Category Archives: Non-Fiction (Science)

Periodic Tales, by Hugh Aldersey-Williams

My grandfather was a chemist. He worked more with plastics and practicalities than with the specific, individual elements – certainly he worked more with the organic and elemental combinations than with the separation and discovery of new elements. But he helped instill in me an interest in what the world was made of. I loved chemistry in high school, and was good at it. (Physics was another matter – I am more interested in what things are made of then how they work, apparently.)

I am also interested in how things are organised and classified – what stories we tell about things to make sense of their place in the world. I love the periodic table, with its combination of organisation by size and by function. I am always amused by the different types of periodic tables that pop up – the periodic table of storytelling, or the periodic table of cupcakes.

All of which is a long-winded way of saying that this was kind of a perfect book for me. It combined storytelling and chemistry. It explained some of the classifications of the elements, and the discovery of the elements, and the functions of the elements.  It discussed the cultural significance of gold versus silver, chrome versus platinum or titanium, iron and zinc. I learned more than I realised I didn’t know about ores and mining and geology.

It didn’t cover all of the elements, which was a bit disappointing. There wasn’t much inclusion of carbon, for example, or some of the other light elements (boron, lithium, etc.) There was a lot about the “rare earths”, which I didn’t know anything about, at all. But what it did include was, overall, fantastic. I doubt I’ll have retained all of it (I didn’t take notes or anything) but I think I’ve retained enough to at least have some pub quiz/trivia night answers handy.

The other thing that it didn’t include, which was incredibly frustrating at times, was a copy of the periodic table itself. This would have been so useful, especially when he was talking about some of the lesser-known elements (Germanium, for example), just to get a sense of where they were on the chart. It even would have been nice with the better-known elements, just as a reminder of things like their chemical symbol. (Especially since he mentions the chemical symbol of silver, for example.)  I read this book in places where I didn’t have easy internet access – I couldn’t just go and look up the periodic table – and I only have it memorized through neon on a good day.

But that’s a relatively petty frustration when it comes to such an interesting topic. It ultimately doesn’t matter that I didn’t have a table on which to base myself when he was detailing the discovery and different light colours of sodium and neon and argon, or the discovery of various radioactive elements, or his search for samples of the elements that he could put in his own physical periodic table.

It may not have made me want to run out and become a chemist, but it definitely made me more aware of the presence and use of specific elements in our daily world – and that is no bad thing.

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Saving the Daylight, by David Prerau

I have always been vaguely interested in Daylight Savings Time, in a “why does this exist” kind of way. So when this book came into the charity shop, I couldn’t resist picking it up. (Which then led to a rant by my boyfriend about why I’d bother reading non-fiction instead of just looking things up on the internet if I was interested in them – but that’s a different post.)

I found it very interesting – did you know that Benjamin Franklin advocated a form of daylight savings time? Or that it really gained ground during World War I as an energy-saving measure? Or that it was one of the mostly hotly contested bills in legislatures (US,  UK, state level, kind of everywhere) for years?

The main point of Daylight Savings Time, though – and one that gets lost in the rage about shifting clocks and losing sleep and/or drinking time (Go Bobcats) – is to shift socially acceptable working (and playing) times to more closely match daylight hours. Until the standardization of time zones (itself a hotly contested issue), it wasn’t really an issue. Blame the railroads – they needed standard times to simplify their timetables.

It is, of course, easier to mandate regional clock changes than to change people’s habits. By now, our culture is too clock-based to make any sort of social shift easy. 5am is early, even if the sun’s been up for an hour. 4 pm is still within normal business hours, even if it’s nearly dusk. Daylight Savings Time just tries to even out our cultural and social suppositions about when things should happen to use more of the natural sunlight time.

Personally, I’ve thought for a few years that instead of changing the clocks twice a year, we should split the difference and do a one-time half-hour change – and the more I learned about daylight savings time and its motivations, the more I am convinced that it might work. Astronomers can still use GMT/UTC for observations, but everyone’s personal clocks will be more in line with “natural” time.

