Topic

Antidisciplinary

Literature and Medicine

Poetry, Aristotle wrote, is capable of expressing the universal, while history excels at recording the particular.

There's a reason why many undergraduate programs have a set of core requirements that extend far beyond the narrower disciplines that students have chosen. MIT, for example, requires students to take almost 25% of their classes in subjects like philosophy and music.

Paul Kalanithi, the neurosurgeon who wrote the bestselling memoir When Breath Becomes Air, found himself torn between his interests in literature and medicine. He reports that the two disciplines can go hand in hand:

One recent [MIT] graduate who went on to medical school wrote about how her practice as a physician requires not only medical knowledge, but also the ability to interpret her patients’ accounts and stories — a skill she gained reading literature, studying the various forms of narrative, the many ways humans share vital information. “MIT biology prepared me for medicine,” she says. “Literature prepared me to be a doctor.”

A historian, doctor, or any other type of technical specialist needs to be precise in their craft. But poetry and the rest of the humanities show us how our work fits into a broader context.

They remind us that information is not the same as wisdom, that logic does not represent understanding, and that the great truths in life lie somewhere in between the universal and the particular.

Cosmic Songs

In 2016, NASA and Apple Music co-produced a video on Juno’s mission to Jupiter. It examines how both scientists and musicians are, at their core, explorers. No matter our discipline, we're all striking out to uncover truth.

Music is ultimately just waves. Paul Halpern, writing for PBS, explains how this makes it a kind of universal language: "Just as mathematical patterns underlie the musical scales and intervals most pleasing to the ear, they also describe the probability waves at the heart of quantum theory."

As the video above points out, Juno's communications back to Earth are also comprised of waves, which means the spacecraft is essentially singing back to us. Its cosmic song tells us how it's doing and where it's going.

As we move through space and time, we leave a wake of waves behind us too.

Life isn't a ladder to climb or something to achieve. It's a song we're meant to play along the way. We find others to harmonize with throughout our journey, and after we die, our presence continues to reverberate.

In season 1, episode 10 of The Bicameral Mind, Robert Ford says, “An old friend once told me something that gave me great comfort. Something he had read. He said that Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin never died. They simply became music.”

Even if you're not a composer, your life echoes through the universe.

Let's turn up the volume together.

Paint Tubes: A Technological Innovation

Until the mid-19th century, the best containers artists had for holding paint were pigs' bladders.

But bladders aren't great at this. They have a tendency to unexpectedly burst, and once they're open, their contents dry out pretty quickly. This makes painting outside of your studio difficult.

Enter John G. Rand, an American artist who invented the tin paint tube. That simple technological innovation helped pave the way for Impressionism, because it allowed painters to complete their work from virtually anywhere and even enabled new paint colors.

Artists soon took advantage of this, capturing the world like never before. Claude Monet apparently got so close to the subject of his 1885 work Waves at the Manneporte, you can find sand embedded in it:

Waves at the Manneporte by Claude Monet (1885)

Inventor Danny Hillis famously remarked that "technology is everything that doesn’t work yet." We don't tend to think of a paint tube as technology, because we eventually take innovations like it for granted. (See also: the wheel.)

Technological innovation removes barries to human expression, enabling new styles and even entire disciplines. Sometimes, all it takes is a paint tube.

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