The hazards of the sea are many. Storms and rough seas may capsize your ship. You may run out of food, or fresh water, or your sailors may suffer from malnourishment (scurvy was common on long voyages before the discovery of vitamin C). Your ship could run aground, or hit an unseen rock or reef. A strong wind could blow you into hazards, or worse, a lack of wind could leave you becalmed, unable to move. And if you are spared the hostility of Nature, you may face the hostility of Man: pirates, mutiny, or wartime combatants.
But of all the challenges facing the sailor, the biggest was simply knowing where you are.
Mankind has been traveling the waters for over 10,000 years. Our craft evolved from rafts and dugout canoes to frigates and clippers (before the invention of the steamship and powered travel). But for much of that time, voyages were relatively short, and traveled well-known routes. They often hugged the coast. European and North African traders sailed the Mediterranean, or across the Black Sea; Asian merchants followed the monsoon winds across the Indian Ocean. Almost none dared to deliberately venture out into the vast Atlantic or Pacific.
They may have been stopped by the need for months of provisions, or the discomfort of a long ocean voyage. But the most frightening thing about straying far from land is that it quickly becomes difficult to navigate, or even to fix one’s position.
Today, we take global views like this for granted:
From this lofty vantage point, it’s easy to imagine that getting around the globe is no problem. The reality is quite different. From a height of 100 feet—roughly the “crow’s nest” lookout spot of a large ship—the horizon lies only twelve miles in any direction, even on the clearest day. This means it’s quite easy to completely lose sight of land in the middle of a small sea or even a large lake.
You can’t even know, when you make landfall in an unfamiliar place, if you’re on an island or a continent. (!)
If you want the barest glimmer of what this is like, try this exercise: Zoom in on a map of San Francisco until this is about all you can see:
Now, without zooming out—try to scroll to Hawaii. (Hint: it’s south and west.) Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Not so easy, is it? You’re making a voyage of over 2,300 miles—and if you’re off by more than about ten miles, you’ll miss it completely and end up on the other side of the Pacific. Hope you brought enough provisions, and that your crew doesn’t turn against you.
With no land in sight to the north, south, east or west, and only deep blue water below you, the only place left to look is up. With no landmarks to navigate by, sailors have to use skymarks instead. The Sun, Moon, stars and planets provide a global reference frame to navigate by.
Sailors have used these to figure out direction for thousands of years. The Sun rises in the east and sets in the west; as does the Moon (and stars). At night, Polaris points the way north (hence its other name, the North Star). The compass, probably invented in China before the 11th century, also helps with direction (although it can be thrown off by magnetic metals in the ship itself or in its cargo; it was centuries before we learned to correct for this).
But direction is not enough. You can hit a continent that way (say, sailing from East Africa to India), but all you’ll guarantee is that you’ll make landfall somewhere on the coast. If you want to get to an island, or to a specific port, you need more precise navigation.
You also need to know where you are. The stars can help with this too. One of the simplest ways to begin to figure out your position is to go back to Polaris, which is situated almost directly over the North Pole (within one degree) Therefore, unlike most other stars, it is visible year round from almost anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere, and its position is the same at any time of night, since the pole stays fixed while the Earth rotates. This means that not only can you use it to determine which direction is north, you can also use it to figure out how far north you are.
Here’s how this works: Imagine you were at the North Pole. Polaris, then, would be directly overhead: you’d have to look straight up to see it, right in the middle of the sky. Now imagine instead that you are right on the equator: Polaris will now be on the horizon. If you were to travel from the North Pole to the equator in a single night, then, you would see Polaris descend, as you traveled, until it touched the horizon—and in fact, its angle in the sky would correspond very closely to your latitude. For instance, if Polaris is 37 degrees above the horizon, then you are at 37 degrees north latitude (again, within a degree; to get a more precise measurement, you can adjust for time of day and day of year).
The same trick works for anything else in the sky, if you know its position relative to the Earth at the moment you observe it, and if you make the appropriate adjustments. For example, you can observe the Sun at local noon—that is, at its highest point in the sky on a given day. You then make an adjustment for the day of the year to find your latitude.
How precise do these measurements need to be? One minute of latitude, 1/60 of a degree, is about a mile. If you want to get within sight of a point, say within about ten miles, you need to get within 1/6 of a degree, or less than one part in 2,000.
How do you take these measurements? The crudest instrument is the cross-staff, or closely related, the kamal. The cross-staff is simply two sticks at right angles that can be adjusted. You sight along one to point it at the horizon, then adjust the other, sighting along it to see the star—or the Sun (yes, this means looking directly into the Sun!) The backstaff, as an improvement on the cross-staff, let you sight the Sun using a shadow rather than looking directly into it. The kamal, used in Asia, was similar but with a string and card forming a right angle, rather than two sticks. Other tools included the mariner’s astrolabe, which had a circular dial, like a protractor.
All of these instruments were difficult to get precise measurements with, for a variety of reasons. The biggest problem was that you had to sight two different things at the same time: the horizon, and a heavenly body. So you had to hold the instrument steady while you adjusted it. Now imagine doing this while standing on the deck of a ship, heaving and rocking in the waves.
The solution was to use mirrors to get the two images, the horizon and the target, in view at the same time. An instrument that does this is called a reflecting instrument, and the pinnacle of this design was the sextant (so named because its angle subtends 60 degrees, one sixth of a full circle; because of the reflection of the mirrors, though, a sextant can actually measure twice that amount, or 120 degrees). Depending on the design the of sextant, it may show the horizon on one half and the target on the other, or it may show the two superimposed. It has a dial to make fine adjustments to the angle, and a precision gauge from which you can read off the measurement to one tenth of a degree. And it has tinted lenses to dim the glare of the Sun, when sighting it.
After the invention of the sextant in the 1730s, navigators could determine their latitude with precision. But latitude is, literally, only one dimension of the problem. When it came to longitude, for centuries, sailors didn’t know what time it was.
Longitude, it turns out, is a much harder problem. For a long time, sailors had to estimate their longitude by “dead reckoning”. They would measure their speed periodically by towing a log in the water beind the ship on a rope, and seeing how much of the rope was pulled out of the water (they would measure this by counting knots that were tied in the rope at equal intervals, hence the term “knots” as a measure of nautical speed). Multiplying speed by time gives distance traveled. But speed could not be measured precisely, or continuously, and in any case it can only be measured relative to the water, meaning that a strong current can throw off your measurements significantly. Worse, with dead reckoning, errors accumulate, and there is no way to reset, calibrate, or check the measurements, until you hit a landmark.
Dead reckoning was so inadequate that a common method of navigation was to first go to the desired latitude, which could more easily be measured, and then simply sail east or west until you reach your destination. Obviously, this is not the shortest or fastest route, and depending on the direction you want to head, you may be sailing against the prevailing winds, rather than with them. Also, it assumes that you at least know whether you are east or west of your destination, and when heading for an island, you might not be sure. Finally, while this method can be used to find a certain spot, it is inadequate for avoiding hazard areas, such as shoals or reefs, meaning it is easy to shipwreck yourself, or run aground. A better method is needed.
The problem of the longitude, as it was known, was so important, and so vexing, that it became famous as a Grand Challenge problem in science. Governments periodically offered lavish prizes for its solution, including a reward of £10,000 established by the British Longitude Act of 1714. It was even sung of by poets of the day, such as in these lines from a 1660 poem titled “Ballad of Gresham College”:
The College will the whole world measure;
Which most impossible conclude,
And Navigation make a pleasure
By finding out the Longtitude.
Every Tarpaulin shall then with ease
Sayle any ship to the Antipodes.
The difficulty in finding longitude is that, by definition, the Earth rotates exactly in the same direction that longitude varies. So, at a given latitude, almost anything you observe in the sky—a sunset, for example, or a star overhead—is exactly what you would observe 15 degrees east if it were one hour earlier, or west if it were one hour later. To determine your longitude, then, you have to determine the difference in time between your local position and a known reference point, such as Greenwich, England (which, today, is at the Prime Meridian, with a longitude of zero degrees). For instance, if you note that it is noon local time when it is exactly 4 pm GMT, then you are four hours, or 60 degrees, west of Greenwich. Noon local time is easy to determine: again, just watch the Sun and note its highest point. But how, on the middle of the open ocean, can you know exactly what time it is in Greenwich? And again, remember the precision required here: if you are off by one minute of time, you’ll only be wrong by one quarter of a degree of longitude, but (near the equator) that is about 16 miles, far enough to miss your target completely and become lost at sea.
The earliest methods for determining longitude, like those for determining latitude, were astronomical. I said that almost everything you observe in the sky depends on time and longitude—almost, but not quite. The rising and setting of objects, and therefore their angular height, is useless here, but other events can serve as global, absolute reference points for time.
For example, a lunar eclipse happens simultaneously for all observers on Earth. If you knew the exact time an eclipse was going to happen, and you observed it, you could use that to determine the time GMT. Using a lunar eclipse is impractical, if only because they are rare—that is, an eclipse of Earth’s moon. But a more practical method is to use other moons: specifically the moons of Jupiter. Galileo, who discovered the first four of Jupiter’s moons, also found that their passage into and out of Jupiter’s shadow was frequent enough, and predictable enough, that you could use their eclipses in exactly this way, as a kind of celestial absolute clock. This method was, indeed, used to find latitude on land, and it helped increase the accuracy of maps of the world. But it was impractical on a ship, because of the size of the telescope needed to see Jupiter, and the difficulty of keeping the planet in your sights as the ship heaves and rolls.
A different method was developed in the 1700s, and it uses observations of Earth’s Moon, but not eclipses. Instead, it uses the precise angular distance between the Moon and the Sun or certain known stars. While the angle between the Moon and the horizon depends on longitude and time, the angle between two objects in the sky does not. And the Moon changes its position relative to the Sun and stars fast enough for these angles to tell time. To do this, you need a very good prediction for exactly where the Moon will be, hour by hour, for years in advance (because voyages of exploration could last years before finally returning home). This wasn’t possible until tens of thousands of careful observations were made over a period of decades, and until Newton’s theory of gravity could be applied to understand the complex and subtle variations in the Moon’s orbit (which is affected not only by the Earth but also by the Sun and the tides). This finally happened in the 1700s. The observations were made from an observatory at Greenwich, which is why today this is the location of the Prime Meridian.
The method of lunars, as it was called, worked, but it was not without drawbacks. First, the Moon had to be visible: clouds could obscure it, preventing readings, and for part of the month it’s simply too close to the Sun. Second, the calculations were difficult; the first version of the method required four hours to complete, although later, pre-calculated tables got it down to half an hour. Finally, many adjustments had to be made for a variety of factors that influence the observations, which could introduce error into the calculations.
Fortunately, around the same time that the method of lunars was developed, another method was created from an entirely different direction, one that was much simpler in concept and operation, if not in technology.
After all, if you want to know what time it is, all you really need is a watch.
A very good watch. So good that it goes by a special name: the marine chronometer, a watch that can be taken on an ocean voyage and still keep time accurately. With the aid of a chronometer, any observation of local time can be instantly compared to GMT, and the difference multiplied by 15 degrees per hour, no complex calculations needed.
But the demands for a chronometer are strict. It must withstand the rocking and heaving of a ship on the water, so it cannot use a pendulum mechanism; given that electronics were over a century away, this meant it needed to be based on a spring. It had to keep running consistently while being wound, unlike some spring-based watches that would stop or run backwards when wound. It could not speed up or slow down with changes in temperature, which was a common problem, since the metal parts of a watch contract slightly in cold and expand in heat. And it had to be so precisely tuned that it did not gain or lose more than a few seconds on a long ocean voyage of many months.
These problems were solved by a clockmaker named John Harrison. Harrison was trained as a carpenter, but his passion for precision and accuracy, stoked by the dream of winning the Longitude Prize, drove him to develop a series of models of marine chronometers over the course of a few decades. The initial models were clocks, relatively bulky and heavy, but his efforts culminated in 1759 in what is best described as a large watch about five inches in diameter, known as “H4” (indicating Harrison’s 4th model).
The chronometer had many advantages over the method of lunars: the method was quick to execute, it required no special skill to determine the time, it could be performed at any time of the month and under any weather conditions, and it was relatively precise. However, it too had drawbacks. The chronometer was initially expensive, although the cost was brought down by artisans and engineers who came after Harrison. Unlike the Moon, the devices could break or get out of adjustment; they had to be wound every day without fail; and they relied on continuous proper operation for the entire duration of the voyage: if they got out of sync, they could not reset themselves.
Fortunately, the method of lunars and the chronometer complemented each other nicely, each making up for the other’s shortcomings. So the ultimate solution was to use both: multiple chronometers would be taken aboard a ship (when such could be afforded), but lunars were also taken whenever possible. The chronometers could be consulted whenever the Moon could not be sighted, and the Moon could be used to calibrate the chronometers and reset them if necessary.
With the sextant, the method of lunars, and the marine chronometer, the art of navigation was perfected. It was now possible to arrive at a destination precisely and efficiently. Combined with the discovery of nutritional standards that eliminated scurvy, these innovations made ocean voyages far less dangerous than they had ever been.
Armed with these new tools and techniques, seafaring nations in the 1700s and 1800s sent out explorers to complete the discovery of the world that had begun in the 1400s. These bold adventurers, such as the famous Captain James Cook, mapped coastlines and discovered islands, including Hawaii. They charted natural harbors and found new passages. They braved shoals and reefs, such as the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia, and marked these hazards for future captains to avoid. They mapped the winds of the world, which are not completely random, but show regular patterns by latitude, by ocean, and by time of year. They mapped the Earth’s magnetic field, finding the local deviation between magnetic north and true north.
By the late 1700s, we had a map of the world that is very recognizable today:
In the 1900s, electronic technologies gradually replaced these methods, starting with radio, then radar, and finally satellite GPS. But most navies still teach these methods today, as a practical backup system that doesn’t rely on sensitive electronics and can neither be jammed nor detected by enemies in wartime. And for over 100 years, every captain, crewmember and passenger owed their safe passage to the astronomers, instrument makers, and explorers who created these methods and made that map possible.
The history of steam engines is in part a history of miniaturization. The original Newcomen engine was enormous: it had to be housed in a small building of its own and was most decidedly stationary. Watt’s improved engine, with the higher efficiencies from its separate condenser, could be made smaller, but was still (I think) too large to be used for any sort of practical vehicle. The next step was high-pressure engines, which could be made smaller and more efficient. It is these type of engines, I believe, that drove locomotives and steamboats.
Trains and boats are still relatively large, however. So I had assumed that the reason we waited until the 20th century for a practical automobile was that we needed the internal combustion engine.
It turns out I was wrong. Circa 1900, many people saw the need for a “horseless carriage” and many different models were tried. In addition to internal combustion designs, there were also steam cars, and even electric ones. The steam and ICE models used a variety of fuels, including gasoline, kerosene, alcohol, and mixtures thereof.
Why did the ICE win? This is still unclear to me. Electric cars were not practical as general-purpose machines, because they were low-power and slow to recharge (battery technology was still primitive) and because there was no electrical infrastructure outside cities—the cars could not be recharged out in the country. Fuel oil, however, was more widely available, since it was used for heating, lighting, and stationary motors.
But I’m less sure about steam cars. The book mentions that some early steam car models were extremely complex to operate, but I’m not sure if this was true of all models, and I see no fundamental reason why steam cars couldn’t have been simplified. It also mentions that a steam car could be slow to start, taking ten minutes to build up a full head of steam, which would certainly disadvantage it; but then it says that this was fixed with the introduction of a pilot light—however, that seems like it would waste fuel.
Finally, it mentions that early designs vented steam into the air, which required them to take on water every 20 to 30 miles. This was possible at watering troughs for horses (a great example of new technology bootstrapping on old infrastructure!) until in 1914 “an epidemic of deadly hoof-and-mouth disease among New England farm animals led veterinary officials to shut down the many public watering troughs along eastern roads where steamers had rewatered.” In response, though, at least one major steam car manufacturer developed a recondensing model that kept its water. Perhaps it was just too little too late, and/or unlucky timing at a tipping point in technology and infrastructure: at the time, the number of cars in the US was growing exponentially at about 46%/year (according to data from the US Federal Highway Administration).
But I don’t feel that I have the full story, and I’d like to understand whether the internal combustion automobile was a random path, or whether it was driven by more fundamental considerations. Given that steam engines have disappeared from daily life—remaining in the modern industrial world only as dynamos in large, centralized power plants—I feel there is probably a fundamental reason.
In a previous post, I addressed the question of the relationship between the Scientific and Industrial Revolutions. I looked at how much some of the early inventions of the Industrial Revolution, in particular the steam engine, were influenced by or dependent on scientific understanding.
The steam engine was invented before the science of thermodynamics, and did not depend on it. Thermodynamics is needed to optimize an engine, but not to invent it. To invent it, however, did depend on at least some scientific understanding of atmospheric pressure, which had been demonstrated as early as the 1600s, in particular by Denis Papin.
Further, I noted that
the inventors of the time corresponded with scientists, as a part of the “Republic of Letters.” In particular, Thomas Newcomen, inventor of the first steam engine, corresponded with the great physicist Robert Hooke. They discussed the engine in particular, and Hooke specifically advised Newcomen in 1703 to drive the piston purely by means of vacuum.
First is the influence of Dr. Joseph Black and his theory of latent heat on the inventor James Watt. During his experiments,
Watt measured how much steam it took to heat a volume of cold water to boiling. To his surprise, he discovered that “water converted into steam can heat about six times its own weight of well-water to 212°…. Being struck with this remarkable fact, and not understanding the reason of it, I mentioned it to my friend Dr. Black, who then explained to me his doctrine of latent heat.”
… Watt took from the theory the information he needed: that water absorbed a great deal of heat in changing into steam and lost a great deal of heat changing back into water. If he wanted to make a more efficient steam engine, he reasoned, one that used less coal and therefore cost less to operate, then “it was necessary that the cylinder was always as hot as the steam that entered it, and that the steam should be cooled down below 100° (Fahrenheit) [when injected with cold water to condense it to make a vacuum] to exert its full powers.”
The second example relates to high-pressure steam engines. Watt’s engine, like Newcomen’s, relied on atmospheric pressure acting against a vacuum. However, atmospheric engines are relatively large, heavy, and inefficient. They were stationary, used to drive industrial machines such as pumps, hammers, and drills. To make engines with a power-to-weight ratio that would enable locomotion, you need to increase the pressure of the steam.
Richard Trevithick was one of the first engineers to experiment with high-pressure steam. He, too, consulted on his designs with a scientific expert who applied principles of physics to his engineering problems:
Using high-pressure steam directly, Trevithick no longer needed to bleed off the steam into a separate condenser. It could be vented into the air. But he needed to know what his engine would lose and what it might gain if it did so. Who could tell him?
… In London, he met and befriended twenty-nine-year-old Davies Giddy, a mathematician and former high sheriff of Cornwall and a friend of Trevithick’s father…. Giddy remembers, “On one occasion, Trevithick came to me and inquired with great eagerness as to what I apprehended would be the loss of power in working an engine by the force of steam, raised to the pressure of several atmospheres, but instead of condensing [the steam,] to let the steam escape. I of course answered at once that the loss of power would be one atmosphere.” That is, whatever the pressure of the steam in Trevithick’s engine, the only loss from his design compared with an atmospheric engine would be the loss of the vacuum: his engine would have to work not against a vacuum but against atmospheric pressure, 14.7 pounds per square inch. And, added Giddy, such loss would be partly offset in Trevithick’s simpler direct-steam design by having eliminated some of the other inefficiencies of an atmospheric engine—no air pump with its friction, no friction or work raising the condensing water from its reservoir. “I never saw a man more delighted,” Giddy concludes.
Trevithick went on to build high-pressure steam engines and to experiment with using them for locomotion, including a steam-powered carriage that was like a strange, distant ancestor of the automobile. (Trevithick had a working prototype in the early 1800s, before the advent of railroads, but for reasons that are unclear to me, no investors wanted to fund further development and the project went nowhere.)
So it seems that almost every major innovator in steam engines had direct correspondence with a physicist or mathematician who helped them directly in their invention.
Almost a decade ago, I vacationed in Panama. Of course, the thing I was most interested in seeing was the Canal. And of course, in preparation for the trip, I picked up David McCullough’s tome, The Path Between the Seas, a history of its creation.
There are two great canals in the world, because there are two places in the world where a short waterway can separate two entire continents and give ships a shortcut to avoid a lengthy circumnavigation: Suez and Panama. The Suez Canal, built in the 1860s, cuts through Egypt and separates Africa from Eurasia, saving four to five thousand miles on a trip from London to Bombay. Panama, separating North from South America, saves some eight to ten thousand miles on a trip from New York to San Francisco.
