The Man Who Knew Too Much | On the death of Steven Weinberg

We are a frightening and fragile species. Our cubs would not survive without the care of the group, supported for many years. A tiny virus is capable of defeating our daily lives, of plunging us into uncertainty without even trying. Our fears have led us to invent imaginary beings that we postulate to be their favorite creatures, and to believe these stories with fierce devotion. And despite all of this, we have embarked on the irrational adventure of trying to understand Nature in its overwhelming totality. The contrast between our fear and our audacity is poignant.

We are betting on a hypothesis full of wisdom: the keys to understanding the physical universe reside, we think, in its constituents and its fundamental laws. Under the influence of this conjecture, we have come a long way. We’ve discovered a fascinating microscopic reality: atoms made up of quarks and electrons, the Higgs boson, a handful of other elementary particles we’ve already seen in accelerators, and four fundamental interactions. All of this within the maddening legal framework provided by quantum.

If we had to choose a single scientific article that represented this colossal achievement of our species, I think there would be unanimity in the choice: A model of leptons (A model of the leptons).

In less than three pages, Steven Weinberg has built in this book the heart of the Standard Model, the most precise description of Nature ever conceived. Whether the title of the article is “A Model” instead of “The Model” or, better, “The Theory”, reveals that the author was not aware of the exceptional importance of what he had just learned. ‘to write. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1979 for this. Peter Higgs thinks he deserved to have also shared the one he won in 2013, but who would dare to award two Nobel prizes for a single article so short!

If whoever reads these lines dares the possibility that the previous title is a matter of humility, it is because he does not know the character. Steven Weinberg was fully aware of his unique intelligence and talent since his successful high school stint in New York City, classmate – and, a few years later, Nobel – of Sheldon Glashow. His legend as a physicist was forged very early on by dint of essential publications which he almost always wrote as the sole author. But not just for them. His books are what comes closest to the sacred texts that one can imagine in theoretical physics. “When I want to understand a topic and read what has been published, I invariably feel that it has been misunderstood; that’s why I write my books, ”he told me at lunch three years ago with the weary tone of someone dealing with a scientific community unable to reach its depth of thought.

Coupled with his deep and powerful voice, his penetrating gaze, and the unusual precision of his colloquial language, Weinberg’s proverbial arrogance had a charming side. The fascinating magnetism of his character immediately made him the center of attention. When he was offered to leave Harvard and move to Austin, a few years after receiving the Nobel Prize, his contract had an implausible clause: his salary was to be the highest at the University of Texas. University officials forgot about this clause a few years later when they hired an American football coach for a millionaire. Weinberg paid them a courtesy call, of course, contract in hand …

Although the enormity of his work seems typical of a person who hasn’t rested for a single minute in his life, Weinberg has always been clear that a creative mind must recklessly inhabit time: “There is a common need. , crucial for artists and scientists. be prepared to waste time following the red herring.

In a talk on the origin of the Universe he gave at Harvard nearly 50 years ago, Weinberg explained in detail what happened in the first three minutes of his existence and said: “After those first three minutes, nothing remarkable happened in the rest of his life. history “. The commentary did not leave indifferent the eminent sociologist Daniel Bell, who asked him to write a book on the subject. Thus was born The first three minutes of the Universe, a unique gem in the world of popular science, which was later followed by other equally extraordinary books.

Perhaps I should have started these lines by stating that on Friday July 23, at 4:15 p.m., Steven Weinberg’s heart stopped beating. It is also true that it would have been unfair to give so much importance to a painful event, it is true, but quite ordinary. Just the step towards immortality of someone who has become intimate with elementary particles and the forces of Nature like perhaps no other person has.

During this shared lunch in Austin, I wanted to know what you think today of the last sentence of The first three minutes of the Universe: “The effort to understand the Universe is one of the few things that elevates human life above the level of farce and gives it something of the elegance of tragedy.” His response was immediate: “I should have emphasized some of the other things they do too: loving others and appreciating beauty. But the fact that our condition is tragic… we all face our own extinction, the death of the people we love. And I don’t think there is anything that comes after. And I think we have to do our best, as Yates says, to have deserved to be a part of the work, even if in the end everything is nothing. Dude, you deserved it, Steve.

To Juan Forn, for your tender invitation to continue writing about science in these pages.

José Edelstein: * Theoretical physicist, IGFAE, University of Santiago de Compostela ([email protected])