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Hippocrates on Education

April 19, 2019

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

After reading bits and pieces of Hippocrates’s writings, I am impressed by the amount of attention he pays to education. Though often called the “Father of Medicine,” Hippocrates also devoted a lot of time to understanding how people gain knowledge. In “The Book of Prognostics,” Hippocrates focuses on forming a patient prognosis, rather than a diagnosis or treatment of symptoms. Many diagnoses of his day included the idea that gods were involved in health. Instead, he sought to remove superstition from the field of medicine and turn it into a legitimate profession. In doing so, he not only revolutionized medicine, but the idea of how humans can learn from their environment. In other words, he revolutionized education itself.

In the “Book of Prognostics,” Hippocrates lists a number of maladies by symptom. Without naming any specific diseases, he dispels two important myths. First, he denies that any disease is sent by supernatural forces. Rather, he explains that diseases exist naturally and the physical human body participates in nature. This is part of his reason for avoiding common disease names, which often referenced deities or the supernatural. Second, he bases part of his evidence on other regions of the world. He writes, “One should likewise be well acquainted with the particular signs and the other symptoms, and not be ignorant how that, in every year, and at every season, bad symptoms prognosticate ill, and favorable symptoms good, since the aforesaid symptoms appear to have held true in Libya, in Delos, and in Scythia, from which it may be known that, in the same regions, there is no difficulty in attaining a knowledge of many more things than these; if having learned them, one knows also how to judge and reason correctly of them” (53). The corresponding footnote explains, “According to Galen, Hippocrates means here that good and bad symptoms tell the same in all places, in the hot regions of Libya, and the cold of Scythia, and the temperate of Delos” (53). He begins to widen the data set by including a more global view, which also gives him more information when offering a prognosis.

In “The Law,” Hippocrates expresses his disgust with the current state of medicine. While he claims that medicine is the most noble art, he laments the fact that it trails all of the other arts because it lacks accountability. Since no one had official training, anyone could call themselves a doctor and prescribe whatever they desired. He claims that “Such persons are like the figures which are introduced in tragedies, for as they have the shape, and dress, and personal appearance of an actor, but are not actors, so also physicians are many in title but very few in reality” (303). Hippocrates demands more accountability in his profession. He asks that more people treat it with academic rigor rather than mystical charms, powders, and gimmicks. He says that, much like medicine, instruction is also an art form. Hippocrates, as both student and teacher, then labels some advantages necessary for medical students. He writes that the student needs “a natural disposition; instruction; a favorable position for the study; early tuition; love of labor; leisure” (303). From these advantages, the student may develop the necessary skills of their chosen art. Furthermore, he believes that without leisure, or time spent in contemplation, the medical doctor cannot begin to piece together the the intricacies of the human body. Hippocrates demonstrates the fruit of contemplation and leisure throughout his books on medicine.

These lines sketch not only the study of medicine, but of the most fruitful education system as well. Any discipline requires love of labor, access to instruction, as well as contemplation. In “The Law,” Hippocrates continues, “First of all, a natural talent is required; for, when Nature opposes, everything else is in vain; but when Nature leads the way to what is most excellent, instruction in the art takes place, which the student must try to appropriate to himself by reflection, becoming an early pupil in a place well adapted for instruction. He must also bring to the task a love of labor and perseverance, so that the instruction taking root may bring forth proper and abundant fruits” (303). Hippocrates reminds us that any path towards excellence requires study and perseverance.

Hippocrates. Great Books of the Western World, Volume 9. Ed. Mortimer Adler. Trans. Francis Adams. Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica. 1990.

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Female Cartographers

March 15, 2019

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

Last week’s blog took a look at Artemisia, an ancient female mariner. Despite the lack of discussion in print, women have spent time at sea, either in disguise or as themselves. Artemisia is only one historical example of a strong female capable of captaining her own ships. Unfortunately, many of the stories have been lost or buried in unread journal entries. As an example, a timeline of women at sea presented by the Mariners Museum begins in 1493 and notes how much more research is warranted in this area.