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The Age of Wonder, by Richard Holmes

The Age of Wonder, by Richard Holmes


I’ve finished it now, and my reaction is basically the same. It’s a good book, very engaging and mostly well-written. I just don’t think it’s the book that he thinks it is.  The subtitle is “How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science” but, at least to me, it was much more about the web of scientists and protégés that Joseph Banks developed. So much more time was spent developing the history of the Royal Society and discussing some of the feuds and connections that the argument about the Romantic Generation just sort of faded away. There are still mentions of Coleridge and Byron and the war(s) with the French, but those are not even remotely the focus of the book in the same way that Joseph Banks and his relationships with the scientists discussed are. Again, it’s not a bad book – in fact, it’s a very good book. It’s just not a book about the Romantic Generation, except coincidentally.

I say mostly well-written above. There are a few rogue commas, and a couple of odd phrasing and structure things. There are a couple of passages I want to point out: two odd ones, and one other.

First, a footnote talking about comets: “In modern times the passage of Hale-Bopp (1997) inspired a mass suicide by the Heaven’s Gate cult, though that was in California.” Um, exactly why does the location matter? Why does it matter enough to be put in an aside phrase? And why, exactly, does that phrase seem so dismissive? ‘Comets are interesting and mystical and have inspired odd behaviour. But only in the past, except in silly California.’ That’s how that sentence comes across to me: as though it’s somehow less relevant because it was in California.

Second, the first chapter about Humphrey Davy – and, actually, the second chapter about Humphrey Davy – is presented a bit oddly. I can’t remember exactly what confused me about the first chapter during the bulk of it, but the chapter ends with the sentence “At a glittering reception afterwards, Jane Apreece told Humphrey Davy that she loved fishing.” Um…..okay. I know he’s an angler and all, but quite a bit of the chapter has been about his (presumed) love affairs and the women chasing him, and …. it’s a really abrupt way to end a chapter, especially when Jane Apreece was only introduced in the preceding sentence. And then this isn’t resolved for another couple of chapters, past a chapter about the Vitality experiments and Frankenstein. Also, the second chapter about Humphrey Davy, chronologically after he and Jane Apreece have gotten married, keeps referring to future-to-them events (“Jane would remember it regretfully during a similar trip the next year” or things like that) with very little, if any, follow-up. Don’t tease us with emotional insight and then not actually provide any emotional insight!

Third, because it’s nearly Valentine’s Day, here is one of the sappiest love letters I’ve ever read. It’s from Humphrey Davy to his wife, when he’s on a fishing trip and she’s back in wherever they live: “I flirt with the water nymphs, but you are my constant goddess. I make you the personification of the spirit of the woods, and the waters, and the hills, and the clouds….this is the earliest form of religion. I breathe a sigh upon paper from the thought of being apart from you for only two days. My dear, dear Love creates a void which no interest or amusement can fill….The longer I live, the more I shall love you, my dearest Jane.”

Okay, it’s sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Happy Valentine’s Day.


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Initial thoughts on The Age of Wonder

Thoughts on The Age of Wonder


I have been somewhat sporadically reading The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science. (Sporadically because I’ve just started a new job, and someone who shall remain nameless has gotten me hooked on World of Warcraft to the point where I have to play it myself, and then there’s the musical theatre group that I don’t practice for enough…anyway…..) It’s a good book, and definitely worth the acclaim that it got. It’s not without flaws, though, and since this is a relatively critical blog, I thought I’d mention them.

One of the things is just me and my personal history and education in the Romantic era. I took a class in my study-abroad year on Romanticism (primarily in literature) which focused a lot (a lot a lot) on the political and intellectual background of the era – the French Revolution and Napoleonic wars, the extending of the vote in the UK and the Corn Laws and the “Industrial Revolution” and the resulting unrest, etc. [England in 1819? Highly topical sonnet by Shelley and brilliantly scathing if you know the characters] To me, primarily because of this class, the political/current-event background of the time period is essential to the issues in Romanticism. We discussed, in detail, how the world that these writers lived in shaped their mentality and ideas and forms – whether by addressing them in their work (Shelley, Wordsworth in some things, Mary Wollstonecraft), by allegorizing them (Byron, Shelley some more), or by ignoring them and focusing on something else entirely (Keats). (These examples are not exclusive of other writers, nor inclusive of all of these writers’ work.)