In 1898, at the start of the Spanish-American War, the battleship USS Oregon was ordered to Florida from Bremerton, WA. It took over two months to make the 14,000-mile journey (including stops for fuel and supplies). If the Canal had existed, it would have been only 4,000 miles. For this reason, the canal is important not only economically but also militarily, and it was built soon after this episode by the US Army.
Just a few decades before, though, there had been a massive failed attempt at the canal by a French private company. What was fascinating to me was why they failed.
The root cause of the failure was that the project was run, not by an engineer, but by a diplomat, Ferdinand de Lesseps, and not on facts and logic, but on sentiment and blind faith. But the central cause was that the French were trying to build the wrong kind of canal.
De Lesseps insisted on building the canal at sea level—sans écluses, without locks. This is how Suez had been built: just a big trench dug straight through the desert. De Lesseps had been involved in Suez (which may have given him a false sense of confidence) and he felt that this kind of canal was the most elegant.
What he ignored was geography. The site at Panama had two major problems that made a sea-level canal impractical. The first was the mountains: instead of a ditch in the desert, this path would need to blast through rock. But even worse was the mighty Chagres River, which ran right through the proposed path and which was prone to flooding in the rainy season. There was a vague plan to dam the river, but no suitable rock formation to found the dam was ever identified. After years of digging and hundreds of millions of francs spent, the company folded.
The solution to Panama was to discard sentiment and to build a canal with locks. A ship transiting the canal first enters a trench dug at sea level, which takes it part of the way. Then it is raised up 85 feet to the level of Lake Gatun, where it crosses most of the way. Finally, it is lowered back down to sea level, and exits another trench to join the ocean on the other side:
A canal lock is like an elevator for ships. The principle is simple: two dams are constructed across a narrow waterway, close to each other, but with enough space that a ship can fit in between them. The dams separate two bodies of water at diferent levels. Using valves, the space in between is filled or emptied with water in order to raise or lower the water level—the equivalent of an elevator car moving up or down. Each dam has a door that can swing open, when the water level is equalized on either side, to let ships through.
So, to raise a ship to a higher level, say from a sea-level trench to an elevated lake: First, water is let out of the lock if needed to lower the water to sea level. Then, the gates open and the ship enters the lock. The gates are shut behind the ship, which is now enclosed in a small space. Next, the valves that let water out are closed, and the valves that let water in from the lake are opened. Water begins to fill the lock, raising the ship along with the water line. When the water in the lock reaches level of the lake, the gates on the other side open, and the ship can now enter the lake. To lower a ship, the process is reversed.
Panama actually has multiple locks in between the oceans and Lake Gatun. Here’s an animated diagram of a transit:
And here’s a time-lapse of ships going through one lock:
The locks allow the Panama Canal to avoid a path straight through the mountains, and also to take advantage of Lake Gatun to make up about half of the 51-mile journey.
There’s just one catch: When construction began, Lake Gatun did not exist.
Where did it come from? Recall the other problem facing the canal’s engineers: the Chagres River. To build the canal, the river was diverted into a valley, flooding it and creating the lake. Gatun is a man-made lake—at the time, the largest in the world.
The locks also impose a constraint: to make the transit, a ship cannot be too large to fit in them. The maximum size for a ship to fit was known as Panamax: length 950 feet, “beam” (width) 106 feet, “draft” (depth below the water) 39.5 feet. In the mid-20th century, though, with the rise of container shipping, ships were built bigger and bigger for economies of scale. Eventually ships were built that exceeded Panamax and could not go through the Canal; they could only be used for other routes. Because of this, the Panama Canal was expanded between 2007 and 2016, creating a new standard, New Panamax, that allows ships over twice the capacity. However, even before the expansion was open, ships had been built that were even larger than this!
One last story from Path Between the Seas: In addition to the engineering problems, one of the biggest challenges facing the builders was the scourge of tropical diseases. During the French attempt, tens of thousands of workers died from malaria and yellow fever. At the time, the cause of the disease, and the way it spread, were not known. Indeed, the germ theory itself was not yet widely accepted; “miasma” theory was still common, and many blamed the diseases on “bad air” from the jungle being stirred up by construction. It was not understood that the diseases could spread from one person to another, and so in hospitals, patients were grouped in wards not by disease but by race. (!) No one at the time suspected mosquitoes of being the disease vector, and so no attempts were made to eliminate them—in fact, they were inadvertently fostered: to prevent ants from crawling into hospital beds, each foot of the bed was placed in a small pool of water, a perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. Altogether, if you didn’t have malaria or yellow fever when you entered a hospital, you’d probably get one of them before you left.
Fortunately, around the turn of the century, a few heroic medical pioneers, including Dr. Carlos Finlay and Dr. Walter Reed, discovered that these diseases were caused by bacteria borne by mosquitoes. Through long, painstaking detective work, they uncovered the complicated cycle from human to insect to another human, with multi-day incubation periods required at each step, obscuring the process. They figured out exactly which species of insect carried which disease, and then studied them intensely to understand their mating patterns. Ultimately, the mosquito populations were systematically reduced and their contact with humans prevented. Swamps were drained, and barrels and pots of water were closed or covered with a thin layer of oil. One species could not survive exposure to direct sunlight, so swaths of brush were cleared away to create a moat of uncovered land around each human settlement. Together, these measures dramatically reduced cases of malaria and yellow fever, saving tens of thousands of lives during construction.
Here’s a seven-minute time-lapse video of a full transit from Pacific to Atlantic, which takes about eleven hours:
History gets a bad rap. Most people find it boring—as did I, throughout all my school years, until I finally got excited about it in my mid-twenties and began catching up on my education. The problem is the way it is written and taught.
History is often presented as a collection of facts. The facts might be a jumble, or hopefully organized in an understandable sequence. I call this name-and-date history. It’s the boring history that most people associate with the subject and that most people suffer through in school. At its best, a historian can pick out the most interesting or exciting facts, and tell them in an engaging, lively manner. I call this storytime history. The material is somewhat motivated and it’s at least entertaining. But in any case the student doesn’t retain much if anything, and what little they retain is not very useful, because it isn’t connected to anything and doesn’t represent a deep understanding.
The better historians go beyond name-and-date history. They integrate facts into casual sequences to create coherent narratives. I call this cause-and-effect history. At this level the student actually has a chance of achieving real understanding. Even at this level, though, the ideas can quickly become overwhelming. At its best, cause-and-effect history simplifies, condenses and essentializes until it reaches a high level of integration. This is big-picture history, a term coined by Scott Powell (to whom I am indebted for most of the perspective just outlined). With big-picture history the student can not only understand, but retain that understanding in a usable package.
What I am trying to do in this blog is something I’m calling problem-solution history. Since I’m telling the story of human progress, I want to tell not only what happened, not only why it happened, but why we decided to make it happen. To do that, I need to clearly explain the problems humans face and how almost every aspect of the modern world is a solution to one of those problems.
Only in this context can you appreciate, protect, and defend what we have accomplished so far—and be inspired to push progress further, faster. Without this background, it’s easy to hate DDT without realizing that it was a replacement for arsenic, to despise plastic without realizing that it saved the elephants, or to be disgusted by industrial furnaces without realizing that they averted worldwide famine. It’s easy to propose doing away with modern technolgy and reverting to a seemingly halcyon past, without realizing that this means un-solving problems that those who came before us worked so hard to solve.
Lately I’ve been reading about the history of plastic, particularly via Stephen Fenichell’s Plastic: The Making of a Synthetic Century. I’ll have more to say about plastic in the future—it is an amazing and vastly underrated substance, a true wonder material—but for now I want to talk about a broader idea.
A major theme of the 19th century was the transition from plant and animal materials to synthetic versions or substitutes mostly from non-organic sources. Some key examples:
Ivory. Before the invention of plastics, small objects from combs to knife handles were often made from bone or similar animal products: toroise shells, horns and antlers, baleen from whales (called “whalebone”), and especially ivory from elephant tusks. These biomaterials were hard, smooth, lightweight, and waterproof; they didn’t rust, and were amenable to carving. Around the time of the Civil War, the game of pool became very popular in the US, leading to soaring demand for ivory for billard balls (the New York Times warned in 1867 that elephants were becoming endangered). In 1863, the billards firm of Phelan & Collender ran newspaper ads offering $10,000 in gold to anyone who invented a suitable substitute material. It was this challenge that drove John Wesley Hyatt to experiment until he invented celluloid, the earliest plastic. (It seems that Hyatt never collected the prize, but he did found a company to make products from celluloid, including billard balls.)
Fertilizer. Prior to the Haber-Bosch process, fertilizer was obtained or created from natural sources: guano deposits on islands, or rock salts in the desert. By the end of the century, it was clear that the supplies would run out soon; in 1898, Sir William Crookes, head of the British Academy of Sciences, called on the chemists of the world to discover a way to sythesize fertilizer in order to avoid mass famine. The solution, which Haber discovered the key to and Bosch figured out how to industrialize, was a process to create ammonia (a precursor to most fertilizers) from hydrogen in water and nitrogen in the atmosphere.
Lighting. The first big market for the oil industry, well before the invention of the internal combustion engine, was kerosene for lighting. Prior to kerosene, common lighting sources included candles made from animal fat, and lamps lit with oil from the sperm whale (which has led some writers to claim that “Rockefeller saved the whales.”)
Smelting. The iron industry in 18th-century England led to massive deforestation, as trees were felled to turn into charcoal for smelting. The solution was to convert to a mineral source, coal, which England had plenty of. (This conversion was achieved by developing a process to purify coal into coke by charring, the same way wood is purified into charcoal.)
Shellac. A secretion of the lac beetle, shellac has been used to make varnish in Asia since ancient times. The process is slow, however: it takes 15,000 lac beetles six months to produce enough resin for one pound of shellac. As long as the world only needed the substance to coat furniture, this process was sufficient. But with the advent of electricity, there was suddenly a tremendous need for insulation material, and shellac became expensive—so much so that the chemist, inventor, and businessman Leo Baekeland, already independently wealthy from his work in the photgraphy industry, decided in the early 1900s that an artificial shellac was the number one most important problem he could work on. His solution was Bakelite, another important early plastic. Bakelite was eventually used not only for wire insulation but for countless other purposes, from the iconic Bell telephone to, again, billard balls, replacing the inferior celluloid. (Shellac was also used for records, in which capacity it was replaced some decades later by another plastic, vinyl.)
These are just a handful of examples. There are many other biomaterials we once relied on—rubber, silk, leather and furs, straw, beeswax, wood tar, natural inks and dyes—that have been partially or fully replaced by synthetic or artificial substitutes, especially plastics, that can be derived from mineral sources. They had to be replaced, because the natural sources couldn’t keep up with rapidly increasing demand. The only way to ramp up production—the only way to escape the Malthusian trap and sustain an exponentially increasing population while actually improving everyone’s standard of living—was to find new, more abundant sources of raw materials and new, more efficient processes to create the end products we needed. As you can see from some of these examples, this drive to find substitutes was often conscious and deliberate, motivated by an explicit understanding of the looming resource crisis.
In short, plant and animal materials had become unsustainable.
The more I saw this theme, the more it seemed strange to me that today, there is a drive to return to biological sources of materials, in the name of “sustainability”. For instance, what is today referred to as sustainable or “green” plastic is made from “renewable” feedstocks, such as polylactic acid, which can be derived from corn. Similarly, biofuels are supposed to be part of the solution to the “unsustainability” of oil.
If plant and animal materials were unsustainable in the 19th century, why are they the solution to sustainability in the 21st?
The answer, I think, lies in a different concept of sustainability, based on a different vision of what exactly we want to sustain.
In the 19th century, the priority was to sustain growth and progress. For the first time in history, economic production and consequently standards of living were undergoing a long, sustained rise. The whole world appreciated this and saw the imperative to keep it going. Anything that got in the way, or even threatened to slow it down, was an obstacle to overcome, lest the world regress into famine, disease, and literal darkness—the very state that humanity had just, finally, pulled itself out of.
To my knowledge, the term “sustainability” was not used in the 19th century in the context of these problems. The term in its current sense was coined by the modern environmental movement circa 1972. It seems to represent a new and different concept: not the sustaining of growth, but simply the sustaining of a given industrial process indefinitely. It also has, perhaps, a connotation of avoiding unforseen disasters caused by technology and industry.
What often seems left out of discussions of sustainability is the sustaining of growth and progress. Indeed, one of the goals of the environmental movement is the exact opposite: to reduce consumption (as in the common mantra “reduce, reuse, recycle”).
To my mind, any solution to sustainability that involves reducing consumption or lowering our standard of living is no solution at all. It is giving up and admitting defeat. If running out of a resource means that we have to regress back to earlier technologies, that is a failure—a failure to do what we did in the 19th century and replace unsustainable technologies with new, improved ones that can take humanity to the next level and support orders of magnitude more growth.
In the 21st century, this could mean energy from improved forms of nuclear power, or some way of harnessing energy from the Sun that is much better than today’s solar panels. It could mean breakthroughs in biotechnology: new sources of food, medicines that conquer bacterial resistance, or even biomaterials that can be manufactured at industrial scale. It could mean machine learning algorithms that optimize the global economy so that we can increase economic production much faster than we increase its mineral inputs.
But based on the history of the 19th century, I’m skeptical that it means plastic made from corn.
In my quest to understand textile production, and in the spirit of learning with my hands, I took a weaving class to learn how to use a handloom. Looms, even manual ones, are complicated machines, with many moving parts, and I found them hard to understand from diagrams. My goal was to learn how one works, by using it. I took the class at San Francisco Fiber, from owner Lou Grantham, who has been weaving and teaching weaving for something like fifty years.
The goal for the day was a scarf, about two and a half feet long and seven inches wide, made from woolen yarn. A scarf is about the simplest thing you can make, since it’s just a rectangle of cloth. Once you weave the cloth itself you’re pretty much done. And a narrow piece of cloth is easiest, because as I found out, the most time-consuming part of weaving is setting up the loom.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My goal in this post is to explain to you how a loom works, as clearly as I now understand it. To get there, you need to understand what problem each piece of a loom is solving. To do that, we’re going to start from the simplest possible loom, and build up to the kind of loom I used, one step at a time.
Let’s review the basics: Weaving is a process of making cloth by interlacing threads perpendicular to each other. A loom is any machine or device that holds the threads and helps you weave them. You stretch out one set of threads, the “warp”, parallel on the loom. Another thread, the “weft”, goes over and under the warp threads, back and forth, again and again, to create the woven fabric.
The simplest possible loom is just a board or frame with pegs to hold the warp, such as this one:
Using a needle, a hook, or just deft fingers, you interlace the weft through the warp threads, again and again, back and forth. As you can imagine, it’s excrutiatingly tedious, which is why looms like this are sold today only as novelties or toys for children (as one mommy blogger says, “it’s teaching my daughter a great deal of PATIENCE”).
The first problem you might notice is that each time you pass the weft through once, you have to pull it all the way through, taking up all the slack. You can see the issue in this video (you only need to watch for about 30 seconds):
This might be fine if you’re only making a pot holder, but if you’re even making something as long as a scarf, you’re going to have a lot of weft. Pulling every inch of it through every time gets annoying.
The solution is to wrap the weft around a small piece that holds it, spooled up, and to pass the entire thing back and forth. This piece is called the shuttle (it shuttles back and forth). You unspool only as much thread as you need to get across, each time.
This photo shows a simple frame loom with two shuttles: one with purple thread is partially through the warp; the other, with yellow thread, is waiting on the side:
But there’s another problem, which is that it’s difficult to pass the weft over and under each warp thread. And our solution to the previous problem has just exacerbated this one, because now instead of pulling the weft through with a hook, we have to push the entire shuttle through.
It would be much easier if you could just lift up every other warp thread, creating an open space to pass the shuttle through. And in more advanced looms, this is exactly what you do. The space between the warp threads is called the shed.
The easiest way to create a shed is to take a flat stick, push it over and under the warp threads, and then turn it to separate them, as seen in this video (again, you only need to watch for 30 seconds or so):
It’s certainly easier to pass the shuttle through this way, but overall the process hasn’t been improved much, because inserting the shed stick is not much easier than passing a hook through the warp threads. You still have to push it over and under them by hand each time.
If you’re very clever, you might figure out that using two sticks, you can cut your work in half. You can leave one of them in the warp through the whole process, so you only have to set it up once. Now every other time, your work is already done. But half the time, you still need to take the second stick and weave it through the warp again.
One modern loom manufacturer has created a device for this, a comb-like instrument with teeth spaced just right to push down half the threads, leaving the other half in place. According to the sole, 3-star review, it doesn’t work very well: “Too many times the wrong warp threads fall between the dents, or two consecutive warp threads get pushed down.”
We’re going to need something better.
So how can we create the shed quickly and easily every time, alternating which warp threads are up vs. down, but without having to interlace a stick by hand on each pass?
Well, we can’t do it with any rigid piece that goes across the loom. Any piece that goes all the way across will get in the way when the warp threads need to switch places: that’s why we’re constantly removing the shed stick and replacing it.
To avoid this, we need pieces arranged vertically. Let’s run every other warp thread through a little loop that is attached to a cord, wire, or thin stick. This is called a heddle. The other threads go between the heddles, leaving the warp threads free to move up and down, independent of each other.
Then let’s put the heddles in a frame, so they can be moved together. When we lift the frame, half the warp threads are lifted, leaving the other half down and creating a nice shed. To create the opposite shed, we lower the frame:
This is tedious to set up, because you have to pull every thread individually through the heddles (just watch about 30 seconds of this video):
But it’s worth it for the speed improvement. Once a heddle loom is set up, weaving can be done relatively quickly: raise the frame to create the shed, push the shuttle through the shed, then lower the frame to create the opposite shed, and push the shuttle back the other way. Repeat as needed.
This solution works to create a “plain weave”, where the weft just goes over, under, over, under, in the simplest of patterns. But there are many more sophisticated patterns.
To create an advanced weave such as a twill or herringbone, you need more than one set of heddles. The handloom I used had four wooden heddle frames, with metal wire heddles:
Every warp thread (not just half of them) went through a heddle, with one quarter of the threads attached to each frame. Here’s the loom partway through setup:
The frames are lifted by pedals. Since every thread is attached to a frame, you never need to lower a frame, you just lift the other frames. This is a speed advantage versus constantly reaching forward and adjusting the placement of the frames by hand.
With four frames, you have more options. You can still do a plain weave by lifting frames 1 & 3 together, then lowering them and lifting frames 2 & 4 together. But you can also the diagonal stripes of a twill using a four-part sequence: first 1 & 2, then 2 & 3, then 3 & 4, then 4 & 1.
The frames were controlled by six pedals, corresponding to the six ways you can lift two of the four frames at once. The leftmost two pedals were set up to correspond to the alternating pattern of the plain weave, while the rightmost four pedals implemented the twill, both as described above. But by combining them in various sequences, all the patterns shown above and more can be created.
To explain the last piece of the handloom, I need to mention one final problem that I’ve been glossing over.
After you push the weft through, you don’t want to just leave it in place. You need to push it up against the woven fabric you’ve made so far, so it’s lying right next to the most recent thread you laid down.
In peg or lap loom, this can be done with the fingers, or with a comb-like tool. In the simplest heddle looms, with the heddle frames moved by hand, the heddles can be used for this purpose: you pick up the frame, pull it towards you to push the weft thread back, and then put it back in its new position. (You might have noticed both of those techniques in the videos above.)
By the time we get to a four-frame handloom, this isn’t going to work anymore. The frames are in slots; they only move up and down, attached to the pedals. So now we need a dedicated piece to push the weft down. This piece is called the reed, and it’s just a set of slots that the warp threads go through. It’s tedious to pull each warp thread through a slot, but it’s no more tedious than pulling them through the heddles.
Again, all of this setup investment pays off in speed: you move faster when you’re not constantly picking things up, putting them down, or reconfiguring the machine.
Making a scarf
Preparing the loom, as described above, took a couple of hours. First I chose colors and a pattern (the red central stripe, with green stripes on either side). Despite my previous spinning experience, we started with manufactured yarn.
Then we measured how many threads we’d need: 56, for a 7-inch piece of cloth with 8 threads per inch. We measured out the right length of thread for the warp, and stretched it across the frame. Next, each thread had to be pulled through the heddles and the reed, as described above.
But once the setup was done, I was able to weave like this:
I tried a plain weave, a twill (including some zig-zagging), and a bit of that pebble weave in the middle.