Mapmaking is another industry in which women have been all but elided. Ironically, according to Peter Barber, editor of The Map Book, “In the eighteenth century there were a surprisingly high number of female mapmakers” (212). In truth, it is difficult to find any map of history penned by a woman without digging deep. In much the same way that jobs of clerks and scribes were often denied to women, so too was cartography. Yet, there are pockets of history in which women combined skills of art and science in the form of maps. Barber continues, “In keeping with the eighteenth-century France’s enlightened attitude towards the position of women, this map predicting the eclipse of 1764 was produced by three women: Madame le Pauté Dagelet, Madame Lattré and Elisabeth Claire Tardieu” (220). This map emerged during the boom of the Enlightenment and clearly demonstrates a juncture between science and art. Barber continues, “The map has a more scientific appearance than earlier maps but the title cartouches are very decorative and impart a good balance of the artistic and scientific” (220). The map’s right-hand side incorporates background information regarding the eclipse. Embellishments draw attention to the subject (solar eclipse) and to Madame le Pauté Dagelet as author of the information. Barker also notes, however, that not much is known about her other than she was “an astronomer and member of the Académie Royale des Sciences (Béziers)” (220). Madame Lattré, the engraver, however, was part of a “well-established dynasty of map makers,” (220). No mention is made of how many maps Madame Lattré might have made, or if she officially contributed to the illustrious career of her husband’s map-making business.

Despite their involvement, little was known about the impact that women have had on cartography until recently. With the advance of technology, information can be parsed more quickly which greatly assists our ability to research topics previously thought obscure, such as female cartography. As an example, a current article from CityLab chronicles librarian Alice Hudson’s research in which she restricts herself to the last 300 years in North America alone because she had found thousands of maps by women. In the article, Hudson explains how tricky it is to discover the true identity of the mapmaker. For example, women often used initials rather than full names to hide their identity. As a further complication, indexes only mention male-owned businesses, and rarely the cartographers themselves.

During World War II, while men were sent off to war, women began to fill the gaps in some geography and engineering courses. In the first year alone, Chicago’s Geography Department witnessed more than two hundred women complete the course. After the war, many women went back to their domestic lives, but Marie Tharp continued on with graduate school in order to earn a PhD. She then became a research assistant at Columbia University working alongside Bruce Heezen. In her research, she discovered a large rift along the Atlantic, now known as the Mid-Atlantic Rift. After a year, she succeeded in convincing him about the existence of plate tectonics, however, she still needed his approval and name in order to distribute the information since it was Heezen’s name that legitimized the research.

Today, their map is considered to be one of the most influential maps of the 20th century. Though much of Tharp’s career was marked by limitations, she persevered. Though unable to be on job sites and out in the field, she learned how to parse data efficiently and intelligently. She also found a male colleague willing to listen to her ideas. She partnered with Bruce Heezen for almost thirty years, in part because he saw the brilliance of her work. According to Encyclopedia.com, Tharp was finally able to go to sea in 1965, not through her own institution (which still prohibited women from working at sea), but through a program offered by Duke University. Encyclopedia.com continues, “Largely invisible as a researcher early in her career, Tharp gained recognition for her geographic insights and cartographic skills later in life. She received awards from the Geography and Map Division of the Library of Congress and Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, as well as the first annual Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory Heritage Award in 2001. Four years later, Lamont created the Marie Tharp Visiting Fellowship program to aid promising women researchers.”

Along with female mariners, the field of cartography offers rich potential to those willing to do a little digging.

To view an image of the Heezen-Tharp map, click here.

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Math According to Archimedes and Hardy

February 1, 2019

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

I have a number of questions still rumbling around after Harrison Middleton University’s January Quarterly Discussion. We read Archimedes’ Sand Reckoner and G. H. Hardy’s Mathematician’s Apology. I put these two pieces together because I am interested in mathematical discourse separated by thousands of years. More than time, however, they also came from different parts of the world, encountered very different technological advances, and lived immensely different lifestyles. Archimedes of Syracuse was a Greek mathematician and inventor who lived around 287-212 BC. Hardy, on the other hand, was born in 1877 in England and showed an early aptitude for numbers. He continued with math through college when he became largely interested in “pure mathematics” which, he claimed, is more noble than practical math. So, my first question is whether or not Archimedes’ Sand Reckoner corresponds to pure math, or practical math?