This book….doesn’t. It doesn’t completely ignore the political situation – there’s a scientist mentioned who was guillotined, balloon technology was feared because it could have military implications, etc. – but it doesn’t make any sort of claim or connection between the external situation and the scientists’ internal motivations. I know it doesn’t have to, necessarily, but if something is specifically about the “Romantic generation”, then I want to know what about it being the “Romantic generation” led to this seemingly sudden explosion in scientific research and discovery – and so far it’s not giving me that.

If anything, it’s more a book about Joseph Banks and his protégés/connections/influence and assistance than it is a book about the Romantic generation’s discovery of science. Banks was the focus of the first chapter (which was actually the chapter so far that I’ve had the hardest time keeping interest in), and he has shown up in every following chapter – almost as the guiding hand for all of the research. He was President of the Royal Society (or whatever) so it makes sense – but he’s definitely the link, and that structural connection isn’t really even hinted at in the title or back-of-book summary. (Side question that I really should know, but I don’t: is there a technical term for the back-of-book/dust jacket summary thing?)

The other thing that I’ve been thinking of in connection with this book is the definition of technology. This is something that pops up every once in a while in my life, often when someone calls themselves a “Luddite” or makes similar comments about technology (usually in the “it’s taking over the world!” vein). The thing is, almost everything is technological. When people say, “I’m giving up on technology and going to live in the woods!” they forget that things like axes (for cutting down trees) and matches (for starting fires) and baskets (for collecting food) are all technology.

I noticed it in this book with the chapter on ballooning. It refers to “balloon technology”, which struck me as odd when I first read it. We don’t usually think of balloons, even hot-air balloons, as being “technology”, but they are. Everything we use is technology – it’s not limited to electronics or computers or internal combustion engines.

I still have four chapters left to read; I’ve just finished the chapter on Humphrey Davy and his research into nitrous oxide. I’ll probably post again when I’ve finished the whole thing.


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The Right Stuff, by Tom Wolfe

Ever since I read Moon Dust, I have been mildly obsessed with the space program. It’s not a new obsession; it’s one that lurks in the background of my mind and pops up every once in a while. I do wish that there were more of an active space exploration program, and that the space program as it is got more publicity (certainly when things go right, not just when things go wrong).

But, yes, ever since I read Moon Dust, I’ve had a renewed obsession. I watched through the entirety of From the Earth to the Moon (the story of Apollo 1 always makes me cry), rewatched Apollo 13 for the millionth time (stupid Ron Howard, sucking me in), had the Wikipedia pages on the astronauts up on a nearly permanent basis. And I acquired a copy of Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. Next step, assuming the obsession hasn’t burned itself out, is to try to find a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s book about Apollo. (And watch the film of The Right Stuff, of course.  I may do a follow-up entry after watching it, to compare the book and the film. Oh, Ed Harris, I love your work.)

The other stimulus for The Right Stuff, for me, is the fact that it was written by Tom Wolfe. See, my senior seminar at university was on “New Journalism” – what is sometimes now called “creative” or “narrative” non-fiction.  (I won’t get into my full frustration with time-based appellations here. Let’s just summarize it by saying that in, say, fifty years, “new” forms of literature are going to have to be referred to as post-contemporary-post-post-modernist-new-literature or something ridiculous like that.) Anyway, “narrative non-fiction” is a movement that started in the 60s, as so many movements did, and changed the tone of non-fiction from very objective, impartial, and fact-based to subjective, personal, and fact-based. The writer, in creative non-fiction and new journalism, can be as much of a character as the people that he’s interviewed. At the very least, his (or her) personality and literary choices are acknowledged as a forming part of the book. Books – or articles, since a lot of the new journalism was found in feature magazines like Rolling Stone – are very personal, telling not only what happened, but what it was like. The tone is often very similar to sitting in a bar listening to someone tell about their experience.

Certainly The Right Stuff is. It’s full of facts, of course. There’s nothing in it that can’t be corroborated. There’s nothing in it that isn’t untrue. But there are any number of asides and perspectives that make it seem more subjective than you might expect from a non-fiction book.

Basically, The Right Stuff is about the beginnings of the astronaut program. I’m using that word deliberately, because in addition to the Mercury program (and all the hoopla around the Mercury Seven, the first astronauts) it’s also about the test pilots at Edwards Air Force Base, particularly Chuck Yeager and his group, and the unstated rivalry between the X-15 program (piloted planes that could potentially go beyond the boundary of space) and the Mercury program. It’s about the events, the politics behind them (in both a Washington and a non-Washington sense of “politics”), and the personalities involved.