That’s the shuttle in my hand there; the weft thread was on a spindle in the middle. The spindle could only hold so much thread, so multiple times I had to go refill it from a spool. That could be done very quickly using this little crank-and-screw mechanism:
When you’re done, there’s several inches of warp thread that you can’t finish—you can’t weave right up until the end, because of the way the warp is tied on. So you just tie off the warp by making little knots. I guess that’s why scarves have tassels.
Finally we washed the scarf in warm water, to shrink it. (OK, Lou did this part for me!)
After five hours, I had my scarf.
Not bad for about half a day’s work!
If you’re in the Bay Area and want to take classes with Lou, check out her class schedule.
First, finance is ancient. The story begins in Sumer. By the time of the earliest writing, they already had loans and compound interest (the concept of which may have come from observing how a herd of livestock grows over generations). In fact, the earliest writing was invented to track this kind of thing: it evolved from financial records. Ancient Greece had maritime loans with variable interest rates depending on the risk of the expedition. Ancient Rome had legal entities with public shareholders.
Another lesson is that there are many different ways to organize corporations and finance ventures: the forms we have today we take for granted, but other models have been tried in the past. For instance, if a modern corporation needs cash, it can issue new debt or equity (in the latter case, diluting existing shareholders). But in 16th century Europe, some corporations would raise cash by issuing a capital call to their existing shareholders; shareholders who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the required funds would forfeit their equity or be forced to sell it to another investor. Or, in the late 17th century, some corporations issued stock, but allowed investors to buy it on credit. An investor might put down as little as 1% (!) of the value of the stock, and then pay the debt to the company over time (again, losing the equity if they defaulted). Both of these schemes are unheard of today, as far as I know. Maybe they’re not done anymore because they’re bad ideas that had terrible consequences—I’m not advocating bringing any of them back—but it’s a good reminder not to make assumptions about what can and can’t (or should and shouldn’t) be done in finance.
My favorite idea in the book, though, is that of finance as a “time machine”. Finance shifts value forward and backward in time for different parties. If I have money now but don’t need it until later, and you need money now but won’t have it until later, I can give you a loan: boom, we’ve sent my money into the future, in order to bring your future money into the present. Goetzmann claims that:
Finance has stretched the ability of humans to imagine and calculate the future. It has also demanded a deeper understanding and quantification of the past, because history is the fundamental basis for making future predictions. Finance has increasingly made us creatures of time.
Finance is often seen as somewhere between “shady” and “the root of all evil” (indeed, one of the lessons of the book is that social criticism of finance has been around as long as finance). But in fact, finance is an amazing and vastly underappreciated mechanism of social cooperation. It allows the rich to help the poor. It allows the old to help the young (via their accumulated savings). It allows the lucky to help the unlucky (think insurance), thus smoothing out the bumps, jolts and shocks of nature and of life. It allows those with ideas and ambition to pursue them, regardless of their personal funds (otherwise, entrepreneurship would be only for the rich). In general, it accumulates capital from many sources to make it useful, instead of letting it sit idle. In so doing, it allows anyone with any degree of savings to participate in value creation of the economy.
The book covered several other interesting topics, such as: the parallel but different evolution of finance in China (much more centralized and state-controlled, including the first paper money, which amazed and baffled Marco Polo), the Dutch East India Company and the South Sea Bubble of 1720, the breakthroughs in calculation techniques made by Fibonacci, the influence of Keynes in setting up the IMF and World Bank, and even the role in medieval European finance played by the Knights Templar.
All that said, I’m not sure the book lives up to its subtitle. I learned many things but I can’t yet tell the story of “how finance made civilization possible”. That is going to require a lot more study, organization, and essentialization.
It’s been a bigger project than I suspected, perhaps because my ambition for the post keeps growing the more I learn. So I’m going to checkpoint here and lay out the story as I understand it so far, together with my open questions.
Textile production is a complicated process with many steps, and the steps can be different depending on the type of fabric being produced. But to simplify, we can think of the main stages as preparation, spinning, and weaving.
“Preparation” is a general term I just made up to describe anything done to the raw, natural material to get it ready for spinning into yarn. Cotton and flax are harvested from the field, wool is sheared from sheep (and other animals), and like everything else in nature, these materials come to us in an inconvenient form. The fibers may be mixed with dirt or grease. Cotton bolls have seeds, which in some varieties are sticky and thus difficult to remove. Flax fibers must be broken out of the hard outer stem and separated from the stalk. And in all cases, the fibers start out as a tangled mess.
Spinning is the process of turning fibers into yarn, which can be woven. In spinning, the fibers are drawn out to make a long string, and twisted together so they lock with one another, forming a single, strong piece of yarn. (In case you’re confused, as I was, about the relationship between yarn and thread: “yarn” is the more general term; thread is a type of yarn. Sources differ: thread is sometimes defined as yarn intended for sewing, but it is also the input to weaving. I’ll use the terms loosely here.)
Weaving is the process of interlacing threads perpendicular to each other to create a fabric. There are many different types of weaves that produce different patterns and textures, and even visual designs when different colors of thread are used, but we’ll ignore this for simplicity right now.
There can be more stages involved: for instance, treating with chemicals to clean, bleach, or dye the yarn, or to protect it against abrasion on the loom; or printing patterns on finished cloth. And I haven’t even mentioned sewing, which is needed to create most actual usable consumer goods. Further, weaving is not the only way to create fabric (yarn can be knitted, or fibers can be pressed into felt without even being spun), and yarn is not the only thing that can be woven (straw can be woven into mats or baskets). But again, for simplicity, we’ll ignore all this and focus on the basic process of woven textile production.
In the pre-industrial world, every stage of the process was done by hand—often with hand tools, sometimes literally with the fingers, as in the case of picking seeds out of cotton lint.
A process called carding untangles the fibers (and can help remove debris) by running them over a card with metal pins sticking out of it, sort of like a brush. An alternate process, “combing”, passes the fibers through long metal spikes instead of short pins, which lays long fibers parallel and removes shorter fibers; I think this produces a higher quality of yarn (when done to wool, I think it is the main difference between “woolen” and higher-quality “worsted” fabric). Combing is an optional process, but I’m still a little unclear on whether it completely replaces carding, or if you would ever do both to the same material. In any case, a mass of fiber that has been sufficiently straightened and stretched out into a narrow bundle, ready for spinning, is called a sliver (rhymes with “diver”), or, if drawn out a bit thinner and given a slight twist, “roving”.
The simplest way to spin yarn, going back to prehistory, is with a spindle. This is nothing more than a stick, typically with a weight and/or a hook on one end. With one popular type, the drop spindle, you simply hook a piece of the roving, hang the spindle from it, and literally spin the shaft as you draw the fiber out, which gives it the necessary twist. The weight gives the spindle momentum and keeps it turning at a steady pace. When you have a couple of feet of yarn, wound tightly enough, you stop, wind the yarn onto the spindle itself, and then hook the top of it to spin the next section. This video shows the process. A “distaff”—basically just another stick—can hold the roving; tucked into a belt or held on a strap, it keeps both hands free.
If this sounds slow and tedious, that’s because it is. A faster method is to use a spinning wheel. A spinning wheel also contains a spindle, but sets it in a frame which can stand on a floor or table, and attaches it to a large flywheel. (This flywheel is the most noticeable part of a spinning wheel, and if you’re as ignorant as I was, you might think the yarn goes over the wheel itself. Nope! As far as I can tell, the wheel is just there to turn the spindle at a steady pace.) In advanced spinning wheel designs, one continuous spinning motion serves to both twist the fiber into yarn and wind it onto the spindle, so there’s no need to stop and “wind on” the yarn. Some wheels also can be turned with a foot pedal; this, plus having the whole thing in a frame, leaves both hands free to draw out the fibers and feed them onto the machine. Altogether this is much more efficient than a spindle. This video is the best I found to see the operation of the mechanism.
Weaving is done on a loom. One set of threads, called the warp, is stretched parallel, while another thread, called the weft, is interlaced between them. The basic action is: half the warp threads are pulled away from the other half, creating a gap between them. The weft is pulled or pushed through the gap, and then pushed tight against the rest of the woven fabric; this action is called a pick. Then the warp threads are reversed, the other half being lifted up to invert the gap, and the action is repeated, with the weft going in the other direction. (In a plain weave, every other warp thread is lifted; in more sophisticated or pattern weaves, any subset of the warp might be lifted in any pick.)
There are many types of looms. One of the simplest involves hanging the warp threads vertically with weights. In another primitive loom, the “backstrap loom”, one end of the warp is tied to a fixed pole, and the other end to a strap around the weaver’s back; the weaver adjusts the tension on the warp by leaning backwards into the strap.
The type of loom used at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution was more advanced. The whole machine stood in a large frame, with the warp threads running horizontally through it. The warp was lifted by strings connected to foot pedals, and the weft was thrown back and forth on a “shuttle”, a small piece of wood that held a spool of thread. A comblike structure called the reed would push the weft down after each pick. A small loom could be operated by one person, but obviously the fabric could not be wider than the weavers’ arms, since they had to pass the shuttle through by hand. To weave a wider cloth required multiple weavers, who would throw the shuttle back and forth.
This was the state of things by the early 1700s: a highly manual process, done with the aid of sophisticated machines, but still completely dependent on the time and attention of skilled craftsmen, and largely done in the home—literally a cottage industry. Each weaver needed several spinners to supply him, and each spinner relied on a supply of cotton, wool, or flax that was collected and cleaned by hand. Not only was the process time-consuming and tedious, it took practice. The quality of the output depended on the skill of the artisan; poor work would result in a product that was lumpy, uneven, or rough.
The entire process had stayed largely the same for centuries. But it was all about to change.
Over the course of several decades starting in the 1700s, this entire process was revolutionized by automation. In short, we invented machines to do almost every step of the process. And machines, it turns out, can work faster, better, and more consistently than people. The result was an enormous reduction in the cost of fabric, or conversely, an enormous increase in the productivity of each worker—and at the same time, a product that was of higher and more consistent quality. I’m still trying to understand exactly how this happened, but here’s what I know so far.
First, this wasn’t the result of any single invention. There are a few inventions that typically get called out as the major ones, and certainly some were more important than others, but there were many inventions, over a long span of time, and the progress that resulted was the accumulation of many incremental improvements. Also, these improvements were the work of many different inventors and businessmen—although one name, Richard Arkwright, stands out as a driving and integrating force. Also, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, the story was centered on a single type of fabric: cotton.
The major inventions seem to have happened more or less in the reverse order of the process itself: that is, the first big improvements were in the last step of the process, weaving, and some of the last were in the earliest stages of harvesting and cleaning. This may not have been a coincidence: an improvement at any stage creates a greater demand for the input to that stage, increasing the incentive to improve the earlier stages. More generally, an improvement at any part of a multi-stage process like this simply shifts the bottleneck to a different part of it.
The first major invention seems to have been the “flying shuttle” (1733). I mentioned above that weaving a wide cloth requires at least two people to throw the shuttle back and forth. The flying shuttle solves this problem. Rather than being thrown by hand, a flying shuttle rides on wheels, and is kicked back and forth by blocks on either side of the loom. The blocks are tied to a cord with a single handle that can be yanked by the weaver. A hard tug on the cord pulls both blocks in toward the middle; whichever one the shuttle is next to gives it the needed push. When the shuttle arrives at the far end, its momentum pushes that block backwards, resetting it for the next pick. See it in operation here. I think there are some other details needed to make this work, but I don’t understand them yet. In any case, the flying shuttle at least doubled the productivity of weavers.
Spinners were already at a productivity disadvantage to weavers: even before the flying shuttle, it took several spinners to supply one weaver with yarn; after it the ratio was even worse. The productivity of spinners was improved by a number of inventions in the late 1700s. The “spinning jenny” (1764) split the roving into several strands, so multiple threads could be spun at once (initially eight, later I believe over a hundred). This was a huge advance. However, I believe it was still largely operated by hand, and it had some problem that prevented it from creating a very strong cotton thread (in fact, it was only strong enough to be used for weft, not warp, and so weavers would combine cotton weft with linen warp, creating a blend called “fustian”). A later invention, confusingly called the “water frame”, used rollers to draw out the fibers, and was able to create stronger thread (and thus led to pure cotton fabric). There were multiple pairs of rollers, each moving a bit faster than the previous, so that the roving was stretched thin as it went through them. The key was to space the rollers carefully, just longer than the length of a fiber: too close together, and a single fiber would get caught in two pairs of rollers at once, which would break it; too far apart, and the roving would be pulled completely apart. The initial version of the water frame, however, might not have been able to spin multiple threads at once like the jenny. Eventually, through many iterations, spinning machines were created that both removed all the focused attention and manual dexterity from the process, and could spin many threads at once with a single human operator.
These advances created a great demand for cotton—which still had to be picked, cleaned and carded by hand. Multiple inventions helped with this, including automatic carding machines, but perhaps the most important (and certainly the most famous) was Eli Whitney’s cotton gin (1793). The cotton gin automated the process of separating the sticky seeds from cotton lint, a slow, tedious manual process. It is a simple device: a box with a wire screen, and a rotating drum with metal teeth. Freshly picked cotton bolls are dumped in the side of the box opposite the drum. As the drum rotates, its teeth reach through the screen and snag bits of cotton fiber, which they pull through the screen (the screen keeps the seeds from coming along). Basically, instead of pulling the seeds out of the cotton, the cotton is pulled away from the seeds. This enormously improved the productivity of cotton farming in the American South, transforming it from a barely profitable crop to a hugely profitable one (as an unfortunate side effect, this may have entrenched the institution of slavery—but that is a subject for another post).
Before too long, many of these processes were connected to power: first water mills, later steam engines, and eventually electricity. The power loom was invented in the late 1700s, and must have required some key inventions I don’t yet understand to make the machine more automatic. (One challenge of automated weaving is all the things that can go wrong: if a single thread breaks or gets tangled, the whole machine needs to be stopped immediately, and the problem fixed before continuing.)
To summarize: the productivity of the textile manufacturing process, and thus the cost of cloth, was improved by orders of magnitude starting in the 1700s through a series of inventions from multiple inventors that, in aggregate, transformed it from a fully manual process to a fully automated and powered one.
Once the initial inventions removed the manual labor and careful fingerwork from the process, subsequent inventions, continuing through the 1800s and 1900s, focused on improving speed, efficiency, and quality. The result is the modern textile industry: large factories turn out enormous amounts of high-quality fabric at extremely low cost.
That’s the outline of the story as I understand it so far. I’d like to get clearer on the details. And there are still many things I’d like to understand:
Just how much did productivity improve? I’d love to quantify this. How many yards of thread per hour could a spinner produce with each of the above machines? How many square feet of cloth could a weaver output? Conversely, how many person-hours did it take to go from cotton in the fields to a shirt on the rack?
What was the effect of this productivity? Basic economics says that the cost of each output should come down, and simultaneously that real wages for the workers should go up. What actually happened, historically? And what were the social consequences? Eventually large textile mills were opened, such as the ones in Lowell, Mass., that offered new jobs and newfound freedom especially for young women.
Why cotton? Wool and linen are good materials, and I think they were more commonly used, at least in England, before the Industrial Revolution. Why did England switch to cotton in the course of this mechanization, and why does cotton dominate textiles today?
Why weaving? As I mentioned, fabrics can be made by knitting, felting, etc. Why are most of our fabrics woven?
For what matter, why fabric? What are the benefits of textiles vs. leather or other materials that could substitute?
What was the real contribution of Richard Arkwright? Arkwright was clearly a central figure in this story in the 1700s. He seems to have been an unpleasant character who was generally disliked, and there are plenty of stories of him supposedly stealing inventions or treating business partners badly. However, there are also hints that he was an indispensable driving and integrating force.
What was the reaction from craftsmen? Mechanization was fiercely opposed by traditional spinners and weavers—like many other innovations, as I am discovering. In this instance the reactions were particularly violent, including the Luddite movement that went around smashing machinery (I used to think the Luddites were a religion, like the Amish but with a rioting streak; it turns out they were a political movement).
Why did everything take so long? I’ve already asked this specifically with respect to the cotton gin, but the more I’ve read about these inventions the more it seems to apply to all of them. The flying shuttle seems as simple as the cotton gin, the spinning machines not much more complicated. Why did no one create them for centuries?
But all the above might take multiple posts.
Thanks to Eric Norman and Doug Peltz for commenting on a draft of this post.
We started with combed wool. Combing is a process that straightens out tangled fibers and removes shorter fibers so you get a nice, smooth bundle. This long, thin bundle, ready for spinning, is called a roving:
We used a top-whorl drop spindle. The “whorl” is the round weight that gives the spindle momentum as it spins; a “top-whorl” spindle is just one that has the whorl at the top of the shaft. I’m not quite sure what a “drop” spindle is as opposed to other kinds; maybe that has to do with the hook on top, which lets you dangle the spingle from the thread itself.
The trick with spinning is that to get a nice, fine thread, you need to only spin a small amount of fiber at once. The roving is far too thick to be spun as is. We took a piece of it, a foot or two long, pulled it apart lengthwise into two bundles, then pulled each of them apart. Then we stretched each piece out even further: by grabbing the roving at two points more than a fiber’s length apart, and pulling gently, you can stretch the bundle without breaking it; this is called drafting. The result was a bundle about eight times thinner than the original roving:
You start by hooking that onto the leader string (or in some methods, right on the hook at the top), and spinning the thing. We were taught to spin it against our thigh to get it going. You build up a lot of twist in the string, then you let that climb up the roving, twisting it into yarn.
It’s a simple process, but easy to mess up. Almost immediately, my roving came apart:
Fortunately, connecting two pieces of roving is just a thing you have to do all the time anyway, so I got back on track.
I also found it difficult to keep the roving out of the way. You sort of have to drape it on your hand or arm. I kept getting distracted by the spinning itself and letting the roving fall straight down. More than once, it got tangled in the yarn:
“A lot of spinning,” our instructor said, “is fiber management.”
After a couple of hours, I had… barely gotten through a foot of roving. I had a decent amount of yarn, but it was really just a start:
Making some yarn is not hard; doing it quickly and efficiently is. And my yarn was of poor quality and consistency. I was trying to make it reasonably thin, like thread, but it was easy to let too much fiber slip through at once, creating a big fuzzy lump in the yarn. You can see in this closeup how inconsistent my yarn was, with some parts much thicker than others:
It was a fun diversion for a crafty afternoon. But it also drove home how slow and labor-intensive a process it is, and how much skill is needed to produce quality output.
A few months ago I read a history of cotton, which led to a post on the cotton gin and one on pesticides. But I really wanted to write one that explains textiles overall, including the dramatic increases in productivity from mechanization that were part of the early Industrial Revolution. I wanted to do for textiles what I did for concrete.
But I still have so many questions. What exactly was the flying shuttle? How did it work? For that matter, how did looms work before? I mean, I’ve seen looms and I get what they are basically doing, but… why do they have so many parts? And similar questions for the “spinning jenny” and the spinning wheel.
So I’ve been doing more research, from Wikipedia articles to the thousand-page Encyclopedia of the History of Technology. But when it comes to sophisticated machinery performing intricate processes, it’s really hard to understand from a written description, especially when there’s so much terminology. Everything ends up sounding like: “In the flying jenny, the thread is wound through a hole in the bobbin, past the reed, where it beats against the whorl. The operator must take care to prevent the shuttle from stretching the treadle too far, for fear of snarling the weft. Obviously.”
Diagrams barely help. Videos are much better, and YouTube has been great (this video finally showed me how a flying shuttle works, which no written description ever made clear, even though it’s extremely simple). But it slowly dawned on me that in order to truly understand these machines, I have to see them in person—or better yet, use them.
One possibility is to visit a museum. Many “textile museums” are actually either art galleries or just old mills that got converted into historical sites or national parks. However, I’ve just discovered the Antique Gas & Steam Engine Museum, which I’m excited to visit. Their Weavers Barn is “a 4,000 square foot facility where we house and use over 50 looms as well as many of the related tools needed to turn fiber into cloth, including spinning wheels and carders, warping boards and swifts, and bobbin winders and shuttles. We are a working museum with more than 95% of our exhibits operational.” Cool!
Even better than just a museum, I thought, why not take a class where I can try my hand at these machines? No better way to learn than by doing. And if I’m going to take that approach with spinning and weaving, why not apply it to all the pre-industrial crafts? Metalworking, carpentry, pottery, masonry….
