific interest; I am saying they have no human interest. They have no human meaning. Or precious little—they are after all what the Mona Lisa is made of, which is something. Imagine if the atoms of the universe had never clumped together but floated around in a formless gas—wouldn’t that be the dreariest thing imaginable? No animals, no plants, no stars, no planets—just a soup of miserable atoms. What a world to live in! Atoms are redeemed by what they can compose, but in themselves they are nothing to write home about (“Saw some helium atoms today—nothing interesting to report”). The more I think about it, the more I resentthe fact that atoms constitute the basic truth about the world—couldn’t things have been a bit more fun, a bit livelier? Is that the best the big bang could come up with, or God? Thanks a lot, one wants to say. Thanks for nothing.

If I have still failed to persuade you of the utter bankruptcy of atoms, their affront to the sensitive discerning mind, then let me drive the final nail into their coffin as objects of refinement and quality. For they seem almost gratuitously uninteresting and intrinsically disappointing (they need to apologize for themselves). Things were not as lowering before they came along (or our knowledge of them did). Physical science was not always so dire, so dismal, so dispiriting (am I overdoing it now?). What I have in mind is the physical universe as conceived before the atomic theory became the accepted truth: the four elements of earth, water, air, and fire. These have human significance, they form part of our lived experience, they have interesting natures (bees compared to termites). We live on the earth, derive our nourishment from it, gaze upon it; we drink water, bathe in it, play with it; we breathe air, feel it on our face, can’t do without it for long; we use fire to cook and warm ourselves, it is spectacular, it must be carefully managed. This is our life-world. It is not a humanly indifferent alien world of tiny faceless particles glued tenuously together. Animals know nothing of this abstract lifeless world, as our ancestors knew nothing of it. The world was a lot more agreeable when it was conceived in the richer terms of the four elements. Nature had variety and contrast, but now it is just a vast heap of invisible particles differing only quantitatively. We woke up one day to find that nature was no longer our friend and collaborator but a kind of desert—bland, blank. The atom is the ultimate expression of nature’s indifference to us and all life. It knows nothing of life and could care less. It could kill us all and not bat an eyelid. If it does kill us, it will just continue on its mindless, pointless way. The atom is fundamentally psychopathic. It isn’t even our enemy. I might almost say that the atom proves the non-existence of God—for why would God put such a colorless, dead, dreary, drab, prosaic, humdrum thing at the very foundation of human (and animal) life? I know that atoms exist, but I don’t have to like it. I know I am made of atoms, but I don’t have to celebrate the fact. I wouldn’t mind if they all disappeared and were replaced by something more to my taste. Away drab and dire atoms![2]

[1] Aren’t strings the most boring thing imaginable? The universe is made of bits of string! Say it isn’t so.

[2] I can imagine Hamlet giving an impassioned speech about atoms, condemning their lumpy fatuity (“Oh, callous atom!”, etc.) To be an atom, or not to be an atom… Why must everything revolve around such dreadful things? Atoms are a downer, no doubt about it. Even rats are more congenial. It’s about time humanity declared its distaste for the atomic. And let’s not forget that atoms are radioactive. They are (potentially) poisonous.