The Metaphysics Of A Coffee Cup

A Conversation With NYU Philosopher Tim Maudlin

A few years ago, at a conference in Copenhagen, there was a gathering of some world class cosmologists, physicists and philosophers. Their mission was to untangle some longstanding conundrums of time — conundrums that only seemed to bother philosophers. In attendance were Sean Carroll, (who gave an opening lecture), Julian Barbour, (theoretical physics’ splendid lone Wolf), Tim Maudlin (often cited as one of the few philosophers of science that serious physicists were at least willing to take seriously) and David Albert, (a brilliant philosopher inadvertently enmeshed in a dustup with a celebrated but famously combative astrophysicist).

In spite of which the surprise hit of the show, was a self styled “mock debate” between Julian Barbour and Tim Maudlin. “Mock” because there was no pretense the “debate” would be in the least substantive — in spite of the fact — that the two participants were well matched, well versed and battle tested combatants. Julian Barbour, the iconoclastic British, physicist who has sequestered himself for forty years to work on foundational issues was perhaps the leading contemporary proponent of the view that time was an illusion. While Tim Maudlin, in a one hundred and eighty degree standoff, was equally committed to the indisputable existence and necessity of time.

This the reader may surmise, was an offering of comedy not cosmology. The rules of the mock debate were this: each of the participants were to role play at being the other — meaning each was to do their best to embrace a position to which they were passionately opposed while simultaneously demolishing a position upon which they had bankrolled a not inconsequential part of their career. From such a tangled web, high comedy was meant to ensue. (An advisory warning to the reader who intends to screen the video: do not expect much. Cosmology is a young science and the sparks of humor it has occasionally given rise to have yet to find its Woody Allen. With that disclaimer I can say that from what I saw — the audience was genuinely appreciative. They especially enjoyed the way Tim Maudlin (who was first up) threw himself into his role. Unembarrassed to play the bombastic clown, he mugged, mimed, gesticulated farcically as he thundered denunciations at the man he used to be. Look carefully and you will see David Albert, muffling his gaffaws with his palm. While Julian Barbour, (who was next up) — becoming progressively befuddled over his new comic identity and having to consult some crumbled notes fished out of his pants pocket — could do little more than give it the old college try. None of the jokes, if they were jokes worked, but he didn’t give up, and when he was through there was a smattering of subdued applause and a shared sense of relief that, well, at least a public disaster had been averted.

As for my part, I thoroughly enjoyed it. After years of reading countless cosmology books, aimed for the judicious general reader, I was more than ready for some creative silliness. I could empathize with the typically, British befuddlement of Julian Barbour and the bravery of Tim Maudlin who I was certain had never taken a lesson in standup comedy.

There were, of course, other reasons, deeper reasons, why I had decided to add Tim Maudlin to my growing list of scientific luminaries. I had been surprised how accessible, how generous with their time, how eager to share their vast store of knowledge, how curious they were of other minds, other disciplines.

Apex minds, world class scholars who sat uneasily on the top of an unacknowledged but undeniable pecking order, they were driven — whether they wanted to or not — to be vigilantly territorial when it came to their chosen or allotted intellectual turf.

The pedestal they stood upon seemed to isolate them I realized as much as it elevated them. The halls of academia I realized could be airless as well as aspirational.

As for Tim Maudlin, I especially admired his dogged commitment to the conceptual foundations of theoretical physics, the no nonsense clarity of his writing, and perhaps, above all, his belief in the philosophy of naturalism (that the physical universe and its laws as we know them exist in some sense independently of our minds). He struck me as having the kind of intellectual integrity — famously personified by Roger Penrose — which has all but vanished in our era of big money, by fund raising, big science. Last but not least was his wonderful commemorative essay “What Bell Did” — on the fiftieth anniversary of John Bell’s epoch — making paper.

For the past 25 years, Bell had been a personal hero of mine since I had read Nick Herbert’s offbeat book, Quantum Reality. That was followed by Jeremy Bernstein’s long marvelous essay on Bell in Quantum Profiles. Which in turn led me to my primary source, John Bell’s magnum opus: Speakable and Unspeakable In Quantum Mechanics.