Before I knew it, I found myself at The Crucible, a maker space for industrial arts in Oakland. At their open house, we saw demonstrations in blacksmithing and glassblowing, and I got to try my hand at stone carving, working a block of alabaster with hammer and chisel. Right away, I could see that hands-on experience would teach me a lot. Just trying to cut a simple groove in the rough face of the stone—an arbitrary task to give myself a goal, for a few minutes of play—I started learning how subtle it is to work with materials. The angle of the chisel against the face of the rock makes all the difference. Hold it too close to perpendicular, and you’re just making a hole in the block, or cracking it in two. Hold it too close to parallel, and the chisel slips along uselessly. You have to get the angle just right to get the cut you want—and since the rock is uneven, the ideal angle is constantly changing as you work across the surface.
This parallels what I’ve been reading about textile making: it wasn’t just time-consuming and labor-intensive, it was a skill. It required manual dexterity to produce a quality product. Thread, for instance, is ideally a consistent thickness along its length, but a novice spinner will often create lumpy thread, leading to coarser fabrics. Spinning quality thread requires practice. Mechanizing the textile manufacturing process not only saves human time and effort in producing goods, it also eliminates the investment in skill-building that every spinner and weaver must go through. In a sense, we build the muscle memory into the machines, encoding the implicit knowledge of the master craftsman in the solid form of spindles and gears. The resulting output is not only cheaper, but higher-quality and more consistent—mastery made mundane.
So by this point I’ve already signed up for intro classes in spinning and blacksmithing… but someone may have to hold me back, because I’ve discovered that this rabbit hole goes much, much deeper.
Asking friends about where one can try crafts like this, I got connected to Kiliii Yüyan, indigenous Nanai photographer, journalist, and kayak-builder. Messaging me from the Bering Sea off the coast of Alaska (“internet is pretttty slow over here”), he said that “the only and best place to learn this is at the Rabbitstick rendezvous, in Rexburg, Idaho, in September each year. It’s a primitive skills gathering, where the best and brightest practitioners in the world get together to teach and learn skills that are stone age up to pre-modern. People come from all over the world to learn there.” Basically it’s a week-long camping trip, and all day every day there are workshops and demonstrations from instructors like Kiliii on everything from knife making to shelter building to braintanning (that’s a form of hide tanning using a solution of the animal’s own brain. (!))
I haven’t signed up for any of these gatherings yet… but at this rate, I might be an instructor there before long. In any case, I’m looking forward to learning, not just through books, but through my hands.
I’ve recently finished it, and I recommend it to everyone. What follows is a summary plus a few thoughts of my own. It’s a long summary, but the book deserves it.
The theme of Enlightenment Now is contained in its subtitle: it is that reason, science and humanism lead to progress. The corollary is: keep it up!
To elaborate, the message of the book is that reason, science and humanism—which Pinker identifies as the key themes of the Enlightenment—have, historically, led to massive progress in almost every area of life, and that they are our best means of continuing this progress into the future. But these ideals are not consistently upheld, and are often under attack. Therefore, we need to fortify and defend them.
Against what exactly? In the opening chapters, Pinker calls out a number of counter-Enlightenment ideas:
The idea that people are “the expendable cells of a superorganism” (which I would call “collectivism”, although Pinker doesn’t use that term)
What he calls the “romantic Green movement”, which “subordinates human interests to a transcendent entity, the ecosystem” (in contrast to “Enlightenment environmentalism” or “humanistic environmentalism”)
“Declinism”, the idea that civilization “is in steady decline and on the verge of collapse”
An anti-science movement that denounces science for encroaching on the domain of religion or values, or blames it for social ills from racism to war
Progress is central to Pinker’s argument: it is the proof that the Enlightenment is working. The belief that the world is corrupt and in decline motivates a desire for violent revolution and upheaval: smash the system, burn it all down, because nothing could be worse than what we have. What we need is not to destroy the institutions of modernity that have brought us out of the caves to where we are today, but to keep making incremental progress within their framework.
Unfortunately, declinism is all too seductive a view, owing in part to negativity bias, especially in the news (“if it bleeds, it leads”), and availability bias, which causes us to think that bad things are more common just because we hear about them all the time. We need to counter this with careful analysis of the data.
Thus, the bulk of the book is devoted to an empirical analysis of human progress along several dimensions—practical, intellectual and moral—including:
Life: Life expectancy is up, from a world average of less than 30 years in the mid-18th century to over 70 years today; and the increases are seen by all age groups and all continents. Child mortality and maternal mortality in particular have been drastically reduced: “for an American woman, being pregnant a century ago was almost as dangerous as having breast cancer today.”
Health: The threat of infectious disease has been greatly reduced via sanitization, sterilization, vaccination, antibiotics, and other scientific and medical advances, which together have saved billions of lives.
Sustenance: Hunger and famine were a normal part of life throughout most of history. Today, people have access to, on average, over 2,500 calories per day (including an average of 2,400 in India, 2,600 in Africa, and 3,100 in China). And the extra food isn’t all going to the wealthy; measures of stunted growth and undernourishment are declining in some of the world’s poorest regions, and worldwide deaths from famine are also down. Technology was critical in this achievement: mechanization of farming, synthetic fertilizer (thanks especially to the Haber-Bosch process), better crop varieties (thanks to Norman Borlaug and his Green Revolution), and now genetic engineering. The fall of Communism was also significant, since “of the seventy million people who died in major 20th-century famines, 80 percent were victims of Communist regimes’ forced collectivization, punitive confiscation, and totalitarian central planning.”
Wealth: Gross World Product was stagnant or slowly growing for most of human history, but it has grown “almost two hundredfold from the start of the Enlightenment in the 18th century.” And again, the increases are not only seen in a minority of the world. Western countries pulled away from the rest first, starting in the 18th century, in what is known as the Great Escape (from the Malthusian trap). Pinker attributes this achievement to science; institutions that create open economies by protecting rule of law, property rights, and enforceable contracts; and a change in values that conferred “dignity and prestige upon merchants and inventors rather than just on soldiers, priests, and courtiers.” But the Great Escape was followed in the 20th century by the Great Convergence, as poor countries around the world catch up in economic progress and close the gap. In all, the portion of the world living in “extreme poverty” (using the definition of $1.90/day in 2011 international dollars) has fallen from almost 90% in 1820 to 10% today.
Safety: Deaths from virtually all kinds of accidents have drastically fallen. Deaths from motor vehicle accidents alone are down 24 times since 1921; pedestrian deaths and plane crashes are also down. Workplaces are safer. Deaths have decreased from falls, fire, drowning, you name it. Even natural disasters kill fewer people than they used to, as better technology and practices make us safer from everything from earthquakes to lightning strikes.
Quality of life: Work hours have decreased from over 60 hours per week in both the US and Western Europe in 1870, to around 40 hours today. Housework has decreased from 58 hours per week in 1900 to 15.5 hours in 2011, liberating everyone from drudge work, although owing to who historically has performed housework, this is in practice a great liberation of women. As a result, people report more hours of leisure, and more are retiring in old age. Not only our time but our money has been liberated: spending on necessities in the US is down from over 60% of disposable income in 1929 to about a third in 2016. And as a result of economic progress and better technology, people are doing more travel (including international travel), eating more varied and interesting diets, and have much greater access to the knowledge of the world.
Peace: In Pinker’s previous book, The Better Angels of our Nature, he chronicled the decline of violence and its causes. War between great powers has not occurred since World War 2, and the wars that rage today cover less of the world than in the past. Deaths are down from both battles and genocide. And violent crime has been reduced as well. He credits these declines to causes including the advancement of reason and education, the spread of global commerce, and international forums such as the UN.
Democracy: Democracy is taking over the world (that is, democratic republics, as opposed to authoritarian regimes). After suffering setbacks from socialist regimes in the mid-20th century, it is rebounding, with the defeat of Nazism followed by the fall of Communism. Two-thirds of the world’s population now lives in “free or relatively free societies”, vs. one percent in 1816 (according to projects that track this sort of thing, such as the Polity Project).
Equal rights: Racist, sexist, and anti-homosexual opinions are on the decline; “emancipative values” (such as freedom, autonomy and individuality) are growing more popular. Also down: hate crimes, rape / domestic violence, and child abuse / bullying.
Knowledge: Around the world, children are going to school longer, and literacy is on the rise. Women are closing the education gap with men, as more cultures decide to educate their girls. Even IQ scores are increasing (a phenomenon known as the Flynn Effect), likely as a result of the spread of education.
He makes this case with dozens of charts and far more data and analysis than a summary can do justice to, much of it sourced from Max Roser’s Our World in Data and similar projects.
Along the way, Pinker provides rebuttals for a number of counterarguments to this story of progress:
Isn’t all this progress just accruing to the rich and increasing inequality? First, Pinker points out, inequality is “not a fundamental component of well-being”, like health, prosperity, knowledge and peace. What matters more is wealth and fairness, and these things are not incompatible with some inequality. Moreover, some inequality is a natural consequence of economic progress, and indeed decreases in inequality often come from economic and humanitarian disasters: “mass-mobilization warfare, transformative revolution, state collapse, and lethal pandemics.” Finally, he notes that global inequality is actually falling (thanks to the Great Convergence), and welfare spending in all developed countries is steadily rising.
Isn’t all this progress just leading to “mindless consumerism” and shallow, empty lives? No, Pinker argues, people are devoting their disposable time, money and energy to meaningful values, such as connecting with loved ones, seeing the world, increasing their knowledge, and creative self-expression.
But what about the Easterlin paradox? This is the claim that, although richer people within a country are happier than poor people, richer countries are not happier than poor ones, and countries don’t get happier over time as they get richer. This has been attributed to the “hedonic treadmill”, in which we reset our expectations at each new level of achievement, thus never getting happier even as our lives get objectively better; and to social-comparison theories of happiness, in which our happiness is based on comparing our situation to others’. However, the Easterlin paradox was proposed in 1973. With more data since then and better analysis, we can see that it doesn’t hold up, indicating that happiness is more closely tied to objective well-being than we might have feared.
Aren’t people lonelier and more disconnected in our digital age? Isn’t there a crisis of escalating anxiety, depression and suicide? No. Pinker looks at the data and concludes that many of these problems are decreasing, with others relatively steady; none are increasing significantly, certainly not to indicate a crisis of the modern age.
But aren’t we destroying the environment? Pinker’s response here is insightful and nuanced. First, he distinguishes between the “quasi-religious ideology” of “greenism”, and a view which may be called “ecomodernism”, “ecopragmatism”, “Enlightenment environmentalism”, or “humanistic environmentalism”. Greenism sees humans as a scourge upon the pristine Earth, pits itself against science and technology, and calls for degrowth and deindustrialization. Ecomodernism focuses on the benefits that technology provides for humanity, and seeks to use technology itself to reduce environmental harm, while recognizing that some level of pollution is necessary and acceptable. While he doesn’t say it explicitly, my interpretation of the difference is that ecomodernism seeks to preserve the environment for the purpose of human flourishing (consistent with the Enlightenment humanism that Pinker keeps returning to), whereas greenism seeks to preserve untouched nature as an end in itself, above and apart from humans.
He goes on to point out that the greenist movement has a history of failed predictions of catastrophe, such as the “population bomb” Paul Ehrlich warned of in the 1960s that was supposed to lead to mass famine by the 1980s, or the related fears that the world was running out of natural resources. And he notes that many measures of environmental harm are on the decline, including pollution, deforestation, and oil spills. However, he believes that some environmental threats are real and serious, in particular global warming. He advocates, not scaling back the world’s energy use (which would threaten many of the measures of progress discussed above), but technology: shifting to nuclear power, deploying carbon capture techniques, and possibly a limited amount of direct climate engineering.
What about terrorism? Pinker sees terrorism as a real threat, but a minor one, claiming many fewer lives than battles or even accidents. He looks at data to show that it is not increasing, and cites studies saying that it is generally not successful: terrorists rarely achieve their strategic goals in the long run. He concludes that it is a problem, but not a catastrophe or a threat to civilization.
What about existential threats from modern or future technology? For instance, the threat of an AI superintelligence or a civilization-ending bio- or cyber-terrorist attack? With the caveat that we cannot prophesy the future, Pinker concludes that there are real threats, but that they are overhyped; some damage is possible, but the threat of extinction is very small. The biggest threat to humanity, he says, is nuclear war (for which he recommends continuing the trend of disarmament, and the other trends that have made war in general less common). He doesn’t recommend ignoring AI safety or counter-bioterrorist programs, but he says there is a real danger of overhyping threats: it can cause misallocations of limited resources, and it can lead to despair from the public who conclude that the world is likely to end literally within their lifetimes.
Having thus made the case for progress, Pinker returns to the ideas that provided its foundation, which he identifies as key themes of the Enlightenment, and calls for these ideas to be strengthened and defended against counter-Enlightenment movements in the culture.
Reason, he points out, is fundamental, and anyone who opposes it is, by definition, unreasonable. Some argue that the existence of cognitive biases, such as those popularized by Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking Fast and Slow, prove that humans are irrational (“predictably irrational”, even). But these biases don’t prevent us from being rational, they’re simply an obstacle to good thinking that we can overcome—using reason. Another obstacle to a rational society is that many people drop reason when it comes to political issues, professing beliefs not as an honest assessment of truth but as an act of allegiance or loyalty to an ideology or tribe. Overall he calls for better education and training on critical reasoning and cognitive debiasing, a more empirical approach to prediction, and the depoliticization of issues as much as possible.
Science, he says, is the proudest accomplishment of our species. Science is distinguished from reason in general by two ideals: that the world is intelligible, and that observation and evidence are the basis of understanding it (the latter is my formulation, he says “we must allow the world to tell us whether our ideas about it are correct”). He defends science against claims that it is to blame for problems such as racism or eugenics. And he calls for science and the humanities to be more integrated, to the benefit of both, rather than seeing themselves as being at odds or in competition.
Humanism, finally, is “the goal of maximizing human flourishing—life, health, happiness, freedom, knowledge, love, richness of experience.” It is a non-religious basis for ethics. It is neither utilitarian (although he admits it has that flavor) nor deontological. It is the standard of value for the entire book, and it is a standard, he says, that people of different races, religions and nationalities can agree on. It clashes, however, with two alternatives. One is theistic morality, which Pinker argues against on the grounds that God does not exist, and that even if he did, he would not be a better source of morality than reason. He argues further against the “faitheists” who don’t believe in God but want to accomodate religion as a source of morality or because of a supposed psychological need for mystical belief. The second enemy of humanism is what he calls “romantic heroism”, which is “the ideology behind resurgent authoritarianism, nationalism, populism, reactionary thinking, even fascism” and which he attributes in large part to Nietzsche. This is the ideology he sees behind the rise of Trump.
Going back to the data, he concludes that long-term trends are working against both theism and authoritarian populism. But a clear and consistent theme of the book is that all of this progress, all these positive trends, are not automatic and must not be taken for granted. His message is not “don’t worry everybody, sit back and relax,” but rather: “let’s do more of what’s working (and not start going in reverse).” To do that, we need to not only keep researching, inventing and building. We also need to rededicate ourselves to reason, science and humanism.
In my opinion, Enlightenment Now is just what the world needs right now. It is a defense of the ideas and values that have created the modern world, and a defense of that world itself. I don’t agree with every word of it, but I agree with its theme and essence.
The weakest aspect of the book, to me, is its morality. “Humanism” is a great start, because it sets the right standard: human life and everything that helps people thrive and prosper. But Pinker largely ignores issues of individualism vs. collectivism, and egoism vs. altruism, that I see as core to the ideological struggles of the modern world.
And closely related, Pinker falls short of painting a truly inspiring, motivating picture, a heroic ideal to strive for. He himself indicates this in the final pages of the book, when he writes: “The case for Enlightenment Now is not just a matter of debunking fallacies or disseminating data. It may be cast as a stirring narrative, and I hope that people with more artistic flair and rhetorical power than I can tell it better and spread it farther.” I hope they do, as well.
But overall, this is a great book, full of profound truths, meticulously researched, lucidly argued, and entertainingly written. Everyone who cares about the big issues of human life, society, politics and culture should read it.
C. R. Hallpike’s book How We Got Here has a few very interesting chapters on primitive cultures. Hallpike, an anthropologist, spent many years living among multiple tribal societies, and he has a keen sense of how they differ from the modern, scientific world.
Here are some of the points I found particularly fascinating, from Chapter 6, “Primitive Thought” (emphasis added in various quotes):
Primitive societies lack quantitative thinking. One tribe lacked basic concepts of measurement and barely had numbers:
When I was living with the Tauade I wanted to ask them for how many years various pieces of land had been lying fallow. (They lived mainly on sweet potatoes, and their gardens only produced for about three years, after which they had to be abandoned for a time.) You might think that ‘How long has this piece of land been fallow?’ is a very ordinary question indeed, the kind that one early farmer, for example, might well ask another, but they were unable to tell me. The reason is that they had no word for year (or for month or week), and would anyway have had great difficulty in keeping a record of them, because they could only count on their fingers and toes, and their words for numbers did not really extend beyond two.
Their thinking is much more qualitative than quantitative:
… hunter-gatherers reckon the passing of the year by their seasonal activities and the availability of different food resources, rather than by a calendar based on twelve lunar months. … Nor do hunter-gatherers divide space by the cardinal points of North, South, East and West, but use specific features of the terrain to orientate themselves. Basic colour terms are often restricted to dark/light, while the names of the chromatic colours are based on a wide variety of actual objects, and their classification of plants and animals is more concerned with practical details than with system: ‘Not only are their taxonomic systems limited in scope but they have a relative unconcern with systematisation’. The whole emphasis of their thought is on the local, the specific, the concrete, and the individual.
Just as they orient themselves in space relative to landmarks rather than an abstract compass rose; so they understand time as a sequence of events rather than an abstract line with even markers of days or hours. If you ask, “What time will you go to Port Moresby?”, the answer would not be “2:00pm”, but it might be, “after the plane has brought my letters to the mission”.
Elaborating on qualitative vs. quantitative:
There is also a general lack of measurement, with no standard units, no rulers, no scales and weights, and no clocks or other ways of measuring time apart from looking at the position of the sun. … While there are always words for big and small, heavy and light, long and short, or near and far, there are no words for size, weight, length, or distance, while big and small, or heavy and light, are seen as different and opposite, not as different points on the same scale or dimension.
They have a poor understanding of causality, and of what kinds of properties can be transmitted between things:
The properties of objects, including people, may also be seen as something that can be transmitted directly between people and objects, and such beliefs are universal in primitive society. So if travellers are very tired on a long journey and fanning themselves with leaves, they may throw the leaves away in the belief that that their tiredness will leave them and pass into the leaves. A mother may not let her children eat the flesh of a species of white-bearded monkey because she thinks that they will catch old age from it. When a tree does not bear fruit, a gardener may ask a pregnant woman to fasten a stone to one of its branches, so that her fertility will pass into the tree, and so on.
(From a certain standpoint this is not unreasonable at a low level of scientific knowledge: illness can be transmitted from person to person by touch or proximity; why not tiredness, old age, or fertility?)
Education as we know it today does not exist. Instead, children are expected to watch and learn by example:
Whereas children in our society learn in the artificial environment of the school where they have to solve problems that are outside their ordinary experience, and engage in debate, in primitive society the child is gradually introduced into the full life of an adult, ‘and is almost never told what to do in an explicit, verbal, or abstract manner. He is expected to watch, learning by imitation and repetition [in the context of ordinary life so that] education is concrete and nonverbal, concerned with practical activity, not abstract generalization. There are never lectures on farming, house-building, or weaving. the child spends all his days watching until at some point he is told to join in the activity.’ The object of education is not cleverness, or to question or experiment or to think for oneself, but good sense, wisdom, and the ability to perform as a good neighbour and kinsman in work and social relations. The child is highly motivated to conform, and his basic learning commitment is not to things or ideas, but to people, especially those closest to him socially.
Mind vs. reality
They have no strong concept of consciouness, or understanding of the distinction between mind and reality. Quoting R. B. Onians:
The Dinka [of the Sudan] have no conception which at all closely corresponds to our popular modern conception of the ‘mind’, as mediating and, as it were, storing up the experiences of the self. There is for them no such interior entity to appear, on reflection, to stand between the experiencing self at any given moment and what is or has been an exterior influence upon the self. So it seems that what we should call in some cases ‘the memories’ of experiences, and regard therefore as in some way intrinsic and interior to the remembering person and modified in their effect upon him by that interiority, appear to the Dinka as exteriorly acting upon him, as were the sources from which they derived. Hence it would be impossible to suggest to Dinka that a powerful dream was ‘only’ a dream, and might for that reason be dismissed as relatively unimportant in the light of day, or that a state of possession was grounded ‘merely’ in the psychology of the person possessed. They do not make the kind of distinction between the psyche and the world which would make such interpretations significant for them.