In The Sand Reckoner (which I have written about before), Archimedes sets out to demonstrate that math has strategies to break down something as large and abstract as the measure of the universe, or the grains of sand on earth. His proof begins with rather large assumptions, such as “I suppose the diameter of the sun to be about 30 times that of the moon and not greater.” Initially, I did not understand why Archimedes would base a proof upon such unknowns. However, I have always thought that the exercise was more to inspire imagination than prove an actuality. And now, based upon conversation during the Quarterly Discussion, I see that Archimedes wanted not just to inspire imagination, but to demonstrate the potential of math. He was explaining that math functions on strategies which engenders new information. This would be important, of course, living in a time when math was largely unknown and therefore, seen as untrustworthy. So, to me, The Sand Reckoner is not a proof of any one thing, but a proof of math itself. He asks his king, other educators, and perhaps his community to believe in the potential of math and to contemplate questions of great size.

Jumping forward to Hardy’s piece, then, he draws a very decisive line between practical mathematicians and pure mathematicians. Practical math builds things like bridges and steam engines. Pure math contemplates greatness. For some reason, Hardy’s differentiation always brings me back to Archimedes, who built levers and invented all sorts of practical things, but yet also contemplated the universe. Does the mathematician who builds the bridge not also dwell upon other possibilities? Surely not all of them do, but I find Hardy’s approach very severe and limiting. I am not sure if his words are meant to inspire others to attempt a career in math, or to explain to the masses how little they actually know. Either way, I feel that the work fails when placed next to something like Archimedes’ proof which shows math’s potential rather than belabors the value of ambitious men. Perhaps, though, my perspective is naive, since I do not grasp much of the math that would place me in this elite group.

Clearly Hardy values creative thought over any other pursuit. I can identify with this, but I wonder if his criticisms speak to moral dilemmas of his day. Hardy wrote A Mathematician’s Apology in 1940. I have to think that war-time inventions must have been on his mind when he differentiated between practical and pure mathematics. And yet again, I return to thinking about Archimedes who built many machines of war such as the Archimedes Claw and catapults. Does this remove him from the rank of pure mathematician (if he was ever considered such)? In theory, I believe that I understand Hardy’s point. In fact, I relish the idea that a life of creative thought or philosophical discourse is as worthy as shipbuilding. This would justify my own life as well. However, it seems rarer that society allows such thinking to exist. Rather, society is structured in a way in which we must all pay for food and shelter, and creative thought does not pay. I think that perhaps Hardy might have been trying to tell us, the public, that we should value creativity more than we currently do.

Additionally, his message does not address morality at all, which the group found interesting. I wonder how Hardy would tie ambition to morality. He glories in the uselessness of math because it cannot be tied to evil. He writes,

“If the theory of numbers could be employed for any practical and obviously honourable purpose, if it could be turned directly to the furtherance of human happiness or the relief of human suffering, as physiology and even chemistry can, then surely neither [Carl Friedrich] Gauss nor any other mathematician would have been so foolish as to decry or regret such applications. But science works for evil as well as for good (and particularly, of course, in times of war); and both Gauss and lesser mathematicians may be justified in rejoicing that there is one science, at any rate, and that their own, whose very remoteness from ordinary human activities should keep it gentle and clean.”

According to Hardy, pure math never filters into practical applications. I find this reasoning illogical, though since again, levers as created by Archimedes were once thought impossible and are now the foundation of much greater machines. In my mind, the lever was purely theoretical at one point and is now elementary science. Also, once public, how can anyone protect the ways in which their work will be used (or not used)? How can Hardy surmise that the pure math of today will not be the applied math of tomorrow? And does its application make it any less pure?

As always, I am indebted to a wonderful group who wanders through these questions with me. The next Quarterly Discussion will be held in April 2019. For more information email asimon@hmu.edu. I look forward to hearing from you!