The Right Stuff, as a phrase, is used informally throughout the book for that ineffable quality that pilots might have. One can lose the right stuff at any point (“it can burst at any seam”), and for any reason – some of which have to do with the person and some to do with external forces, especially doctors.

One of the things that I took away from this book – and, to some extent, Moon Dust – is how finite NASA’s goals were, and became. “Beat the Soviets.” “Put a man in space.” “Put a man on the moon.” Well, …. now what? It’s actually kind of sad – whenever they attempted to do something scientific or discover something in the Mercury program, it was thwarted for various reasons. Grissom’s capsule was lost. Carpenter was all but dismissed from the program. In Apollo, the “scientists” were looked down on, to some extent, by the pilots. And it’s sad, because the science of it, the discovery process, might not be as glamorous or as quick-rewarding, but that’s what keeps programs going.

The other thing that I found sad in this book was the dichotomy between the Mercury program and the X-15/X-20 program. It’s a great “what would have been”.  The X-programs were training and developing piloted aircraft to take off from the ground and enter space – kind of like the space shuttle eventually was, sort of. If they had been allowed to continue (they were killed to free up funding and resources for Apollo and other NASA programs), it is entirely possible that we would be closer to “space tourism” or at least more commercially viable space exploration today. We might not have put a man on the moon by the end of the 60s – and I do love Apollo – but we might be making more trips there today.

Of course, it’s impossible to say what might have been. But the overwhelming sense that I got from Tom Wolfe’s book was that NASA – and Washington – were playing the short game while the X-program was playing the long game. And too often we can’t even see the benefits of the long game for the risks, and the rewards of the short game.

This book is also a monument to how fickle and short-term public interest is. Not that the book itself has dated – it hasn’t, surprisingly. But Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier (Mach 1) and was as feted as Lindbergh. Within a few years, it was the turn of the Mercury Seven, and all the work that was being done at Edwards was ignored. Alan Shepard was the first American in space, and got a ticker-tape parade in New York and went to the White House. Gus Grissom was second, and got a handshake on the tarmac. John Glenn was the first American in orbit, and was the Golden Boy for a long time. Who can remember the others who also made orbital flights? (Scott Carpenter, Wally Schirra, and Gordon Cooper. Deke Slayton was one of the Mercury Seven, but was grounded before he went into space.) And before Mercury was even over, attention had shifted to other aspects of the Cold War – in fact, people were declaring the Cold War over. NASA’s attention had shifted to Gemini and Apollo. The public’s attention had shifted away from NASA. And it certainly had shifted away from the test pilots outside of NASA. Chuck Yeager almost died trying to set a new flying record, and no one noticed.

It’s definitely a “new journalism” book. While Tom Wolfe is never explicitly present, the style is very much his, and you’re very much there. It’s “fly-on-the-wall” – you almost feel like you are there, watching John Glenn confront the other astronauts, or hiding in the houses with the wives and families trying to evade the press corps, or drag-racing along Cocoa Beach, or screaming up through the atmosphere in either a jet or the Mercury capsule. It’s not easy to read, exactly – the style takes some getting used to. Narrative non-fiction has become incorporated into most modern non-fiction today, but The Right Stuff is “new journalism” at its most raw (without being Hunter S. Thompson), so it can be a little bit disconcerting.

Next up on my agenda is the film – like I said at the top, I may do a follow-up post once I’ve watched that. (Probably within the week. Ah, the joys of being essentially unemployed.) And then perhaps I’ll be able to move on from this current NASA obsession, and on to other things….

P.S. I still want to read profiles, both mission profiles and post-Apollo profiles – of the CM pilots. Does such a book exist? Like Moon Dust, but for the astronauts who stayed in the CM….

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The Secret Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot

Like Moon Dust, The Secret Life of Henrietta Lacks is a book where the author/narrator is a character. By the end of the book, you know Rebecca Skloot almost as well as you know Henrietta Lacks or her family. Most of the time this works really well – it is, after all a personal story. The only time I thought that it didn’t work as well was near the beginning, when Rebecca is detailing her erratic, apathetic education. I understand why her initial exposure to HeLa and Henrietta’s identity is important, but the rest of it seemed a bit unnecessary to me. I kept waiting for it to be significant, to be a point of commonality that Rebecca could use, but it never happened.