In particular, they don’t understand that the names of things are not an attribute of the thing itself:
… names are supposed to have been given to things by God, or by the first men, but may still be thought in a sense to be ‘in the things’ or else as being ‘everywhere and nowhere’. Even if we can’t recognise a thing’s name when we see it, the child still supposes that there is an inherent ‘rightness’ about names – the word ‘sun’ involves ‘shining, round, etc’.
This explains some forms of magical thinking:
Once we realise that primitive peoples do not have our idea of the mind we can also understand why they will inevitably think of all the symbols used in their rituals, the water, the garlands, the sacred gates, and so on as having real supernatural power. When we talk of ‘symbolic meaning’ we can use our notion of ‘mind’ to make a clear distinction between the symbol and what it stands for. So when we see an object that has symbolic power, such as our national flag, we regard our feelings about it as existing in our minds and not in the flag itself. But our notion of the mind is not available to primitive man, so for him the power of the symbol can only be located in the object itself.
Although (or because) they don’t make a distinction between the mind and reality, they do assume spirit, consciousness or will in objects and in the world:
… the movement of a body is regarded as due both to an external will and to an internal will, to command and to obedience. There is no transmission of force: ‘the external force simply calls forth the internal force which belongs to the moving object’, as when a child says ‘The road makes the bicycles go.’ The movement of things such as clouds and streams, for example, is seen as inherent in them, and called forth by what they have to do in the scheme of things. The child does not think, then, as we do, of force being transmitted from body to body but as belonging to all bodies, not transmitted but awakened – the weight of a stone, for example, is regarded as a force that actively opposes the efforts of a person to lift it.
And they assign agency and intent to the physical world, imbuing natural events with moral meaning:
Since the primitive world is filled with purpose and meaning, there is no room for our notions of probability and accident in explaining why things happen. For example, if a tree falls on a man and kills him, people will obviously understand, physically speaking, what caused his death but they will also want to know why the tree fell on him, in particular, and not on someone else, or why it killed anyone at all. Because the world has meaning, any event with human significance must have an explanation, and it is only in the case of an insignificant event, such as a tree simply falling down without doing any damage, that they will say ‘It just happened’. … The assumption that significant events must have a meaning in the larger scheme of things, and the inability to think statistically, form, of course, the basis of the universal belief in omens and divination.
I might have surmised that before patent law, inventors had no way of obtaining exclusive privileges to their inventions. But in fact, monopolies of this kind were granted to inventors and craftsmen going back thousands of years. Modern patent law, dating from the early 1600s, was a reform of this practice, limiting it to true inventions, while at the same time establishing the inventor’s right as a principle, and codifying a convention into law.
Here’s the story as excerpted from Chapter 3, “The First and True Inventor”:
In its original meaning, the word “patent” had nothing to do with the rights of an inventor and everything to do with the monarch’s prerogative to grant exclusive rights to produce a particular good or service. The idea of exclusive commercial franchises crops up occasionally throughout history: Five centuries before the Common Era, the Greek colony of Sybaris granted exclusive rights for a year to a cook who invented a particularly good dish … in 1421, the Lords of the Council for the city of Florence granted Filippo Brunelleschi three years’ exclusive use of the boat he designed to move the stones needed to build the great Duomo.
As a word, “patent” enters the lexicon in something approaching its modern meaning in 1449, when the mad king Henry VI signed a document known as a letter patent (so called because such letters were issued openly, rather than under seal; the phrase “patently obvious” is cognate) granting a glazier named John of Utynam a twenty-year exclusive right to use his secret method for making the colored glass to be used at the chapel at Eton College.
The practice, however, escalated problematically under the Tudors:
Patents were a reliable source of revenue for a monarch whose taxing authority was severely circumscribed by Parliament, and a powerful tool for rewarding friends and promoting commerce, even to the point of encouraging skilled craftsmen to immigrate to England. By the time of the last of the Tudors—Elizabeth—the royal trade in patents was, however, dangerously out of control. She granted monopolies for the selling of salt, or making of paper, to courtiers who had two things far more important to the queen than inventiveness: loyalty and ready cash. In 1598 she issued a letter patent to Edward Darcy, a courtier ranking high enough in the Queen’s regard that she admitted him to her Privy Chamber, granting him a monopoly on the manufacture, importation, and distribution of playing cards in England, evidently out of some queenly feeling that her subjects ought to be doing something better with their idle hands than dealing pasteboards with them. Unwilling to ban the practice (a slightly different monopoly had been granted by her father twenty years earlier), she was determined to regulate it, and to enrich one of her court favorites at the same time.
This patent was challenged in court in 1602, and overturned:
Chief Justice Popham … ruled that Darcy’s grant was forbidden on several grounds, all of which violated the common law. The most important one … was the judgment of the court that the Crown could not grant a patent for the private benefit of a single individual who had shown no ability to improve the “mechanical trade of making cards,” because by doing so it barred those who did. In other words, the court recognized that the nation could not grant an exclusive franchise to an individual unless that individual had demonstrated some superior “mastery” of a particular trade. Though it would be twenty years before it would be written, one of the foundations of Britain’s first patent law—the doctrine that patent protection must be earned by demonstrating mastery of the method for which protection was asked—was laid.
About two decades later, the first patent law was written by Edward Coke (prounced “cook”), one of the most prominent and successful lawyers in England:
Coke, who had in the intervening years been made Lord Chief Justice of England, drafted the 1623 “Act concerning Monopolies and Dispensations with penall Lawes and the Forfeyture thereof,” or, as it has become known, the Statute on Monopolies. The Act was designed to promote the interests of artisans, and eliminate all traces of monopolies.
With a single, and critical, exception. Section 6 of the Statute, which forbade every other form of monopoly, carved out one area in which an exclusive franchise could still be granted: Patents could still be awarded to the person who introduced the invention to the realm—to the “first and true inventor.”
This was a very big deal indeed, though not because it represented the first time inventors received patents. The Venetian Republic was offering some form of patent protection by 1471, and in 1593, the Netherlands’ States-General awarded a patent to Mathys Siverts, for a new (and unnamed) navigational instrument. And, of course, Englishmen like John of Utynam had been receiving patents for inventions ever since Henry VI. The difference between Coke’s statute and the customs in place before and elsewhere is that it was a law, with all that implied for its durability and its enforceability.
The importance of patents in the story of progress is that they represent one way that innovation can be rewarded, and thus an incentive to finance it. As I mentioned in a previous post based on Rosen’s book, I am starting to come to the conclusion that means and methods of financing research and development are crucial to this story.
From the time that humans began to leave their nomadic ways and live in settled societies about ten thousand years ago, we have needed to build structures: to shelter ourselves, to store our goods, to honor the gods.
The easiest way to build is with dirt. Mud, clay, any kind of earth. Pile it up and you have walls. A few walls and a thatched roof, and you have a hut.
But earthen construction has many shortcomings. Dirt isn’t very strong, so you can’t build very high or add multiple stories. It tends to wash away in the rain, so it really only works in hot, dry climates. And it can be burrowed through by intruders—animal or human.
We need something tougher. A material that is hard and strong enough to weather any storm, to build high walls and ceilings, to protect us from the elements and from attackers.
Stone would be ideal. It is tough enough for the job, and rocks are plentiful in nature. But like everything else in nature, we find them in an inconvenient form. Rocks don’t come in the shape of houses, let alone temples. We could maybe pile or stack them up, if only we had something to hold them together.
If only we could—bear with me now as I indulge in the wildest fantasy—pour liquid stone into molds, to create rocks in any shape we want! Or—as long as I’m dreaming—what if we had a glue that was as strong as stone, to stick smaller rocks together into walls, floors and ceilings?
This miracle, of course, exists. Indeed, it may be the oldest craft known to mankind. You already know it—and you probably think of it as one of the dullest, most boring substances imaginable.
I am here to convince you that it is pure magic and that we should look on it with awe.
It’s called cement.
Let’s begin at the beginning. Limestone is a soft, light-colored rock with a grainy texture, which fizzes in the presence of acid. Chalk is a form of limestone. What distinguishes limestone and makes it useful is a high calcium content (“calcium” and “chalk” are cognates). Specifically, it is calcium carbonate (CaCO3), the same substance that makes up seashells. In fact, limestone, a sedimentary rock, is often formed from crushed seashells, compressed over eons.
Limestone can be used for many purposes, including fertilizer and whitewash, but its most important industrial use is in making cement. When it is heated to about 1,000 °C (e.g., in a kiln), it produces a powder called quicklime. Chemically, what’s going on is that burning calcium carbonate removes carbon dioxide and leaves calcium oxide (CaCO3 + heat → CaO + CO2).
Quicklime is a caustic substance: touching it will burn your skin (hence “quick”, meaning active, “alive”). But perhaps its strangest property is that when mixed with water, it reacts, giving off heat—enough to boil the water! The result, called “slaked” or “hydrated” lime, is calcium hydroxide (CaO + H2O → Ca(OH)2 + heat).
Further, if you pour a lime-water slurry into a mold, not too thick, and expose it to the air, a still more amazing thing happens: in a matter of hours, the mixture “sets” and becomes once again as hard as stone. The calcium hydroxide has absorbed CO2 from the air to return to calcium carbonate (Ca(OH)2 + CO2 → CaCO3 + H2O), completing what is known as the “lime cycle”.
In other words, by mixing with water and air, this powder—a basic cement—has turned back into rock! If this technology hadn’t already existed since before recorded history, it would seem futuristic.
The product of a pure lime cement is too brittle and weak to be very useful (except maybe as a grout). But we can make it stronger by mixing in sand, gravel or pebbles, called “aggregate”. Cement, water and sand produce mortar, a glue that can hold together bricks or stones in a masonry wall. Adding gravel or pebbles as well will make concrete, which can be poured into molds to set in place. (The terms “cement” and “concrete” are often conflated, but technically, cement is the powder from which mortar and concrete are made; concrete is the substance made by adding aggregate and is what constitutes sidewalks, buildings, etc.)
This basic technology has been known since prehistoric times: the kilning of limestone is older than pottery, much older than metalworking, and possibly older than agriculture. But over the millenia, better formulas for cement have been created, with superior mixtures of ingredients and improved processes.
Pure lime cement needs air to set, so it can’t set if poured too thick, or underwater (for instance, on a riverbed to form the base of a column for a bridge). The Romans, who were great users of cement, discovered that adding volcanic ash, called pozzalana, to lime would produce a cement that sets even underwater; this is called a “hydraulic cement”. They used this “Roman cement” to build everything from aqueducts to the Colosseum. Another common hydraulic cement, called “natural cement”, is formed from a mixture of limestone and clay, which sometimes occur together in natural deposits.
Since the mid-1800s, the most widely used cement is a type called Portland cement. Without going into too much detail, this is made through an unintuitive process that involves heating a lime-clay slurry to the point where it fuses together into a hard substance called “clinker”. Clinker was originally considered waste material, a ruined product—until it was discovered that grinding it into powder produced a cement that is stronger than Roman or natural cement. (!) Today a wide variety of cements are available on the market, optimized for different conditions.
No matter the formula, however, all cements have one shortcoming: they are very strong under compression, which is the kind of strength needed in a column or wall, but weak under tension, which comes into play, for instance, when a beam buckles under load. The Romans dealt with this problem using arches, which direct forces into compression along the arch. Medieval builders created the pointed Gothic arch, which could stretch even higher than the round Roman ones, and the flying buttress, which added support to the walls of their tall cathedrals.
But in the twentieth century, a new way of building took over: reinforcing the concrete with steel. Steel, unlike concrete, has high tensile strength, so this “reinforced concrete” is strong under both compression and tension. The reinforcement bars created for this purpose are called “rebar.” Reinforcement allows concrete to be used not only for foundations, walls and columns, but for cantilevered structures such as the decks of Fallingwater.
This is cement. We start with rock, crush and burn it to extract its essence in powdered form, and then reconstitute it at a place and time and in a shape of our choosing. Like coffee or pancake mix, it is “instant stone—just add water!” And with it, we make skyscrapers that reach hundreds of stories high, tunnels that go under the English channel and the Swiss Alps, and bridges that stretch a hundred miles.
A close runner-up is The Alchemy of Air, by Thomas Hager. It’s the story of the Haber-Bosch process for creating synthetic ammonia, which is crucial for producing the fertilizer needed to feed the seven billion or so people on Earth today. In Hager’s phrase, it turns air into bread.
Early in this project, I read a few broad survey books to get an overview of the subject. One was A Brief History of How the Industrial Revolution Changed the World, by Thomas Crump. I learned a lot from this but I couldn’t help thinking that I should have learned a lot more. I walked away feeling I had gotten many pieces of a story, but not sure if I’d gotten all the pieces, or exactly how they all fit together. (This is a failing of many history books, especially when they tackle broad subjects.)
I also read The Knowledge: How to Rebuild Civilization in the Aftermath of a Cataclysm, by Lewis Dartnell. I have no interest in apocalyptic scenarios, but this book is a good survey of the key technologies of industrial civilization. However, I was only able to retain pieces of it—I may return to skim it after completing my initial study of the history of technology, at which point I may have enough context for more of it to stick.
One focus of my reading this year has been materials, since they’re one of the bigger parts of the story of technology, both before the Industrial Revolution and during it. The very archaeological ages we use are named after materials, from the Stone Age to the Iron Age. For a survey, I read Making the Modern World: Materials and Dematerialization, by Vaclav Smil (or the first few chapters of it, which were the ones relevant to me). Smil’s writing is dense at every level, but he does a good job of surveying and summarizing, so his books are good to get an overview.
In addition to reading about technology, I occasionally pick up a book that tries to get at the bigger picture (although I’m deliberately limiting this until I have more context on the details). The book that in a way started this project was A Culture of Growth: The Origins of the Modern Economy, by Joel Mokyr. I had to skim large sections of this book, including the initial chapters, but the gems I found in the rest were worth it, particularly the material on Francis Bacon, whom I had not appreciated before.
Finally in this category, I read The Ascent of Man, by Jacob Bronowski, based on his TV series of the same name. I enjoyed this one as well, but given the grand scope indicated by the title I was hoping for it all to add up to something more. Instead, I found it episodic: a series of stories, only loosely connected. My favorite chapter was the one on Galileo; I learned many new details about his conflict with the Church.
Rounding out the list, the most unusual book of the year perhaps was Before the Dawn: Recovering the Lost History of Our Ancestors, by Nicholas Wade. This filled out the earliest part of the timeline for me, from the first stone tools used by the ancestors of our species millions of years ago; to the first glimmers of more abstract conceptual thought tens of thousands of years ago, as evidenced by art and religion; to the beginnings of settled societies and agriculture. (Unfortunately, the author’s other books seem problematic, including one that tries to argue for an evolutionary basis for faith, and I don’t think I’ll read more from him.)
In addition to these books, I wrote 34 posts (including this one) for this blog in 2017, the first year of this project.
If you enjoy black & white movies, medical dramas, and strong, independent women fighting the establishment, I recommend Sister Kenny (1946).
Elizabeth Kenny was an Australian nurse (not a nun) who developed a unorthodox treatment for the symptoms of polio that could in many cases reverse paralysis and allow children to walk again. Her methods were opposed for decades by the medical establishment in Australia, Britain, and the US – because she was a nurse, not a doctor; because she was a woman; and because she used nonstandard terminology to describe her observations and theories.
The movie, based on her 1943 autobiography And They Shall Walk, dramatizes her work and her battle with the doctors who ignored and ridiculed her. I enjoyed it as a portrait of someone deeply devoted to her work, and committed to the truth and to her patients even in the face of decades of opposition.
One tragic element of the movie is that Kenny never married, despite being engaged to a man she loved. She postponed the marriage and ultimately broke off the engagement so that she could continue her work—because at the time, a woman could not work as a nurse after she was married. This part of the story, as far as I can tell, is not true (her fiancé was invented for the movie), but the social situation it dramatizes was real. I’m glad that today, women aren’t forced to choose between a career and personal happiness.
Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, invented in 1793, is rightfully one of the most famous inventions of the Industrial Revolution. It separates the lint of the cotton plant, which thread and ultimately cloth is made of, from the sticky seeds—a process that, done by hand, is the definition of “tedious”.
As told in Stephen Yafa’s history of cotton, Whitney invented the device after plantation owner Katy Greene invited him to sit in on a meeting of Southern cotton farmers:
Their common problem, he quickly discovered, was that they had no way to remove the stubborn green seeds of upland cotton from the fibers except by hand, and so they planted it only sparingly. Each five-hundred-pound bale of upland took as many as sixteen months of a single slave’s dedicated work to separate. The cost of feeding and clothing the slave for that period cut deeply into profits. The farmers’ other crops—rice, tobacco, corn, and indigo—were barely providing a livelihood. Tobacco exhausted the land and could not be trusted to provide steady future income. The British were expanding their indigo plantations in Bengal, weakening the market for American dyestuff. Wetland rice required special conditions for cultivation, insuring that it would never be a widespread crop. …
Green-seeded cotton grew like kudzu in this climate; there was a fortune waiting to be made and no way to make it. What to do? “Gentlemen, apply to my young friend, Mr. Whitney,” Katy told the assembled group of frustrated farmers. “He can fix anything!”
Ten days later Whitney came back with a working model of his cotton gin—crude, but essentially governed by mechanical design principles that are still in operation today. No engineers since have reinvented a better gin; they’ve simply built better versions of Whitney’s original. Legend has it that Whitney’s inspiration came as he was roaming the plantation grounds pondering how to solve the problem and paused to watch a cat hunt down a chicken. At the last moment the chicken fled and the cat’s lunging paw came away with only a few feathers. Why then try to separate the seeds of upland cotton from its fibers? Why not instead build a device to separate the fibers from the seeds? Small difference, huge implications. If Whitney’s machine could allow the fibers to be pulled away while creating a barrier that held back the seeds, the claws could exert enough force to yank the fibers free.
That elegantly uncomplicated premise led Whitney to build an apparatus that duplicated the motions of the slaves who cleaned cotton manually. He fashioned a mesh sieve or hopper with narrow slits in it running lengthwise to do the work of the hand holding the seed. On the surface of a drum rotating around the hopper he duplicated fingers pulling off the lint by attaching wire claws that protruded through the slits; these hooks grabbed the lint and wrenched it away from the seeds, which were held in check by the tight mesh. A cylindrical brush swept off the freed lint. This hand-cranked contraption, the cotton gin, was, in Whitney’s words, “an absurdly simple contrivance”—and unfortunately for Whitney, he was right: it was all too easy to copy.
The need for a better way to remove seeds from cotton was well-known, and it was clear that a solution would have huge economic value.
The solution was not obvious—it did require a flash of mechanical insight—but it did not take Whitney long to come up with it; only ten days (!) after encountering the problem. And note that Whitney had not been thinking about the problem for a long time (he had come to the South to be a tutor, and only took on the problem when that job fell through); so this is not a case of “prepared mind”, except in the very general sense that Whitney was an experienced mechanical engineer.
The solution was simple: so simple, in fact, that Whitney had a hard time receiving patent royalties for his invention, because any plantation owner could rig one up in his shed.
Unlike the steam engine, the invention did not require any special principles of physics, just simple mechanical ingenuity. Nor did it require any special or newly invented materials, only wood and metal.
Given the above I see no reason why the cotton gin couldn’t have been invented a century or more earlier than it was. Given the economic need, there was a strong incentive for its invention. So why did it wait so long?
The patent on the cotton gin, number 72X, was one of the earliest in America, filed only a few years after the first Patent Act. So one might be tempted to treat this as a case of patent law unleashing the creative force of entrepreneurial inventors. Certainly Whitney sought to make money from his invention (even if he was largely unsuccessful), and Greene, who sponsored his work, must have had this in mind as well. But suppose the Patent Act hadn’t been passed yet in 1793. Would Greene not have encourage Whitney to work on this problem that was so important to Southern plantation owners? Would Whitney not have bothered to solve it?
My personal, as-yet-unproven hunch is that cultural factors were significant here. This was the very dawn of the Industrial Revolution in America. People had not yet learned to expect mechanical inventions to revolutionize every aspect of life. They were used to the status quo and did not yet have “the idea of progress”, at least not in the industrial sense.
The pesticide DDT is well-known for being one of the first targets of the environmentalist movement—attacked by Rachel Carson in her seminal book Silent Spring. But do you know what farmers used as pesticide before chemical advances such as DDT?