I could only agree with Tim Maudlin’s unambiguous assessment: John Bell was the greatest philosopher of science in the second half of the twentieth century, (as Einstein had been in the first half) and his signal achievement was not contrary to widespread opinion — the establishment of quantum uncertainty or indeterminism. It was the proof or what would lead to the proof of non locality and this in turn led to what would become the rage in the early twenty first century with the prospect of quantum entanglement, with the promise of quantum computing. Much as I would marvel at Bell’s prescience, I could not agree with Maudlin’s ringing endorsement that the establishment of quantum non-locality was the “most astonishing discovery in the history of physics.”

To my (admittedly biased) mind and especially in light of the recent (2/11/16) detection of Einstein’s prediction one hundred years ago of gravity waves — that honor goes to Einstein’s discovery of curved space time and general relativity.

It didn’t hurt that the building in which he lived with his wife, Vishyna, was owned by my alma mater, NYU, that for many years the office of my personal physician had been just around the corner, that I had co majored in philosophy as an undergraduate at a time when existentialism was being introduced into our country and last but not least when I finally floated the idea of an exploratory interview in an email he had responded in record time (matter of hours): not only would he meet me but I could come to his apartment where we could “relax and be comfortable.”

This being the first time I had been invited to a professor’s apartment it was an offer I could not refuse. Would I be meeting the professor alone? The professor and his wife? The professor’s assistant?

The woman opening the door was warm, welcoming and charming in a reassuring way.

“You’re Vishyna? (a nod)…I’m Jerry Alper….”

Seemingly happy I had come I was ushered into the foyer. Suddenly a man, who had been apparently standing directly behind her stepped into view. It was the professor. Of medium height he had sharp, precise features, a keen searching look and a very deliberate manner. Hoping to defuse any gratituous gravitas, I quickly shook his hand, nervously thanked him for seeing me and paused for a reply, I quickly realized was not about to come. Instead, he seemed, oddly absorbed by my presence as though it presented a genuine puzzle sufficient unto itself. I became aware of a mounting pressure to explain or define my presence, a pressure I did not wish to succumb to. I rationalized I had been more than forthcoming in a series of preliminary email exchanges. I continued to be silently scrutinized, intellectually vetted in a way that would have been appropriate if I were Plato.

But the painful moment was thankfully short lived and Tim, ever the gracious impeccably mannered academic, guided me to the living room and pointed me towards a comfortable couch. Seating himself in a plain straight back chair about six feet away, a wooden coffee table separating us, he once again briefly studied me but in a more friendly benign way.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“To drink?”

“Yes. Coffee, tea…”

Wine would have been my choice but I said, “coffee.”

“Expresso or Cappuccino?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had expresso and except for the fact I obviously liked the whipped cream. I had only the vaguest sense of what cappuccino coffee tasted like, but I felt pressure to make an authoritative decision.

“Cappuccino.”

“Are you going to have some, too?”

Considering my question for just a moment without responding, he got up from his chair and headed for the kitchen. I saw for the first time that he was wearing house slippers. Alone, I was now free to examine the décor. My observational powers as such do not extend much past thoughts, words, feelings, behavior (to the surrounding world ) but even I could see that the room was quite beautiful, spotlessly clean, sparely decorated in a sophisticated contemporary way with a wonderfully light, airy feel to it. The trademark shelves of books which I was certain had to exist was nowhere in view. Which didn’t stop the room from exuding a calming temple like aura.

But here once again, was Vishnya, delivering a cup of delicious looking cappuccino which she carefully placed on the coffee table. Her manifest unselfconscious charm was reassuring.

“I read in a preface to one of Tim’s books a reference to his small daughter, Clio, does she live here?”

“Oh no, (laughing), they’re grown up now.”

“I guess I didn’t look at the date of the preface….Uh, there is a brother too?”

“Maxwell!”

“Do they share their father’s interest in science?”

“No.”

I managed a rueful smile. “Are you from a similar field as your husband?”

“I’m a philosopher.”

“Oh, do you teach at N.Y.U.?”

A pause, “Sometimes.”

Philosophers I was realizing are conversational minimalists. They do not sweat the small talk, knowing at any moment they may be called upon to do some really heavy intellectual lifting. My instincts were of course, the opposite, the more nervous I was the more I talked — but I resolved to try to be more of a conversationalist minimalist.

Sensing this, perhaps Vishnya, excused herself and once again — to my considerable surprise — I realized that standing directly behind her, completely cut off from my line of vision was Tim Maudlin, coffee cup and saucer in one hand, perfectly motionless, almost frozen in posture, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He was honoring Vishnya’s conversation with me, her right to be interviewed just as much as he did. Except I had not come to interview her and couldn’t possibly do so without considerable preparation. How long, I wondered would he have stood there, invisible so far as I was concerned, before reintroducing himself to the conversation?

