Acknowledgments

When I was a small child I lived out in the English countryside, a quiet rural place full of flora, fauna, soil, water, air, and the occasional strange smell. As I grew up there, transforming from meek kid to slightly less meek teenager, one of my secret (and enormously geeky) passions was to try communing with the universe, to be at one with the infinite, to find my place in the enormity of it all. Maybe it fit with a series of adolescent fantasies about unexplored superhero origins, or a mysterious not-yet-revealed past. Maybe I was just strange, or perhaps many children harbor similar ambitions, I still don’t know. But on many evenings I’d excuse myself from the supper table and wander outside just as the sky was darkening enough for the stars to begin to appear. I’d walk away from our house and find a private spot somewhere. In the summer it would often be in the midst of a field of rustling wheat where I could sit or lie hidden from every horizon. And then I’d gaze, trying to open my eyes as much as possible, to find that perfect angle where the cosmic night would envelop me, take me over, fill my mind with its infinite emptiness and reveal its untold truths.

As I perched or sprawled on poking bits of vegetation, it slowly dawned on me that as much as the glittering canopy of stars made me feel tiny and insignificant, the inescapable presence of my immediate surroundings also made me feel that I was a vital component of this tapestry. In the cool dampness of the evening air all the pungent mineral flavors and smells of earth and plants would wash across me. And, although the land seemed still, there was the constant rustling of innumerable small creatures—either settling themselves down for the night or foraging through undergrowth and soil. Occasionally, off in the distance would come the lonely wail of some forlorn farm animal, or the hoot of an equally lonesome-sounding owl.

It was soothing yet also an intensely primal and exciting experience, the universe above as much in thrall to this nightly terrestrial routine as it was aloof and uncaring. Of course I knew that the sensations I experienced about this cosmic order to things had to be somewhat illusory. But they were certainly vivid. Surely I, and anyone else Out There, were more than condiments splashed on a complex universe—we had to have some relevance? Or perhaps not, I would force myself to consider; perhaps we were tragic accidents doomed to yearn for significance when we had none at all.

This childhood experience has stayed with me ever since, and has kept that question fresh in my mind. How do we separate out our powerful experiences of the world from our desire to know our place in the universe? The chapters written here are an attempt to tackle some of that puzzle, armed with what I now know, and what many others have thought and discovered.

As I’ve written this book I’ve had many conversations. Some have been with my colleagues—other scientists intent on drilling into an endless array of fascinating natural minutiae, and on taking these minutiae and placing them on a cosmic stage. Other conversations, probably the majority, have been with just about anyone who asked me what I was doing. From friends and acquaintances to strangers on planes, on trains, and in the most unexpected places: the sidelines of a soccer game, the middle of a country lane, halfway up a Norwegian mountain, and in the fragrant cheese aisle of a busy supermarket.

It’s these latter conversations that have been the most inspiring and interesting. No one, not a single person, has said to me “I have no interest in our place in the cosmos.” In fact, the polar opposite: we all have a deep yearning for truth—particularly the kind of rational truth that science aims for, and continues to work away at as it reveals more and more that we don’t understand.

For understanding this from the outset I’d like to thank my wonderful agent Deirdre Mullane of Mullane Literary Associates, and my equally wonderful editor Amanda Moon at Scientific American/Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Their tireless encouragement and hard work have made the writing process so much easier than it would have been otherwise. Thanks too go to publicists extraordinaire Gregory Wazowicz and Stephen Weil, and the editorial team of Christopher Richards, Daniel Gerstle, and Laird Gallagher. A special thanks is due to Annie Gottlieb, whose remarkable copyediting has yet again come to the rescue.

Years and years ago my friend and fellow scientist Michael Storrie-Lombardi planted the seeds of too many ideas in my impressionable head. For that I am immeasurably grateful. I am also grateful for the opportunity to know and interact with so many great scientists who have, over time (often unwittingly), helped me write this book. An incomplete list includes: Frits Paerels, Arlin Crotts, Fernando Camilo, Gene McDonald, Geoff Marcy, Dave Spiegel, Kristen Menou, Ben Oppenheimer, Daniel Savin, Josh Winn, Linda Sohl, Anthony DelGenio, Denton Ebel. Inspiration has also come from talking with many wonderful writers, filmmakers, and science popularizers along the way: Lee Billings, George Musser, John Matson, Dennis Overbye, Marcus Chown, Ross Andersen, Jacob Berkowitz, Bob Krulwich, Dan Clifton. And twice during the course of writing I’ve had my mind blown by exposure to the incredible gathering that is SciFoo—thanks go to Tim O’Reilly, Larry Page, and Sergey Brin for making that happen.

Deepest thanks also go to friends and family, including Nelson Rivera, Greg Barrett, Helen and Saul Laniado, Windell Williams, Jeff Sklar, and the dearest people in my life, Bonnie, Laila, Amelia, and Marina.

The philosopher Socrates once said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Admittedly, this is supposed to have been spoken during the trial for impiety that resulted in his execution, but it’s still a damn good line. Therefore, I’d like to finally thank you, the reader, for taking time to examine the many and splendid phenomena that make life possible in the universe.