But that’s a minor quibble for a book that includes so much on so many topics. In addition to being a biography of Henrietta Lacks, it’s also the story of her family, Johns Hopkins, the medical researchers, and the cell line.  It also touches on racism, social inequality, ethics, and education and class.  I’m not going to say a lot about the various biographies that are incorporated into the book: they are, after all, the story. But I do want to touch briefly on the wider issues.

The racism issue is pretty simple: would Henrietta Lacks and her family have been treated differently if they were not black? The answer is, sadly, probably yes. I don’t think the outcome would have been different: Henrietta’s cells would still have been taken, etc., but I think the way they were taken and especially the way her family was treated would have been different. I wish I could be wrong about this; there is of course no way to know.

Tied in with that is the question of social class (which in the US is often tied to race as well as economics and education). I feel fairly certain that the Lacks family would not have been dismissed the way they were if they had been, or appeared, richer and/or more educated.

Which brings me to the next thing I noticed: the assumptions that come with education. It’s something that I am often very guilty of.  When you’re surrounded by something when you’ve spent years learning about something, you forget that not everyone has.  You assume that the basic ideas and vocabulary of your subject are common knowledge, and you forget that there was a time when you had to learn them too.

This is what happened with Henrietta Lacks’s family.  Most of the researchers who contacted the Lacks family (for DNA samples, for example) or whom the family contacted for information assumed a base level of understanding that the family didn’t have.  If that basic understanding of a field isn’t there, the rest is gibberish and there’s nowhere even to start asking questions.  It wasn’t until someone took the time to make sure that the family understood the basics that they could move on and process what had happened.

The last thing – and the most controversial thing – that’s brought up by this story is the ethics of tissue collection. What sort of rights does or should a person have over cells that are no longer a part of their body? What sort of information should someone be entitled to if, like Henrietta, their cells prove to be useful or unusual? What responsibility do researchers have to follow up with patients or their families? There are no good or easy answers that can balance the rights of researchers with the rights of patients.

The Secret Life of Henrietta Lacks is an incredibly well-researched book. There are points where, to me Rebecca’s story seemed a bit intrusive, but overall the stories it tells and the issues it raises help it live up to every glowing review.



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Moon Dust: In Search of the Men Who Fell to Earth, by Andrew Smith

For my senior seminar at university, I took a class in New Journalism – the movement that started in the 1960s that led to more narrative non-fiction and the acknowledgement or realization that pure objectivity is impossible. In narrative non-fiction, the writer is often a character in the work. It’s still factual, but the research process, and the creative process, is as much a part of the story as the research findings. Moon Dust and the other book I’ve finished recently (The Secret Life of Henrietta Lacks, blog post to come), are very much a part of the narrative non-fiction category of writing. The story of the writer is explicitly a part of these books, even more so, if I recall, than the gonzo journalism of the late 1960s and 1970s.

Moon Dust interweaves the stories of the surviving Moonwalkers with Andrew Smith’s own memories and feelings about the Apollo program.  He never pretends that this is an objective work of biography or technical detail; it’s very much a personal project for him. There are biographical details of the astronauts, of course, and a bit of technical information and history about the space program, but it’s almost more a philosophical book. Smith realizes by the end that the greatest outcome of Apollo is the opportunity it gave us as a species to look back on Earth, to reassess our place in the universe and our place in the world. The main question of the book is “what next?” What do you do after you’ve walked on the moon? How do you follow that up? How do we follow it up as a species, as a culture? Smith talked to all, or nearly all, the surviving Moonwalkers and a couple of the Command Module pilots, to try to answer that question.

Twelve men walked on the moon; nine of them are still living. No one has left Earth orbit since 1972 with Apollo 17. Eventually – and sooner than we might want or expect – no one living will have walked on the moon. No one will know what it is like to look back at Earth and see it complete and whole, hanging in space. It is almost sad: my generation especially knows the successes of the space program only through history. We didn’t live through Apollo, so we don’t really know the excitement and adventure of the moon landings. We know the current space program more through its failures or its trivia. We don’t hear about the successes anymore – they’ve become normal or commonplace. We only hear about NASA when things go wrong – Challenger, or Columbia. Or the last flight of the space shuttle. We only hear news about people going to space when it’s unusual or seemingly ridiculous, like the “space tourists”.  Being an astronaut is no longer something that most people dream of and strive for; those who do often realize that they were born in the wrong time for it.