That’s right, arsenic, or at least compounds of it such as lead arsenate and calcium arsenate, was the first insecticide. As described by Stephen Yafa in his history of cotton:
The poison arrived in two popular compounds, calcium arsenate and highly toxic copper acetoarsenite, commonly known as Paris green. Farmers applied three million pounds of those powders in that year . “I carried poison to the cotton fields maybe four or five rows and… shake that sack over the cotton and when I’d look back, heap of times… that cotton would be white with dust, behind me,” [farmer Nate] Shaw recalled late in life, “and I’d wear a mask over my mouth—still that poison would get in my lungs and bother me.”
Arsenic is potent, and caused lots of problems:
As a youngster [farmer Marshall] Grant was given the job of pulling a mule duster to apply calcium arsenate over infested plants. He soon learned to wear long pants to protect his skin against the stinging powder. He also took showers day and night. The papers were full of stories about children on farms forgetting to wash up, becoming violently ill from the dust, and occasionally dying. Rains carried the insecticide into nearby streams. After a few years, most of the rabbits and small game that Grant (and Shaw, in Alabama) loved to hunt began to disappear.
Arsenic left over in the soil from the early 20th century is still a problem today for some crops.
In this context, it’s easy to see how synthetic insecticides were a major advance:
They came out of wartime experiments and killed a wide variety of insects on contact, while arsenic had to be ingested. In 1939 a Swiss chemist, Paul Müller, discovered that an organic chlorine originally synthesized in the nineteenth century killed insects with remarkable efficiency. That poison with an unpronounceable name quickly became known by its initials, DDT. From the moment of its appearance, DDT was hailed as the twentieth century’s miracle disease-eradicator, and by 1943 it was solely responsible for keeping thousands of GIs alive. By then, more American soldiers were dying from insect-borne diseases in the tropical Pacific than from combat. As many as 50 million civilians had died from malaria and typhus during the previous decade. DDT powder quickly began to reverse that carnage by eliminating the insects responsible, along with houseflies, bedbugs, fleas, hornflies, and lice.
I have been wondering about the question in the title since I began this study.
The Scientific Revolution began in the 1500s; the Industrial Revolution not until the 1700s. Since industrial progress is in large part technological progress, and technology is in large part applied science, it seems that the Industrial Revolution followed from the Scientific, as a consequence, if not necessarily an inevitable one. Certainly the modern world would not be possible without modern science. Computers are completely dependent on our understanding of electricity, modern medicine and agriculture on biology, plastics and metals on chemistry, engine design on thermodynamics.
But how direct is the link? The inventors who kicked off the Industrial Revolution were not scientists, and I have read that they were not even well-educated in the latest science of their day. The steam engine, that singular invention that is taken to mark the beginning of the industrial age, was created well before the science of thermodynamics that would explain it. The great achievement of science prior to that age, Newton’s theory of motion and gravitation, did not lead directly to inventions that I know of, at least not in the late 18th or early 19th century.
Some light was shed on this question in The Most Powerful Idea in the World, by William Rosen, a history of steam power and the early industrial age. Specifically, in reading it, I discovered much more direct links than I was previously aware of.
The first direct link is that, while the steam engine did not depend on Newton’s laws or on thermodynamics, it did depend on understanding, at least qualitatively, the properties of the vacuum and the nature of atmospheric pressure. The first steam engines worked by creating a vacuum inside a piston and allowing atmospheric pressure to push the piston down (it wasn’t until much later that high-pressure steam would do the pushing). That this could happen would not have been obvious to a pre-scientific tinkerer. The properties of the vacuum were investigated by scientists in the 16th and 17th centuries, and the use of vacuum to drive a piston in particular was demonstrated to the Royal Society by Denis Papin in the late 1600s.
The second direct link is that the inventors of the time corresponded with scientists, as a part of the “Republic of Letters.” In particular, Thomas Newcomen, inventor of the first steam engine, corresponded with the great physicist Robert Hooke. They discussed the engine in particular, and Hooke specifically advised Newcomen in 1703 to drive the piston purely by means of vacuum.
I also discovered other, less direct links, that nonetheless help explain why the Industrial Revolution did indeed depend on the Scientific:
Inventors may not always have been directly applying scientific theory, but they were inspired and instructed by the emerging scientific method. James Watt, who greatly improved the efficiency of the Newcomen engine with his separate condenser, approached the problem by making systematic, detailed measurements. John Smeaton did the same thing for waterwheels, systematically experimenting to find the most efficient designs. Rosen writes:
Smeaton’s greatest contribution was methodological and, in a critical sense, social. His example showed a generation of other engineers how to approach a problem by systematically varying parameters through experimentation and so improve a technique, or a mechanism, even if they didn’t fully grasp the underlying theory. He also explicitly linked the scientific perspective of Isaac Newton with his own world of engineering: “In comparing different experiments, as some fall short, and others exceed the maxim … we may, according to the laws of reasoning by induction conclude the maxim true.”
Early inventions may not have been based directly on scientific theories, but they did require general literacy and knowledge of measurement and mathematics. The Scientific Revolution created a market for this kind of knowledge:
By the start of the eighteenth century … mechanics, artisans, and millwrights, who had been taught not only to read but to measure and calculate, started to apply the mathematical and experimental techniques of the sciences to their crafts.
… a market had emerged in which an English ironmonger could learn German forging techniques, and a surveyor could acquire the tools of descriptive geometry. …
The dominoes look something like this: A new enthusiasm for creating knowledge led to the public sharing of experimental methods and results; demand for those results built a network of communication channels among theoretical scientists; those channels eventually carried not just theoretical results but their real-world applications, which spread into the coffeehouses and inns where artisans could purchase access to the new knowledge.
Put another way, those dominoes knocked down walls between theory and practice that had stood for centuries.
The successes of the Scientific Revolution, and Newton’s achievement in particular, provided inspiration to innovators for centuries to come. It was proof that we could advance knowledge, that we could understand the world, that science and mathematics were powerful tools. It was a down payment on Bacon’s promise: that life could be bettered through the discovery of useful knowledge.
Knowledge, method, and inspiration are three key factors making invention possible. The Most Powerful Idea also helped show me that there is at least one more: financing. But that’s a subject for another post.
If you think politics today is divisive, if you think politicians can get away with anything, I give you… the Brooks–Sumner Affair.
In 1856, Massachussets Senator Charles Sumner, an abolitionist, gave a now-famous speech, “Crime Against Kansas”, against admitting Kansas to the Union as a slave state. In the speech he insulted South Carolina and in particular mocked its Senator Andrew Butler:
He has chosen a mistress to whom he has made his vows, and who, though ugly to others, is always lovely to him; though polluted in the sight of the world, is chaste in his sight—I mean the harlot, Slavery.
Butler’s cousin Preston Brooks, a South Carolina Congressman, was infuriated. He was going to challenge Sumner to a duel for the insult—but a fellow Congressman convinced him that this was too honorable and that Sumner should be humiliated with a public caning. (!)
So two days later, Brooks approaches Sumner on the Senate floor, and, before Sumner can even get up, starts to beat him—repeatedly, on the head, using a thick cane with a gold knob, as hard as he can, not even stopping when his cane breaks into pieces. Sumner is bleeding and trying to get away, and other Congressmen are trying to help him, but they are blocked by Brooks’s accomplices. Finally someone manages to intervene. Sumner survives, badly injured. Brooks exits, leaving the broken cane on the bloody Senate floor.
What were the consequences for Brooks, let alone his accomplices? Sumner became a martyr in the North, but Brooks a hero in the South.
Brooks’s constituents bidded for pieces of his broken cane; he boasted that “the fragments of the stick are begged for as sacred relics.” Southerners sent Brooks new canes, showing their approval of the attack. One was inscribed: “Hit him again!” The Richmond Enquirer praised the attack as “good in conception, better in execution, and best of all in consequences.” (!)
He was tried in a DC court and convicted of assault. His punishment? A $300 fine. No prison sentence.
But at least he lost his seat in Congress, right? Nope. There was a motion to expel him from the House it failed. So Brooks resigns, in order to let his constituency cast their judgment. The re-elect him immediately. His two accomplices similarly escape punishment.
Got all that? A Congressman brutally, physically attacks a Senator, on the Senate floor, gets away with it, and is hailed as a hero. Imagine the shock, revulsion and horror if anything like that happened today.
Lessons? One, an illustration of the hostilities that led to the Civil War. Two, Steven Pinker was right re: the decline of violence.
Most of The Roots of Progress so far has been about technology, with a bit here and there on science and perhaps philosophy. But as I stated at the beginning, I am interested in progress of all kinds: technological, scientific, and political/moral. Pinker’s book was about political and moral progress throughout human history, specifically from the standpoint of the decline of force and violence.
It is the kind of book I would be proud to have written: a fascinating, important topic; rigorous analysis integrating tons of empirical data within a broad philosophical framework; clear and even entertaining exposition.
It is a long book: thorough and dense (although very readable). As such it will be difficult to summarize. But let me try to recount what I’ve learned.
The first major step in the decline of violence was the establishment of government: the transition from tribal existence to life under a king or other local ruler. Life in tribes was a life of constant warfare. Pinker estimates that government alone, any functioning government, reduces the rate of violent death fivefold compared to pre-state society. He calls this the Pacification Process.
The second major step is what he calls the Civilizing Process: a process by which, over centuries, individuals living within state societies became less violent towards each other. He documents a long downwards trend in homicide rates: In England, for instance, from a peak of somewhere between 10 and 100 murders per 100,000 people per year in the 1300s, the rate declined steadily over the centuries to less than 1. Similar declines are seen all over the civilized world, and they are accompanied by similar declines in violent crime in general. (Pinker also addresses why crime rates have not fallen as far in America as they have in Western Europe (short answer: the South), and why crime rates actually rose in the ’60s and then fell again in the ’90s (short answer: the Counterculture).)
With the Enlightenment came what he calls the Humanitarian Revolution. Slavery, a practice older then civilization, was outlawed around the world. Cruel and unusual punishments were abandoned, especially the use of torture: in medieval times, torture was applied even for minor crimes (or what today are non-crimes, such as blasphemy), and far from abhorring it, the public enjoyed it as a spectacle, even as entertainment. (!) War, previously seen as noble and glorious, came to be seen as a form of hell that civilized people should avoid at all costs. Pinker documents the overall decrease in deaths from war, despite the outliers of the World Wars in the first half of the 20th century. He notes that the great powers have not gone to war for for 70 years, that the Cold War ended without erupting, and that the threat of nuclear war has been kept at bay, all of which would have seemed like a ridiculously optimistic prediction to an observer circa 1950.
Finally, there were the Rights Revolutions of the twentieth century—civil rights, women’s rights, children’s rights, gay rights, and even animal rights—in which the “circle of sympathy” was expanded and the principles underlying the previous centuries of progress were universalized to include people of all races, ages, genders, etc.
The sum of all of this: a consistent downward trend in virtually all forms of violence, over the long term, pretty much everywhere.
What caused this? And, as I asked in another context, how do we keep it going? Pinker rigorously examines many hypotheses for each decline, and the causes he finds are many and complex. However, there are some broad themes. The ones that stand out to me (Pinker summarizes it somewhat differently) are:
Government. Government, as a stage of advancement past tribal existence, is the first step in the process, greatly reducing the deaths from tribal warfare. But early states were not much more than bigger tribes under badder warlords. Violence continued to decline as states were consolidated under more powerful kings, who quelched infighting among the lords subservient to them; and more-civilized behavior “trickled down” from the aristocracy to the rest of society. Finally, the Enlightenment saw the rise of democratic republics in place of monarchy. This form of government is built on a principle of eliminating certain kinds of force and violence, and, since it holds its leaders accountable to the people, is also the form that is best at preventing war.
Commerce. The growth of economic activity reduces violence in multiple ways. Societies that embrace it move from plunder and conquest as a way of life to production and trade. It also increases communication and exchange between peoples, which makes them more likely to like and trust each other and less likely to see another nation or race as a dangerous or odious Other that must be fought and destroyed.
Reason. Ultimately, violence has declined because it just makes sense. It’s better for everybody. The advance of reason shows this to all. Reason helps us see that war is bad, that if someone insults us we don’t need to kill them in a duel, that women are people rather than property. And reason gives us the universalizing ability that broadens our perspective and our circle of sympathy to include all human beings, and to see them as equally possessing of individual rights.
I must include a word on Pinker’s methodology. For me, Better Angels sets a new standard for what social/political/philosophic writing can be:
The analysis is empirical, in the best sense of the word. It is based on history and on facts. In particular, wherever possible, it is based on quantitative data. At the same time, Pinker summarizes the data and boils it down to key comparisons and trends, so you don’t drown in it. And he doesn’t shy away from broad abstractions, unifying themes, or deep, philosophic causes.
Pinker explains not only what we know but how we know it. This goes far beyond citing his sources. When he uses data, he explains which data sets he’s using and why, how he is combining them, and any key points about how they were collected. When dealing with a tricky question such as how much of a trait is hereditary vs. environmental, he explains the various ways one can determine the answer, and then examines each one systematically.
He considers multiple hypotheses to explain a phenomenon: not just the one he thinks is true, but all plausible hypothses he knows of, and gives the evidence for and against each before coming to his conclusion. Even when he believes he has identified the cause of a trend, he considers counter-arguments and alternate explanations, and deals with them.
When evaluating a possible causal connection, he is not content to combine correlation of A and B with a plausible causal story linking them. He points out that in many such cases, the hypothesized causal connection is in fact a chain of connections, and he examines each individual link in the chain, looking both for plausible reasoning and for data to back up the specific link. He uses this both in positive cases, to make the strongest possible argument for an effect, and in negative cases (such as tearing down the flimsy hypothesis, popularized by Freakonomics, that Roe v. Wade led to the ’90s crime decline). This is a new technique for me and one I’m sure I will employ in the future.
For me personally, there were a few interesting takeaways from the book. The biggest is that it gives an overview of the government/morality row in the overview chart I presented in “Charting progress”. This book is close to a summary of exactly what I had in mind for that row, and now I have a lot more substance to it and a framework for thinking about these issues.
It also gave me an even stronger appreciation for the excellence of the times we live in. The safest and most peaceful time in history is right now.
The book also made me more sympathetic to arguments for gun control and against torture and the death penalty. (It didn’t make me any more sympathetic to the animal rights movement, although for what it’s worth I don’t think Pinker is necessarily very sympathetic to animal rights; he and I agree, though, that burning cats alive as public sport, as they did in the Middle Ages, is disgusting and it’s a good thing we don’t do that anymore.)
But the most intriguing idea to me is the notion of the expanding circle of sympathy: the realization that until recently, most people, even the most enlightened intellectual leaders, simply didn’t see all of humanity as fully human.
From our modern standpoint this is simply bizarre, and I’m still struggling to comprehend it. Furthermore, I can’t analyze it with any of the moral philosophy that I’ve studied. I’m used to thinking about things like duty- vs. value-based morality, subjective vs. objective morality, or reason- vs. faith-based morality. I’m used to asking questions like “what does this ethical code hold as its ultimate good or standard of value?” and “what does this morality hold as the essence of virtue?” But none of these ideas help me understand why someone could think deeply about the universal rights of mankind and not comprehend that these apply to women or blacks. When I began this project, I suspected that there was a story here that devleoped in parallel with the progression in government from anarchy to tyranny to liberty. Now I’m sure of it, and I want to learn more.
This weekend I went to the San Francisco Map Fair, a delightful exhibition of mostly antique maps. My eye was caught by an unusual map of the world centered on a northern point quite near the North Pole, with North America, Europe and Asia splayed out in a circle around it. There was a thin, dark band running a wavy course across the map, from the East coast of North America across the Atlantic, through Europe, down the Arabian peninsula, and ending in what is marked on the map as Ceylon. Around the edges of the map are various circles with crescents.
It was an eclipse map… from 1748.
With eclipses still on my brain from the Great American Eclipse last month, and encouraged by my amazing wife, I bought it. I spent some time this afternoon poring over it and researching its background.
The main question in my mind was, how did they predict eclipses in this much detail using 18th-century technology?
Having a BS in computer science (and a few summers of interning in a computing department at NASA when I was in school), I know how you could do this today: just punch the position, velocity and mass of the Sun, Earth and Moon into a computer simulation, and integrate Newton’s laws. The gravitational equation tells you the acceleration on each body; multiply that by dt (delta-time) to get a small change in velocity; multiply velocity by dt to get a small change in position. Repeat for as many timesteps as it takes to move the simulation forward to the desired eclipse. (That’s probably not accurate enough; you can make the simulation more accurate by adding in the other planets, or modeling the topography of the Earth or Moon, or accounting for relativity, or whatnot.)
But this involves untold numbers of multiplications and additions (millions? billions?), to many decimal places. Surely this can’t be how astronomers did it before computers. Yet, here we are with detailed eclipse predictions, seemingly down to the arcminute, in 1748.
An afternoon of online research was only moderately enlightening. Rough predictions of eclipses have been made for millenia. Multiple ancient civilizations from the Babylonians to the Chinese kept detailed records of eclipses. From centuries of records, patterns emerged, most notably the Saros cycle: the Sun, Moon and Earth return to approximately the same relative positions on a period of just over 18 years.
This allows you to predict the date and time of eclipses based on past observations. Indeed, Columbus used this level of prediction in 1504 to convince the Arawak natives he was butting heads with that his god was angry with them, thus resolving the conflict and laying the seeds of a plot device that would be used in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court and countless other hackneyed stories.
The date and time are all you need for a lunar eclipse, which can be seen at the same time by everyone who can see the Moon. But a solar eclipse looks different from different points on Earth, and totality (when it occurs) can only be seen from within a narrow band. For centuries, it was possible to predict when a solar eclipse would happen, but not where you’d be able to see it from.
How exactly these calculations were made, I’m a bit fuzzy on. From what I can piece together, they were done with a series of approximations. The ancient Greeks had a few terms of the series. Tycho Brahe and Kepler added a few more. By around 1650 the first eclipse map was made.
Newton’s theory helped. In the Principia (published in 1687) he applied the idea of universal gravitation to explain how the Sun pulls on the Earth and Moon unequally and how this perturbs the Moon’s orbit. Somehow, through calculations that are too complicated for me to follow, he was able to use this to better predict the Moon’s position. Again, this seems to have been done through a series of approximations (and not, at any rate, through direct simulation).
In 1715, Edmond Halley (who would later become famous for predicting the return of the comet named after him) used Newton’s theory to make a map of an eclipse that was due to pass over London.
Halley explained his motivation:
The like Eclipse having not for many ages been seen in the Southern Parts of Great Britain, I thought it not improper to give the Publick an Account thereof, that the sudden darkness, wherein the Starrs will be visible about the Sun, may give no surprize to the People, who would, if unadvertized, be apt to look upon it as Ominous, and to interpret it as portending evill to our Sovereign Lord King George and his Government, which God preserve. Hereby they will see that there is nothing in it more than Natural, and no more than the necessary result of the Motions of the Sun and Moon; And how well those are understood will appear by this Eclipse.
Halley put out a plea to the public for observational data (an early instance of “citizen science” presaging the modern era of amateur astronomers sharing observations with academics?) He was off by only 4 minutes and 20 miles.
The map I found at the fair was published in 1748, by which time eclipse maps were apparently a thing. Unlike Halley’s simple map focused on England, it shows the full path of the eclipse across much of the world, including the initial and final locations of the penumbra, and the degree of the eclipse as seen from various cities. It, and other eclipse maps over the years, were published in Gentleman’s Magazine (an early periodical that covered a broad variety of topics for the educated public, and that for a time was employer to Samuel Johnson).
It’s amazing to me how much people were able to do, by hand—not only in predicting the eclipse but in creating a map like this. And it’s fascinating to see the spirit of the Enlightenment developing through events like these, as the general public took an interest in science and Newton’s theory showed the world that the universe is governed by natural laws which we can learn and master—a crucial development in the idea of progress.
A summary of what I have learned so far about the story of materials. I still have a lot to learn here, but a picture is emerging.
The story of materials is a part of the story of manufacturing, which is what I’m calling the general area of technological and economic development that can simply be understood as “making things”. “Manufacturing” itself, in this definition, is one of five broad areas that I’ve identified in my overall study of material progress.
In pre-historic tribes, people used the materials provided to them by nature. Having no settled society and no division of labor to speak of, there was little opportunity to process materials in any but the most rudimentary of ways. So, they were limited to:
Stone, which they fashioned into tools for cutting, breaking and scraping
Wood, in its natural form (sticks, branches, tree trunks)
Animal products: skins, bone, perhaps organs (such as a bladder used as a pouch)
Other plant products, such as vines, grass or straw for weaving
With scant materials and little time, and subject to the constraints of a nomadic existence, there were only a few kinds of things they could make:
A limited number of small goods, mostly tools & weapons
Primitive clothing from animal skins
Maybe some simple shelters, like a lean-to
Basic watercraft, such as rafts or dugout canoes
Starting with the advent of agriculture and settled societies about 10,000 years ago, people had time and space to experiment with new ways of processing materials and to accumulate capital equipment for doing so, from furnaces to mills. In this period, even before the Industrial Revolution, mankind developed most of the basic materials of the modern world.
