Why Buy That Theory?
What if the world is complex? Here, symmetry is broken; there, the seemingly simplest of chemical reactions, hydrogen burning to water, has a messy mechanism. The means by which one subunit of hemoglobin communicates its oxygenation to a second subunit, an essential task, resembles a Rube Goldberg cartoon. Not to speak of the intricacies of any biological response, from the rise of blood pressure or release of adrenalin when a snake lunges at us, to returning a Ping-Pong serve with backspin. Max Perutz's theory of the cooperativity of oxygen uptake, the way the ribosome functions—these require complicated explanations. And yes, the inherent tinkering of evolution has made them complex. But simpler chemical reactions—a candle burning—are also intricate. As complex as the essential physics of the malleability, brittleness and hardness of metals. Or the geology of hydrothermal vents.
When things are complex yet understandable, human beings weave stories. We do so for several reasons: A-->B requires no story. But A-->B-->C-->D and not A-->B-->C'-->D is in itself a story. Second, as psychologist Jerome Bruner writes, "For there to be a story, something unforeseen must happen." In science the unforeseen lurks around the next experimental corner. Stories then "domesticate unexpectedness," to use Bruner's phrase.
Storytelling seems to be ingrained in our psyche. I would claim that with our gift of spoken and written language, this is the way we wrest pleasure, psychologically, from a messy world. Scientists are no exception. Part of the story they tell is how they got there—the x-ray films measured over a decade, the blind alleys and false leads of a chemical synthesis. It is never easy, and serendipity substitutes for what in earlier ages would have been called the grace of God. In the end, we overcome. This appeals, and none of it takes away from the ingenuity of the creative act.
In thinking about theories, storytelling has some distinct features. There is always a beginning to a theory—modeling assumptions, perhaps unexpected observations to account for. Then, in a mathematically oriented theory, a kind of development section follows. Something is tried; it leads nowhere, or leaves one dissatisfied. So one essays a variation on what had been a minor theme, and—all of a sudden—it soars. Resolution and coda follow. I think of the surprise that comes from doing a Fourier transform, or of seeing eigenvalues popping out of nothing but an equation and boundary conditions.
Sadly, in the published accounts of theories, much of the narrative of the struggle for understanding is left out, because of self-censorship and the desire to show us as more rational than we were. That's okay; fortunately one can still see the development sections of a theoretical symphony as one examines an ensemble of theories, created by many people, not just one, groping towards understanding.
The other place where narrative is rife is in the hypothesis-forming stage of doing science. This is where the "reach of imagination" of science, as Jacob Bronowski referred to it, is explicit. Soon you will be brought down to earth by experiment, but here the wild man in you can soar, think up any crazy scheme. And, in the way science works, if you are too blinded by your prejudices to see the faults in your theoretical fantasies, you can be sure others will.
Many theories are popular because they tell a rollicking good story, one that is sage in capturing the way the world works, and could be stored away to deal with the next trouble. Stories can be funny; can there be humorous theories?