Like most people, I only vaguely know the names of the astronauts in the “middle” Apollo missions. I know the names of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, of course. There are a few others that I’d heard of because they feature in Apollo 13. But some of them I had to look up as I was reading. And they are the ones that are the most interesting in this book. Neil Armstrong is notoriously reticent, Buzz Aldrin has a reputation for being wacky (although that didn’t really come through in this presentation of him); Gene Cernan is parlaying his “last man on the moon” status into lobbyist pressure for a return. Those are things you might expect, I suppose. The ones I most enjoyed were the ones who’d adapted their experiences into other areas: Alan Bean, who’s now a painter; Edgar Mitchell, who seems to still be living out his emotional “epiphany” from his moonwalk.

The writing in this book is quite conversational, and quick because of that. I only marked a few passages, and those near the end, just because of the way I read it (patchily, during breaks at my current job); there weren’t any moments where the writing left me skeptical. I’d definitely classify it as a good book, in part because my reading list afterwards has grown.  I feel like I’ve gotten the end of the story – what happened next – but there are gaps. I really want to read The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe now (another classic of the narrative non-fiction/new journalism style), and I want to know more about the Command Module pilots. (I can only name two CM pilots – Michael Collins from 11, and Ken Mattingly from 16. And I only really know Ken Mattingly from Apollo 13 and because he came to speak at USD a couple years after the movie came out. He’s now one of my favourites, of course.) But now that I know what happened “next” – as much as anyone can, I think – I want to know more. What was it like being in the space program? What was it like not landing on the moon? What are the stories of the other missions? Apollo 11 and Apollo 13 have become fairly well-known, but what was it like for the other ones? What was it like at Mission Control? And that’s what a good non-fiction book should do: give you information but also expand your horizons. (and your reading list, apparently…..)


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A Brief History of Nearly Everything, by Bill Bryson

I really like Bill Bryson’s writing voice. It’s wry, it’s distinctive, it’s colloquial without being overly dated.  I was a little bit nervous about this book, because I tend to like Bryson’s specifically travel books better than anything else (I have not gotten all the way through Thunderbolt Kid, for instance – although I haven’t tried his Shakespeare book yet). But I quite enjoyed this book, which, if you don’t know, is all about the history of science. Every science – chemistry, physics, geology, biology, anthropology, paleontology, astronomy, etc. – is described from the beginning of the Enlightenment to the beginning of the 21st century. It’s like a travel book through the history of science.

One of the things that reading books like this does to me is make me want to read more books like this. I walked into Blackwell’s today and had to restrain myself from buying an anthology of science writing. I also had to restrain myself from adding lots of obscure public-domain science books to my list, and looking up ways that I could get extra degrees in things like chemistry or bacterial biology or astronomy or even just mathematics. Books like this also make me want to write books like this: I have at least one travel book started in my head now. The only problem is that my writing keeps sounding like Bryson, and not so much like me yet.

Because that’s another thing that reading books like this does to me: it makes me want to know everything about everything. The world doesn’t know a lot about bacteria? I should study it! It’s a part of my whole ‘searching-for-focus’ thing that doesn’t work well because I’m interested in EVERYTHING. I want to find a niche that I can fill; unfortunately the niches that are out there don’t quite mesh with my current education or experience.

I did notice quite a few references in the book to amateurs – people who were in other fields and did science almost as a dedicated hobby, and ended up making amazing discoveries. I don’t know how feasible that would be today. Most of the things that I am interested in (genetics, for example, or astronomy) require equipment that I don’t have access to at this point, and I don’t know how I would be able to get access to it. Maybe I’ll become a mathematical ‘celebrated amateur’ instead. Or a (semi-trained) linguist. (Or maybe I’ll just stick to being a voracious reader of everything that I can get my hands on.)

Overall I liked the book, obviously. Also, I figured out how to read footnotes on the ereader, which is a plus. Science is fascinating, and Bryson makes the history of science accessible. I probably won’t remember some of the names and facts in a week or so – it’s not a textbook, and I wasn’t taking notes or anything – but the love of it definitely will stay with me.

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