I see five major categories of general-purpose materials from this era (a sixth was added in the Industrial Age):
Metal, especially iron and copper (and their alloys, such as steel and bronze)
Wood, now in mass-produced form (timber)
Stone, now used less for tools and more for construction
Clay, baked into bricks and fired into pottery
Glass, typically blown
This is not an exhaustive categorization. Rubber, for instance, is an important (if minor) general-purpose material, but it doesn’t really fall in any of the categories above. (I am not sure that an exhaustive categorization is useful.)
I call these “general-purpose” materials because they can be used for a variety of important products. There were also a few special-purpose materials, used mainly for one kind of product, that are important enough to deserve mention:
Textiles, especially cotton and wool, for clothing and other fabrics
Paper, a specialized wood product
Concrete, which could almost be considered a liquid form of stone
With these new materials, and thanks to a division of labor, we made many more things, such as:
A much wider variety of small goods, espeically out of metal
Clothing from textiles
Buildings and infrastructure
Many kinds of vehicles: carts and wagons, boats and ships, eventually carriages
In the Industrial Age, we have mostly kept using all the same materials as before, but:
All the materials got cheaper and at the same time higher quality, especially metals, due mainly to improved processes.
We made a wider variety of special types of materials, such as alloys, with different properties.
We created machines to do a lot of the work for us, which again reduced labor (and therefore cost) and improved consistency and quality.
(In metal and glass, processes seem to be most important; in textiles, I think it was the machines.)
We also invented one major new material: plastic. Plastic is a wonder material with amazing properties. It is light, but can be made strong. It can easily be made into any desired shape through a variety of manufacturing techniques. It can be made rigid or flexible. It can be made any color, even transparent. And it’s extremely cheap. This combination of properties led to it replacing metal, wood, clay and glass for many applications. (We’ve even made new textiles out of it.)
Finally, an entire new industry arose—electronics—that required new properties of materials (such as conductivity or resistance), and that ultimately gave rise to a whole class of special-purpose materials: semiconductors.
In each age, as certain materials arise, most of the other ones continue to be used, but some fall away. We don’t use animal bladders as water pouches anymore. And some become luxury goods, like leather and ivory, because animal production couldn’t scale (this was a significant motivation for the invention of plastics.)
I recently finished The Alchemy of Air, by Thomas Hager. It’s the story of the Haber-Bosch process, the lives of the men who created it, and its consequences for world agriculture and for Germany during the World Wars.
What is the Haber-Bosch process? It’s what keeps billions of people in the modern world from starving to death. In Hager’s phrase: it turns air into bread.
Some background. Plants, like all living organisms, need to take in nutrients for metabolism. For animals, the macronutrients needed are large, complex molecules: proteins, carbohydrates, fats. But for plants they are elements: nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium (NPK). Nitrogen is needed in the largest quantities.
Nitrogen is all around us: it consitutes about four-fifths of the atmosphere. But plants can’t use atmospheric nitrogen. Nitrogen gas, N2, consists of two atoms held together by a triple covalent bond. The strength of this bond renders nitrogen mostly inert: it doesn’t react with much. To use it in chemical processes, plants need other nitrogen-containing molecules. These substances are known as “fixed” nitrogen; the process of turning nitrogen gas into usable form is called fixation.
In nature, nitrogen fixation is performed by bacteria. Some of these bacteria live in the soil; some live in a symbiotic relationship on the roots of certain plants, such as peas and other legumes.
Nitrogen availability is one of the top factors in plant growth and therefore in agriculture. The more fixed nitrogen is in the soil, the more crops can grow. Unfortunately, when you farm a plot of land, natural processes don’t replace the nitrogen as fast as it is depleted.
Pre-industrial farmers had no chemistry or advanced biology to guide them, but they knew that soil would lose its fertility over the years, and they had learned a few tricks. One was fertilization with natural substances, particularly animal waste, which contains nitrogen. Another was crop rotation: planting peas, for instance, would replace some of the nitrogen in the soil, thanks to those nitrogen-fixing bacteria on their roots.
But these techniques could only go so far. As the world population increased in the 19th century, more and more farmland was needed. Famine was staved off, for a time, by the opening of the prairies of the New World, but those resources were finite. The world needed fertilizer.
An island off the coast of Peru where it almost never rains had accumulated untold centuries of—don’t laugh—seagull droppings, some of the world’s best known natural fertilizer. An industry was made out of mining guano on these islands, where it was piled several stories high, and shipping it all over the world. When that ran out after a couple decades, attention turned inland to the Atacama Desert, where, with no rainfall and no life, unusual minerals grew in crystals on the rocks. The crystals included salitre, or Chilean saltpeter, a nitrogen salt that could be made into fertilizer.
It could be made into something else important, too: gunpowder. It turns out that nitrogen is a crucial component not only of fertilizer, but also of explosives. Needing it both to feed and to arm their people, every country considered saltpeter a strategic commodity. Peru, Chile and Bolivia went to war over the saltpeter resources of the Atacama in the late 1800s (Bolivia, at the time, had a small strip of land in the desert, running to the ocean; it lost that strip in the war and has remained landlocked ever since).
By the end of the 19th century, as population continued to soar, it was clear that the Chilean saltpeter would run out within decades, just as the guano had. Sir William Crookes, head of the British Academy of Sciences, warned that the world was heading for mass famine, a true Malthusian catastrophe, unless we discovered a way to synthesize fertilizer. And he called on the chemists of the world to do it.
Nearby, in Germany, other scientists were thinking the same thing. Germany was highly dependent on salt shipped halfway around the world from Chile. But Germany did not have the world’s best navy. If—God forbid—Germany were ever to be at war with England (!), they would quickly blockade Germany and deprive it of nitrogen. Germany would have no food and no bombs—not a good look, in wartime.
The prospect of synthesizing fixed nitrogen was tantalizing. After all, the nitrogen itself is abundant in the atmosphere. A product such as ammonia, NH3, could be made from that and hydrogen, which of course is present in water. All you need is a way to put them together in the right combination.
The problem, again, is that triple covalent bond. Owing to the strength of that bond, it takes very high temperatures to rip N2 apart. More troublesome is that ammonia is by comparison a weak molecule. So at temperatures high enough to separate the nitrogen atoms, the ammonia basically burns up.
Fritz Haber was the chemist who solved the fundamental problem. He found that increasing the pressure of the gases allowed him to decrease the temperature. At very high pressures, he could start to get an appreciable amount of ammonia. By introducing the right catalyst, he could increase the production to levels that were within reach of a viable industrial process.
Carl Bosch was the industrialist at the German chemical company BASF who led the team that figured out how to turn this into a profitable process, at scale. The challenges were enormous. To start with, the pressures required by the process were immense, around 200 atmospheres. The required temperatures, too, were very high. No one had ever done industrial chemistry in that regime before, and Bosch’s team had to invent almost everything from scratch, pioneering an entirely new subfield of high-pressure industrial chemistry. Their furnaces kept exploding—not only from the pressure itself, but because hydrogen was eating away at the steel walls of the container, as it forced into them. No material was strong enough and inexpensive enough to serve as the container wall. Finally Bosch came up with an ingenious system in which the furnaces had an inner lining of material to protect the steel, which would be replaced on a regular basis.
A further challenge was the catalyst: Haber had used osmium, an extremely rare metal. BASF bought up the entire world’s supply, but it wasn’t enough to produce the quantities they needed. They experimented with thousands of other materials, finally settling on a catalyst with an iron base combined with other elements.
This is the Haber-Bosch process: it turns pure nitrogen and hydrogen gas into ammonia. The nitrogen can be isolated from the atmosphere (by cooling air until it condenses into liquid, then carefully increasing the temperature: different subtances boil at different temperatures, so this process separates them). Hydrogen can be produced from water by electrolysis, or, these days, found in natural gas deposits. The output of the process, ammonia, is the precursor of many important products, including fertilizers and explosives.
The new BASF plant that Bosch built began turning out tons of ammonia a day. It beat out all competing processes (including one that used electric arcs through the air), and provided the world with fertilizer—cheaper and of more consistent quality than could be obtained from the salts of Chile, which were abandoned before they ran out.
Haber-Bosch fed the world—but it also prolonged World War I, and later helped fuel the rise of Hitler.
The Alchemy of Air is as much about the lives of Haber and Bosch, and what happened after their process became a reality, as it is about the science and technology of the process itself. Even though the technology was my main interest this time, I found the history captivating.
Haber was a Jew, at a time when Jews were second-class citizens in Germany. Rather than denouncing the society he lived in, this seemed to cause Haber to seek its approval. After his scientific achievement with ammonia, he got a high-status job at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institutes in Berlin, and sought to be an adviser to the Kaiser himself. Jews were barred from military service, but Haber was able to become a science adviser to the military—even pioneering the use of poison gas in WW1, a role that left him with a reputation as a war criminal.
Haber believed that if Jews showed what good, patriotic German citizens they could be, they could eventually be accepted as equals. Decades later, when the Nazis came to power and began “cleansing” Jews first out of the German government, then out of all of society, Haber saw his dream of acceptance fall completely to pieces. He died, shortly before WW2, in great distress.
Bosch, on the other hand, held liberal political views and was against the Nazis. He even tried to speak out against them, and in a personal meeting with Hilter made a futile argument for freedom of inquiry and better treatment of the Jews. But at the same time he made deals with the Nazis to secure funding for his chemical company—by then he was the head, not only of BASF, but of a broader industry association called IG Farben. He was building a massive chemical plant in the heart of Germany, at Leuna, to produce not only ammonia but also what he saw as his magnum opus: synthetic gasoline, made from coal. In the end Farben became virtually a state company and provided much of the material Germany needed for WW2, including ammonia, gasoline, and rubber.
Bosch died shortly after the war began. On his deathbed, he predicted that the war would be a disaster for Germany. It would go well at first, he said, and Germany would occupy France and maybe even Britain. But then Hitler would make the fatal mistake of invading Russia. In the end, the skies would darken with Allied planes, and much of Germany would be destroyed. It happened as he predicted, and Bosch’s beloved Leuna was a major target, ultimately crippled by wave after wave of Allied bombing raids.
Synthetic ammonia is one of the most important industrial products of the modern world, and so Haber-Bosch is one of the most important industrial processes. Around 1% of the total energy of the economy is devoted to it, and Hager estimates that half the nitrogen atoms in your body came from it. It’s a crucial part of the story of industrial agriculture, and so a crucial part of the story of how we became smart, rich and free.
The story of humanity – evolution of our species; prehistoric shift from foraging to permanent agriculture; rise and fall of antique, medieval, and early modern civilizations; economic advances of the past two centuries; mechanization of agriculture; diversification and automation of industrial protection; enormous increases in energy consumption; diffusion of new communication and information networks; and impressive gains in quality of life – would not have been possible without an expanding and increasingly intricate and complex use of materials. Human ingenuity has turned these materials first into simple clothes, tools, weapons, and shelters, later into more elaborate dwellings, religious and funerary structures, pure and alloyed metals, and in recent generations into extensive industrial and transportation infrastructures, megacities, synthetic and composite compounds, and into substrates and enablers of a new electronic world.
This material progress has not been a linear advance but has consisted of two unequal periods. First was the very slow rise that extended from pre-history to the beginnings of rapid economic modernization, that is, until the eighteenth century in most of Europe, until the nineteenth century in the USA, Canada, and Japan, and until the latter half of the twentieth century in Latin America, the Middle East, and China. An overwhelming majority of people lived in those pre-modern societies with only limited quantities of simple possessions that they made themselves or that were produced by artisanal labor as unique pieces or in small batches – while the products made in larger quantities, be they metal objects, fired bricks and tiles, or drinking glasses, were too expensive to be widely owned. The principal reason for this limited mastery of materials was the energy constraint: for millennia our abilities to extract, process, and transport biomaterials and minerals were limited by the capacities of animate prime movers (human and animal muscles) aided by simple mechanical devices and by only slowly improving capabilities of the three ancient mechanical prime movers: sails, water wheels, and wind mills. Only the conversion of the chemical energy in fossil fuels to the inexpensive and universally deployable kinetic energy of mechanical prime movers (first by external combustion of coal to power steam engines, later by internal combustion of liquids and gases to energize gasoline and Diesel engines and, later still, gas turbines) brought a fundamental change and ushered in the second, rapidly ascending, phase of material consumption, an era further accelerated by generation of electricity and by the rise of commercial chemical syntheses producing an enormous variety of compounds ranging from fertilizers to plastics and drugs.
And so the world has become divided between the affluent minority that commands massive material flows and embodies them in long-lasting structures as well as in durable and ephemeral consumer products – and the low-income majority whose material possessions amount to a small fraction of material stocks and flows in the rich world. Now the list of products that most Americans claim they cannot live without includes cars, microwave ovens, home computers, dishwashers, clothes dryers, and home air conditioning (Taylor et al., 2006) – and they have forgotten how recent many of these possessions are because just 50 years ago many of them were rare or nonexistent. In 1960 fewer than 20% of all US households had a dishwasher, a clothes dryer, or air conditioning, the first color TVs had only just appeared, and there were no microwave ovens, VCRs, computers, cellphones, or SUVs.
In contrast, those have-nots in low-income countries who are lucky enough to have their own home live in a poorly-built small earthen brick or wooden structure with as little inside as a bed, a few cooking pots, and some worn clothes. Those readers who have no concrete image of this great material divide should look at Peter Menzel’s Material World: A Global Family Portrait in which families from 30 nations are photographed in front of their dwellings amidst all of their household possessions (Menzel, 1995). And this private material contrast has its public counterpart in the gap between the extensive and expensive infrastructures of the rich world (transportation networks, functioning cities, agricultures producing large food surpluses, largely automated manufacturing) and their inadequate and failing counterparts in poor countries.
Here’s something I’ve been working on: summarizing human progress in a sort of timeline/chart.
This one charts progress in technology and production.
On the vertical axis I have five categories: manufacturing, energy, biology, transportation and information. This is the categorization I’m working with now, only slighly evolved from the one I discussed recently.
The horizontal axis is time. I’m dividing all of human history into three broad eras:
Pre-civilization, stretching from the beginning of behaviorally modern humans 50,000 years ago until the development of settled societies and agriculture
Pre-industrial, from the first civilizations to the start of the Industrial Revolution
Industrial, the modern period of developed industry
Very roughly, the first is the Stone Age, the second combines the Bronze and Iron Ages, and the last is the Industrial Age or Industrial Revolution.
In this one, I’ve zoomed out. The whole first chart is condensed to a single row. This is the overview of human progress. Now, the vertical axis separates the three broad areas I see: technology, science, and government. I’ve also replaced the “Industrial” period here with a “Modern” period, which I think has to go back at least 400 years to the beginnings of the Scientific Revolution.
Both charts are a first draft. I’m not happy with the box in the middle, which is why it has a question mark. I have a lot more to learn here.
And of course, everything here is radically simplified and condensed. I’ve chosen only a few representative facts to stand for a whole complex set of phenomena; many details are left out. But there’s something powerful in being able to see the whole of human progress in nine boxes.
50,000 years ago, our ancestors lived at the mercy of nature. They had stone tools, and the use of fire—and not much else. They had no agriculture: they survived by hunting and foraging. They had no medicine. They had small boats to travel short distances on water, but on land they had to walk, and anything they took had to be carried. They had language, but no writing. Of course, they had no science. And they had only the tribe to protect them: no police, no courts, no law. In short, their lives were characterized by abject poverty, superstition born of ignorance, and constant tribal warfare.
We have come a very long way. We live in buildings, not caves. We are surrounded by mass-manufactured products made of steel, glass and plastic. We extract vast sums of energy buried in the ground and we make it do our bidding. We have all the food we could want—so abundant and delicious that we have to restrain ourselves from eating too much. We have antibiotics and laser surgery. We zip around the world at hundreds (and maybe soon thousands) of miles an hour. We can communicate with anyone, anywhere, anytime, instantly. And all of this is made possible by a vast and rapidly expanding scientific knowledge of the world. Further, we live in relative peace and freedom, made possible by governments that maintain law & order—and the institutions of democracy and republicanism that keep those governments in check. In short, compared to our prehistoric ancestors, we are smart, rich and free.
This story would be amazing enough in itself. But even more astonishing is that out of those 50,000 years, most of this progress has been made in the last 1% of that time. We owe the modern world to three revolutions—the Scientific Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, and the American Revolution—all of which are less than 500 years old.
Anyone who loves human life must, I submit, be at least a little awestruck by these facts. And any society that values life ought to ask itself three crucial questions:
How did we get here? What were the steps of this amazing journey?
Why did it take so long? Why did humanity have to suffer and die for tens of thousands of years before we finally found the keys to progress?
How do we keep it going? And even speed it up? Conversely, what could threaten to slow, stop, or even reverse it?
This is what Roots of Progress is about.
There are many theories about why this progress happened (and why it happened when and where it did). But to start I’m just concerned with what. What happened? My first goal is to get clear on that and to be able to summarize it and understand its structure.
I’m starting with technology and production—the “rich” part. But long-term I want to study the growth of science & knowledge as well, and also the progress in morality and politics.
I’m now reading Jacob Bronowski’s The Ascent of Man (the book version of the television documentary series).
In Chapter 2 he talks about the transition from nomadic life to settled societies. He puts great emphasis on the transition, saying “I believe that civilisation rests on that decision.” To drive the point home, he tells the story of the Bakhtiari tribe in Persia, to illustrate how “civilisation can never grow up on the move”.
I found this passage fascinating and moving:
It is not possible in the nomad life to make things that will not be needed for several weeks. They could not be carried. And in fact the Bakhtiari do not know how to make them. If they need metal pots, they barter them from settled peoples or from a caste of gipsy workers who specialise in metals. A nail, a stirrup, a toy, or a child’s bell is something that is traded from outside the tribe. The Bakhtiari life is too narrow to have time or skill for specialisation. There is no room for innovation, because there is not time, on the move, between evening and morning, coming and going all their lives, to develop a new device or a new thought – not even a new tune. The only habits that survive are the old habits. The only ambition of the son is to be like the father.
It is a life without features. Every night is the end of a day like the last, and every morning will be the beginning of a journey like the day before. When the day breaks, there is one question in everyone’s mind: Can the flock be got over the next high pass? One day on the journey, the highest pass of all must be crossed. This is the pass Zadeku, twelve thousand feet high on the Zagros, which the flock must somehow struggle through or skirt in its upper reaches. For the tribe must move on, the herdsman must find new pastures every day, because at these heights grazing is exhausted in a single day.
Every year the Bakhtiari cross six ranges of mountains on the outward journey (and cross them again to come back). They march through snow and the spring flood water. And in only one respect has their life advanced beyond that of ten thousand years ago. The nomads of that time had to travel on foot and carry their own packs. The Bakhtiari have pack-animals – horses, donkeys, mules – which have only been domesticated since that time. Nothing else in their lives is new. And nothing is memorable. Nomads have no memorials, even to the dead. (Where is Bakhtyar, where was Jacob buried?) The only mounds that they build are to mark the way at such places as the Pass of the Women, treacherous but easier for the animals than the high pass.
The spring migration of the Bakhtiari is a heroic adventure; and yet the Bakhtiari are not so much heroic as stoic. They are resigned because the adventure leads nowhere. The summer pastures themselves will only be a stopping place – unlike the children of Israel, for them there is no promised land. The head of the family has worked seven years, as Jacob did, to build a flock of fifty sheep and goats. He expects to lose ten of them in the migration if things go well. If they go badly, he may lose twenty out of that fifty. Those are the odds of the nomad life, year in and year out. And beyond that, at the end of the journey, there will still be nothing except an immense, traditional resignation.
Who knows, in any one year, whether the old when they have crossed the passes will be able to face the final test: the crossing of the Bazuft River? Three months of melt-water have swollen the river. The tribesmen, the women, the pack animals and the flocks are all exhausted. It will take a day to manhandle the flocks across the river. But this, here, now is the testing day. Today is the day on which the young become men, because the survival of the herd and the family depends on their strength. Crossing the Bazuft River is like crossing the Jordan; it is the baptism to manhood. For the young man, life for a moment comes alive now. And for the old – for the old, it dies.