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How Scientific Language Is Created

December 21, 2018

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

Last week, I posted a blog about Bohr’s use of language. Specifically, I wanted to investigate how the field of science will find ways to accurately describe indescribable events. I discussed the way that modal verbs (helping verbs which express doubt or uncertainty like “might” or “could”) can negatively affect the reception of a scientific article. I think Bohr embraced this idea of uncertainty. In fact, he claims that areas of uncertainty become the best areas for advancement because they point out specific questions. Rather than formulating science as if it were static he asked that we (both the scientist and the reader) investigate our use of language, our preconceived notions, and our unknowns. Bohr accepts, in fact, desires to imbue scientific language with doubt. I think he goes to great lengths when discussing language in order to enlighten future generations of scientists and readers as to the complexities involved in atomic sciences. That science can be grounded upon facts but still involve many, many questions is part of the reality of science. Therefore, language must reflect this reality. Really, we do not have all the answers and should not proceed as if we do. The problem is, however, that journal articles which include doubtful language are often regarded as less rigorous, less accurate, and less scientific. Bohr, however, would applaud these articles as attempts to base the unknowns upon the knowns. Moving forward, moving into an era of atomic theory, then, will demand a higher sense of intelligence from both readers and scientists.

In today’s blog, I want to better understand two parts of the question of scientific language. First, I am interested in the perception and reception of modal verbs in languages other than English. If modal verbs in English are perceived as unscientific, are they also perceived this way in other languages? Much of science is presented in English. In limiting our scientific language to a handful of languages, do we limit our ability to describe the indescribable? Scientists often think outside the box in order to find terms that reflect what they find. For example, names of celestial bodies refer to mythological beings. Latin terms classify plants. Clouds, too, were named in Latin according to observable features. What then, do we use to describe atomic energy: metaphor, mythology, ancient languages, compounds? If scientific articles are published in only a handful of languages, does this exclude some metaphoric understanding or phrasing from an outside culture? Does the way that we currently publish scientific findings prohibit (or at least discourage) any culture from entering the dialogue? Also, how do we adequately translate any scientific finding into another language? It is common in the scientific realm to stick to the original language when using a specific term. So, the Latin name “cirrus” is often used in the translation, rather than a word from the target language. However, using a term for an identifiable object, such as a cloud (or plant), is very common and accessible which is not true of atomic theories. In other words, it is incredibly difficult to adequately express the experience of atomic behavior in any accurate, identifiable, universal language. I just wonder if this dependence upon one particular language limits us in some unforeseeable way.

My second question today deals with Bohr’s insistence that we continue to use classical terminology even for unobservable data. I understand the importance of adherence to non-abstract language as a way to describe abstract ideas. However, language is never static, which may present problems for the idea of classical terminology. For example, atomic theory is so named only because at one time we assumed that atoms were the smallest pieces of material in existence. We now know that this is not true, so we have adjusted the definition of atomic as well as the public perception of the science. Furthermore, from Bohr’s Atomic Theory I chose to look up the term “ion” and am still uncertain about the definition’s accuracy. According to Merriam-Webster, “ion” is defined as either “1: an atom or group of atoms that carries a positive or negative electric charge as a result of having lost or gained one or more electrons; or 2: a charged subatomic particle (such as a free electron).” The terms “lost” and “gained” included in this definition make it sound as if an atom has a natural state, and that the ion is not the natural state. I struggle with this because having an electric charge may be considered just as natural as any other state. It may be important to note that the ion is less stable than another state, but that is not what the definition explicitly says. So, even if we stick with classical terminology, definitions will change over time. In fact, just in scanning the Wikipedia page for “ion,” our understanding has rapidly progressed in just under one hundred years. Furthermore, scientists such as Faraday (who first discovered ions) may have used the term differently than contemporary scientists. This is, of course, something that Bohr was intensely aware of, but perhaps the layperson will not understand the subtleties of these changes. I do understand his explanations regarding classical terminology, yet still, I am left wondering how one might be conversant in the language of science without knowing the history of an innumerable amount terms.

Clearly I am not a scientist, and I do not have the necessary skills to examine a lot of the terminology in Bohr’s Atomic Theory. However, I do spend a lot of time thinking about the effect of language on communication, society, and human life in general. I feel that it is of great importance (and benefit) to consider these larger questions as they relate to specific fields. I am grateful to Niels Bohr who used language as carefully and precisely as possible, so that even someone such as myself could attempt to understand the complexities of Atomic Theory.

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