We’ll never know. It was time to begin the interview.

I usually start off with my softest softball question.

“I saw the video of the debate between you and Julian Barbour about time…”

“That was a mock debate.”

“I know. Well…”

I decided to go to plan B and add some heft to the question. No more Mr. nice guy.

“I have a question that’s personal…maybe you can help me. I am tempted to buy Julian Barbour’s famous book, The End of Time, which is incredibly cheap at Strand’s bookstore. He thinks time doesn’t exist and there is no chance that he’s going to convince me of that.”

For the first time, he seemed genuinely pleased at something I had said.

“But some people, such as Lee Smolin seem to think of it as a profound book, and I know that Roger Penrose, who is my favorite cosmologist once said of Julian Barbour, “He knows more quantum mechanics than anyone.”

“He said what? He couldn’t have said that…not about quantum mechanics!”

It was a perfect example of how seriously Tim Maudlin took foundational issues in physics, how much words and what they were supposed to stand for mattered to him.

But I saw his point: maybe Penrose didn’t say quantum mechanics. I know that Julian Barbour is a general relativist somewhat in the mold of Roger Penrose and that when Lee Smolin had brought up the subject of time, Penrose had said, “Julian Barbour is the one to see about time.”

Tim Maudlin, I could see, was beginning to consider what I was saying.

“I just don’t want to waste my time investing in the book if it’s going to be too technical or too mathematical. My question is what do you suggest? Should I try instead his first book which was about Machian relativism?”

Now fully engaged, Tim Maudlin leaned forward.

“No, No. That’s a much more technical, more mathematical book. The End Of time, is clearly more philosophically sophisticated, you might like it, it’s just that the central idea that all of our accumulated experience of the forward motion of time is an illusion…is, well…”

“Off the rails, you mean?” I offered.

“Yes, it is peculiar.”

“The way he says that we think of time is just — all of it — a series of snapshots. A series of “nows”.

“But how different is that from Einstein’s and Sean Carroll’s concept of the block universe….Where everything that is going to happen has already happened?”

“Oh no! There’s a big difference. In the block universe yes everything that’s happened that’s going to happen is there…but they’re all connected. With Barbour there’s no connection between his “nows”… They’re “random.”

While mulling this over, I noticed again for the first time, a shape in the corner of the couch to my far left. It had been so still, so unobtrusive, its head almost buried in the couch — yet how could I have missed it? With its exquisitely groomed, pale silver-grey coat, its air of almost show-dog beauty, it was one of the most splendid pets I had ever seen.

“That’s a well disciplined dog.”

“He likes people.”

Although he paid no attention to me, he seemed strangely curious about the notebook, containing my many questions for the professor lying by my side. Somehow, he had slid his right paw, as light as a feather to the center of the notebook cover, (fifteen minutes later when his paw, not having yielded an inch of territory, and feeling it was time I asserted my priority, I had tugged as gently as I could at the still captured notebook. I was further amazed by the seemingly total absence of felt resistance and almost instantaneous surrender of the notebook. It didn’t seem possible that this dog (whose name I had not even known) had been bred for wisdom and yet in some magical way it seemed as attuned to its master’s whim and as suitable to be its companion for life as a guide dog.

Reassured by the positive turn in our conversation, I ventured to return to my hero.

“Have you read Penrose’s new book?”

“Um…Faith….Fashion…?”

“Fashion, Faith and Fantasy in the New Physics of the Universe.”

“Yes,…I haven’t finished it, but I see Mr Penrose perhaps is going to teach me some interesting new mathematics in quantum mechanics.”

Here was another example of what sets apart someone who is a distinguished philosopher of science from the rest of us: 99.99 pct of people would be turned off and driven away by Roger Penrose’s unbridled love for the highest reaches of abstract mathematics but Tim Maudlin is irresistibly drawn to it. So, I could not resist asking,

“To what extent do you consider yourself a mathematician?”

He seemed both pleased and embarrassed by the question.

“Ah well…That’s something I wish I could say…”

“Well, I see that your most recent book, part one of an ambitious two part project, is about the foundation of space-time theory and, ultimately, general relativity.”

“Yes….So?”

“Well, doesn’t that involve new mathematics?”

“No. There’s no new math…no new physics involved…”

“But aren’t you taking on a big risk on such an ambitious project?”

“No what could go wrong? The math is correct, already established. The physics is not new.”

“But I read your preface to the first book. You yourself say this is the most exciting, the most audacious, intellectual venture of your entire life. If there’s no risk at all, as you say, then what makes it so audacious?”

Immediately seeing my point, momentarily looking away, he replied in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice.

“Well, I could be ignored.”

“Your first book of the project has been out for while. What kind of reaction have you received so for in the mathematical community?”

He looked up hopefully. “It depends. I’m going to give a talk at a mathematical institute. We’ll see how it goes..”

“Does this proposed geometric reformulation of the foundation of quantum mechanics represent the greatest accomplishment if it succeeds of your professional life?

“It’s the most original thing I’ve ever done. You know it’s not just examining what somebody else said.”

As a psychologist I found his last simple off the cuff remark, one of the most interesting he made in what would prove to be a long conversation. Why? Because it revealed in an admirably forthright way, an occupational insecurity underlying the overachieving, highly successful academic that by clinging so hard to factual, logical certainties, by endlessly clarifying, narrowing, and definitionally tightening the boundaries of knowledge they can begin to lose touch with their own core creativity.

It was all to his credit therefore that in his late fifties, a renowned philosopher of the foundation of science, he was willing to invest in an “audacious new project”. When I asked when he first got the basic idea to do this, after thinking for a few moments he replied, “about ten years ago.” But he wanted me to know ( and on several different occasions) that “no one, no one that I know of, ever came up with something like this.”

He had a right to be proud. By now the time had gone well past the hour mark, a fact, not unnoticed by the dog. Content so far to lie perfectly still, listening, or day dreaming, observing or participating in some uncanny way, but not sleeping, he suddenly — as though he reached his limit of philosophical eavesdropping — jumped off the couch and noiselessly left the room.

Like every first class thinker I had met, he had his share of eccentric, irreverent, iconoclastic, (take your pick) opinions. He didn’t like Wittgenstein who of course was hugely influential but could also be “oracular” (rather than profound) and grossly “incomplete”. Nor did he like Dostoyevsky (one of my all time favorites) whom he found “somewhat flat and without nuance.” He acknowledged the enduring greatness of Aristotle and Plato, could only shake his head at the ongoing canonization of Kant and saved his darkest mutterings for the undeniable but laughably immortal Critique Of Pure Reason…“what a disaster!”

Happy to say we could both joke about the mind boggling compendiousness of Roger Penrose’s The Road To Reality and John Archibald Wheeler’s Gravitation while agreeing that both books were “great”.

Looking back on a conversation that would last well over two hours I could see I made one clear misstep. Mistakenly assuming he could not be a metaphysician. I proclaimed thus: metaphysics has been painted into a corner by neuroscience and cosmology. The tools it once had or thought it had it no longer has. Plus, metaphysicians like Derek Parfit make the mistake of believing they can step outside of the world of which they are a part thereby gaining an objectivity no one else has.”

“Well I’m a metaphysician!”

He went on to explain (as I tried to recover my balance).

“Look. There’s no new physics, no new law, all I mean by metaphysics is that I am trying to look at, to think, seriously about the foundation of physics. That is all it is but almost no one does that.”

If that was my misstep, here was the high point. I had asked Tim Maudlin to explain how it could be that a clock that was placed on a mantle, if measured exactly by atomic clock standards could be proven to run more slowly, howsoever infinitesimally than a clock standing on a floor.

And almost immediately he replied. “Remember that space time is curved which means that the world line — the distance it has to travel — is therefore somewhat longer. Now think of an odometer which measures distance…”

“You mean then that time runs more slowly? Not because it is being squeezed — but because it has longer to go to get to where it’s going?

“Yes.”

“Well take that coffee cup.” Pointing to the cup. “You’re saying that in addition to a physic’s there’s a metaphysics for that and every other object in the world?”

“Yes.”

Tim Maudlin has devoted his professional life to the philosophy of the foundation of physics. There may be less than one in a million people similarly engaged in this age of — not Big Ideas — but big data. And that’s hardly enough.

Gerald Alper

Author God and Therapy

What we Believe when No one is watching.

(The above article is a condensed lightly edited version of a long conversation the author had with the subject in his apartment.)