What happens to the old when they cannot cross the last river? Nothing. They stay behind to die. Only the dog is puzzled to see a man abandoned. The man accepts the nomad custom; he has come to the end of his journey, and there is no place at the end.
One thing I realized reading a book on the Industrial Revolution is that to understand what happened in it, I really need to understand the state of technology just before.
As primitive as the world of 1700 was by modern standards, humans had come a long way from the caves and had figured a lot of things out. At the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, we already had metalworking, pottery and glassblowing; coal mining and charcoal production; crop rotation; wind and water mills; paved roads; large ships and global navigation; wool, cotton and silk; intricate machinery and many kinds of tools—to name a few.
But if I’m going to understand those technological advances, then I’m going to need to learn what came before them—and the logical conclusion is that I need to go all the way back to prehistoric times.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m going to begin at the beginning.
First, human-like species—who used stone tools and so seem to have had some level of conceptual consciousness; colloquially, “cavemen”—have existed for about 2.5 million years. This is the Homo genus, although they were not all Homo sapiens (who didn’t appear until about 200,000 or maybe 300,000 years ago); it includes our ancestors and cousins, such as Homo erectus and the Neanderthals.
Stone tools were the first invention, dating back to the beginning of that 2.5-million year period, eventually including simple hand tools such as axes and spears. Maybe a million years later or more, other cavemen learned to control fire, and at some point began cooking their food. They lived in tribes, hunting and foraging together, possibly caring for their weak and infirm, and burying their dead. But other than stone tools, fire, and simple tribal behavior, they had almost nothing else, for most of that 2.5 million years—including at least 100,000 years or more of Homo sapiens existing.
Then, around 50,000 years ago (give or take), sapiens seems to have made a conceptual leap. Tool-making became more advanced, with more sophisticated and specialized stone tools, as well as tools made out of new materials, such as bone. They made boats and learned to fish. They established long-distance trade networks. And they developed art and religion.
This period, awkwardly known as the Upper Paleolithic, may have begun with the invention of language. The people of this era are known as “behaviorally modern humans”, in contrast with the “anatomically modern humans” that existed for 100,000+ years before.
It is unclear to me whether Homo sapiens were biologically capable of higher abstractions the whole time, and only actually developed them 50,000 years ago, or whether something changed biologically to make them capable of more abstract thought. It seems a good hypothesis, at least, that the other human species had some intermediate level of conceptual functioning, higher perhaps than any animal but maybe stuck at the level of development of a small child.
Behaviorally modern humans soon left Africa, where they evolved, conquering the world and wiping out the Neanderthals and other human species. They migrated (over thousands of years) throughout Europe and Asia, sailed on boats down to Australia, and crossed the Bering land bridge to the Americas (this was during an ice age, and sea levels were hundreds of feet lower than today, turning islands into continents and straits into isthmuses).
Civilization as we know it, however, was still tens of thousands of years coming. That would need to wait for settled societies, and agriculture—which didn’t happen until 10,000 to 15,000 years ago.
Just look at this (incredibly simplified) timeline:
2,500,000 years ago: Stone tools
50,000 years ago: Language
5,000 years ago: Writing
500 years ago: Science
What is striking to me is the exponential pace of progress. The gap from each milestone to the next is far greater than the time from that milestone until now.
As I read about the Industrial Revolution and about pre-industrial technologies, I’m starting to think about how to categorize them. It helps to break things down into a handful of broad categories at the top level. That way you can tell the story of each one and then integrate those threads into an overall narrative; you can survey a given age easily by looking across the top-level categories, etc.
At the moment I’m working with six top-level categories:
This is far from settled in my mind but it’s working relatively well. I have on my desk a 1000-page Encyclopedia of the History of Technology and I went through the table of contents, and everything seemed to fit.
Manufacturing seems like the broadest and most complex, and might be the most difficult to work with. It encompasses materials, since materials and manufacturing processes are tightly intertwined and the whole point of materials is to make things. It also encompasses construction and architecture. And it encompasses chemicals, which I’m starting to learn are an important part of the story.
“Information” encompasses communication, calculation, and measurement. Fifty years ago this might not have seemed like one category: different machines and companies were used for each. But today these have all converged in the computer—not unlike how fuel and motion technology converged into the “energy” field with the invention of the steam engine.
I suspect in the future, agriculture and medicine may undergo a similar convergence under some form of biotechnology, and I’m considering putting them together in a “biology” category.
One that’s not on this list, but that I’m wondering about, is finance. This doesn’t seem like a “technology”, exactly, but it’s certainly a form of progress, with prehistoric beginnings (the invention of money) all the way through to modern derivatives trading. Along the way there were some milestones, such as the modern corporation, that play an important part in the story of the Industrial Revolution. So the story of finance needs to be told somewhere.
Another category that might come to mind is infrastructure. But it seems to me that rather than a separate category, it’s just a part of the story of multiple categories, mostly transportation (rail, roads, canals) but also energy (power lines) and communication (starting with the telegraph). I’m not quite sure where to put things like water and sewage, those seem like health technologies and maybe should go together with medicine.
There is a story here like the story of the steam engine. Before industrial transportation, people had to use what was available—what nature gave them. And of the options nature gave them, the most convenient was travel by water.
Ground is inconsistent. It has steep hills, even mountains and valleys. It can be rock, gravel, or sand; hard or soft; dry or swampy. And worst of all, it has friction.
Water is flat and level. It’s pretty much the same anywhere. And you can glide right over it, even with an enormous amount of cargo, as long as you can build a big enough boat to carry the load and still float. Better still, rivers have a consistent, predictable direction. As long as the river is going where you want to go, it’s like a natural moving walkway: just get on it and go.
On land, you (or your animals) have to walk, or if you want to roll on wheels, you need to massive infrastructure investments to pave roads or lay track.
So most transportation, especially for commerce, was by water, and that the biggest cities were ports on the coast or on major rivers. Shipping is still, today, the cheapest way to transport cargo.
However, like everything else nature gives us, travel by water has its inconveniences. At sea, sailors rely on the wind. Rivers have a consistent current, but they go where they want, not where people necessarily want to travel. Not all parts of them are navigable: some may be too narrow, too shallow, or too rocky, not to mention the possibility of waterfalls. And rivers change with the seasons and the weather: sometimes flooding, sometimes drying up, sometimes freezing (which can happen to lakes as well).
One early step in conquering travel was the digging of canals. I always thought of canals as bridging two bodies of water, like at Panama or Suez. But apparently they can also be used to straighten rivers or get around unnavigable parts of them. I’ve only caught hints of this in my reading so far.
The Industrial Revolution brought steamboats—which let you travel without wind, or upriver—and later, trains. In order to get from the stationary steam engines of Newcomen and Watt, to steam-powered vehicles, I gather, the engines had to be made smaller/lighter. I think this was accomplished by creating high-pressure engines, which were more compact yet more dangerous. (The internal combustion engine, I think, can be made smaller and lighter still, which is why the automobile wasn’t invented in the age of steam.) Crump is frustratingly light on details; I’ll have to research more elsewhere.
Why do trains trun on tracks, and pull cars of cargo? They were an evolutionary development from what already existed at coal mines. Mines ran track from the mouth of the mine down to the river, and cars would be filled with coal and then coasted downhill or pulled by horses. Trains were just a matter of hooking a steam engine to this existing technology.
After writing on the Malthusian Trap, I solicited comments from some friends who are knowledgeable about economics. One thing they confirmed for me is that, yes, it’s literally true that (at least in some places and times, such as Ireland in the early 1800s?) a man’s land would be divided up among his descendants, so that each generation was farming a smaller plot until they could barely sustain themselves.
After all this, my general conclusion is that the idea of population growth bumping up against resource limits is real, but that it needs reformulation.
Here again is the formulation from that Atlantic article, the key phrase being “stable supply”:
If lots of people died, incomes tended to go up, as fewer workers benefited from a stable supply of crops. If lots of people were born, however, incomes would fall…
Malthus himself seems to have been a little better: he at least allowed that production could be increased; he just assumed that it could be increased at most linearly. He doesn’t seem to have had much basis for this, except for an argument from failure of imagination:
If I allow that by the best possible policy, by breaking up more land and by great encouragements to agriculture, the produce of this Island may be doubled in the first twenty-five years, I think it will be allowing as much as any person can well demand.
In the next twenty-five years, it is impossible to suppose that the produce could be quadrupled. It would be contrary to all our knowledge of the qualities of land. The very utmost that we can conceive, is, that the increase in the second twenty-five years might equal the present produce. … The most enthusiastic speculator cannot suppose a greater increase than this.
(From the aforementioned Essay, chapter 2. To be fair, the whole of human history up to that point (1798) seemed to bear him out.)
What both formulations gloss over is the fact that humans work to create their own sustenance.
With that fact firmly in mind, the notion of a constant level of production in the face of a rising population, or that of an arithmetically increasing level of production with a geometrically increasing population, implies diminishing productivity per capita as population increases. So what would cause this?
Causal factors might include limits on:
Resources and capital: as population grows, marginal (less productive) resources are exploited (e.g., less fertile soil is farmed)
Labor mobility, both in the figurative sense of changing careers and the literal sense of moving to another region where there is more opportunity
Information: even if there is opportunity in another town and you could get there, you might not know about it
The ability to organize new ventures, even if there is theoretically some opportunity to be taken advantage of
Some part of these limits was technological, some political (e.g., the power of guilds), and some philosophical (tradition and custom).
That formulation I can believe and understand. The “static pool of wealth” theory is simplistic.
Turning Malthus’s principle around, we can say this: In order to support an exponentially growing population, and indeed to increase that population’s quality of life, technology and society have to exponentially increase our ability to take advantage of the resources of the earth. They need to advance fast enough for per-capita productivity to increase, even as the population overall increases and we have to make use of marginal resources.
Thanks to Ray Niles and Rob Tarr for their comments, which influenced this post.
One idea I’ve heard repeatedly is that before the Industrial Revolution, people were stuck in a “Malthusian Trap”. E.g., from this blog post in The Atlantic:
In the thousands of years before the Industrial Revolution, civilization was stuck in the Malthusian Trap. If lots of people died, incomes tended to go up, as fewer workers benefited from a stable supply of crops. If lots of people were born, however, incomes would fall, which often led to more deaths. …
After a plague, a roughly stable supply of food and goods shared among a smaller number of people made everybody richer. That is, until births rose, and incomes fell again.
Something about this doesn’t quite make sense to me. Why is the “supply of food and goods” “roughly stable”? That supply is still produced by people. More people, more work, more goods. If people die, why does the food just keep coming? If people are born, can’t they work and produce?
Now, maybe the limiting factor at some point is not labor but land. Surely, given a certain level of technology, there is a certain carrying capacity to the land. Maybe civilization was right at that point?
But then, say more people are born, but there isn’t enough land for them all to work productively. What happens? Are the farms overstaffed, with hands who don’t have enough to do? Is there unemployment? But it’s not as if everyone, even in ancient times, worked on farms. Wouldn’t people leave farms and try to find another craft? Or was the pull of tradition too strong?
Or maybe I’m being a little anachronistic by even trying to analyze pre-industrial societies in terms of economic concepts like unemployment? I don’t know much about feudal Europe, but as I recall, serfs worked the land without owning it. Maybe if there were more people, they just got smaller plots of land to work? Maybe there was no market for labor to speak of?
But also, if a population is at the carrying capacity of the land, wouldn’t that spur migrations? Wouldn’t the people without farms head off in search of land? Was Europe already saturated? Was India? Was China??
And is the idea that every industry is at capacity? So, not only is there not enough land to farm, but there aren’t enough mines to dig, there’s not enough cotton to spin, there aren’t enough fish to catch, there aren’t enough bricks to lay, there aren’t enough trees to cut, etc. Because if there were capacity in any of these areas, the “extra” people could go work there and increase the overall wealth of an economy. (Again, assuming there is some labor mobility.)
I suppose, conceivably, that without the right technology you’d have an imbalance of goods in the economy. So maybe people can smelt a lot of iron, but that just makes iron relatively cheap while people are starving because food is expensive.
But anyway, if you want to explain why GDP per capita was roughly flat for thousands of years, isn’t the answer simply that productivity didn’t increase much because technology wasn’t advancing much?
And if you want to explain why GDP per capita went up and down over the centuries, as in the last graph in part 3 of that blog post series, then aren’t there probably other factors, like variations in climate affecting agricultural output?
In any case, the whole notion of the Malthusian Trap, even as something that was only operative in the technologically stagnant pre-industrial world, just doesn’t sit right with me. It seems to assume a static flow of goods, ignoring the fact that goods are produced by people. I don’t understand it.
I learned a lot of tidbits from it, such as how many different steps there are in producing wheat, or in making penicillin. But the biggest thing that stands out to me is realizing how certain chemicals, themselves, are useful products, and how they need to be created through industrial processes, just like cars or shirts.
When you hear about the Industrial Revolution, you hear about things like Bessemer steel or the power loom. But I never had “chemicals” in my head as a whole category of things that need to be made. The Knowledge mentioned, among other things, calcium carbonate, which is contained in limestone, and various kinds of acids and alkalis. But maybe the most striking to me was nitrogen, which is used for agriculture. Apparently the only way to increase productivity of land past a certain point is to inject nitrogen into the soil to help plants grow, and the way to do that is to mass-produce it, through something called the Haber-Bosch process.
Anyway, “chemicals” need to go in my list of technologies somewhere, probably under the broad heading of manufacturing/materials.
One observation from my reading so far: everything that nature gives us is in a highly inconvenient form.
For one, everything we need is mixed up with a lot of stuff that we don’t. Metal comes to us in ore, oxidized and mixed with rock, which needs to be smelted. Kernels of grain are nutritious, but they’re encased in hard, fibrous, indigestible material and need to be threshed out. Cotton can be made into cloth, but first you must remove the seeds, straighten the fibers, etc. Antibiotic penicillin is secreted by molds, but to be a usable medicine it need to be extracted from the “mold juice.” A lot of industrial processes are separating, distilling, and purifying materials.
For another, nothing is found exactly where or when you need it. Deposits of clay used for bricks may not be near the fertile field where a farmer wants to build his house. Rivers flow where they want, and the wind blows at whim. Naturally growing fruits, vegetables and roots are scattered randomly throughout fields and forests, inconvenient for harvesting. The grain may not grow near the mill, nor the cotton near the loom.
So a lot of industrial processes come down to: extracting useful materials from the environment, making them into the form or the products we want, moving them to the place where we want them, and making them available on demand.
There are no “natural” resources. Everything nature gives us is wrong somehow. Through effort and ingenuity we make natural materials and energy into what we need.
Did you just spell “melting” wrong, with an extra letter? No, smelting is the process of extracting a metal from its ore.
Before I started this project I had a very vague notion of what ancient smelting was like. I pictured it something like this: “ore” is like a rock with some little bits of metal mixed in. You make a bonfire and you hold the rock over the fire with, like, tongs or something. The rock heats up and the metal in it melts and drips out, leaving… a rock with holes in it, like Swiss cheese. Maybe you hold a pan under it to catch the dripping metal.
Smelting is nothing like this:
Ore is not a mixture of rock and metal. The metal itself is often oxidized. So you’re not just separating metal and rock, you actually need a chemical transformation to strip away the oxygen.
You don’t heat the ore over the fire. You actually dump the ore and the fuel together into the furnace and ignite the entire mess. The molten metal drips down. In some furnaces it collects in the bottom in a “bloom”, a blob of hot metal that you pull out with tongs. In other furnaces (hotter ones, I presume), liquid metal runs out and down channels into molds.
There are often other substances involved too, including some that play a role called “flux”; I’m still fuzzy on this but it’s something like a catalyst. And there are other substances that come out of the furnace, including “slag”, which I think is the impurities that are separated out of the ore.
Here’s a good YouTube video showing the smelting process:
And here’s another showing smelting and then forging of the resulting bloom:
Some observations from watching this and the charcoal video:
All this stuff is a lot of work. The videos only show snippets, but you can tell that each process takes hours and hours of hard physical labor. And the result in the end is unimpressive by modern standards. Watch the end of that last video: Hours of pounding a piece of metal with a hammer, reheating it, and pounding it some more, and you end up with… something that is finally, recognizably “a piece of metal”. It’s not even useful for anything yet.
At every stage of the process, there is no guidance and no guarantee of success. Does this dirt contain iron ore? Not sure… it looks kind of red, so maybe. Is the fire hot enough? Not sure… oops, we didn’t get a good bloom, maybe not. You can go through the whole smelting process and just end up with a piece of slag. You could make a charcoal pile and come back days later only to find that you didn’t burn it correctly and your wood didn’t char properly.
Here’s another example of my staggering ignorance of basic technology.
I heard long ago that steel is an alloy of iron and carbon. Only recently did I learn that cast iron is also an alloy of iron and carbon—and that steel actually has a lower carbon content than cast iron: under 2% carbon for steel, vs. more like 3–4% for cast iron. So steel is, in a sense, more iron than “iron”. Pure iron, it turns out, is too soft and not very useful.
When we talk about “steel”, we usually mean “steels”; broadly speaking, steels fall into four groups: carbon steels, alloy steels, tool steels, and stainless steels. These names can be confusing, because all alloy steels contain carbon (as do all other steels), all carbon steels are also alloys, and both tool steels and stainless steels are alloys too.
That clears that up!
As an aside, another mistaken notion I had was that steel was invented in the 19th century. I thought this because I had an idea that early trains and tracks were made of iron, and later converted to steel. But it turns out steel has been made since antiquity—what was invented in the 19th (or early 20th?) century was cheap steel, that is, better processes for manufacturing steel more cheaply and reliably.
I’m in the stage of my reading where my knowledge of how much there is to learn is expanding faster than my actual knowledge. So the more I read, the more I realize how ignorant I am of the very basics of industrial civilization. So many simple questions I’d never even thought of, let alone knew the answer to.
Here’s one: What is charcoal, exactly? And how is it related to coal?
It turns out these two have nothing to do with each other. Coal is a rock you dig out of the ground (that much I knew). Charcoal is a man-made product, and it’s made from wood.
You make charcoal by heating wood to high temperatures in the absence of oxygen. This can be done with ancient technology: build a fire in a pit, then bury it in mud. The results is that the wood partially combusts, removing water and impurities and leaving behind mostly pure carbon.
The benefit of charcoal vs. wood is that it burns hotter and cleaner. The temperature is, I think, important for purposes such as smelting. The cleanliness matters for health vs. hazard of the working conditions around a furnace, and may also affect the resulting metal—I’m not clear on this part.
This general process of partially combusting a fuel by heating it in the absence of oxygen is called charring, and it can be applied to coal as well. Confusingly, charred coal is called “coke”. This was important for converting the British iron industry from wood to coal.
Update:Here’s a ~5-minute video of someone actually making charcoal from scratch in the woods (via the Primitive Technology channel on YouTube). Good illustration of the process.
Reading about the original steam engines raised a question for me: What did the term “engine” even mean before the steam engine?
The first steam engine was called an “engine”, so the word was around and it meant something. And I knew the term “siege engine”, which I guess refers to catapults and things. But today the term mostly refers to something that takes fuel and combusts it somehow to generate motion, usually turning a shaft of some kind. What did it mean before any such invention existed?
Wikipedia confirms my understanding of the contemporary meaning of the term:
In modern usage, the term engine typically describes devices, like steam engines and internal combustion engines, that burn or otherwise consume fuel to perform mechanical work by exerting a torque or linear force (usually in the form of thrust). Devices converting heat energy into motion are commonly referred to simply as engines. Examples of engines which exert a torque include the familiar automobile gasoline and diesel engines, as well as turboshafts. Examples of engines which produce thrust include turbofans and rockets.
Reading the rest of that page, it seems that the term originally referred to any (complex?) mechanical device that took any form of energy and converted it into useful mechanical motion. So something hooked up to a wind or water mill, or even powered by humans or animals, would be called an engine.
Before the steam engine, if you wanted to generate useful motion—to grind wheat, to saw logs, to pump water—you had to rely on natural forces. You could harness wind or water, with mills. Or you could use muscle power—from domesticated animals, or failing all else, on your own.
But all these sources of energy, by themselves, have serious limitations. Wind and water are not portable: you have to go where they are, and their energy cannot be used elsewhere. Wind, especially, is unreliable: the wind blows when it wants to, and you can’t turn it on or off. And all of them are limited: you can’t make the river stronger, or design a more efficient horse.
Separately, for many thousands of years, mankind was in control of fire. We could create heat by burning fuel, such as wood or coal. But in 1700, these two had nothing to do with each other.
The significance of the steam engine is that it was a way to turn heat into motion. With this ingenious device, we could now use fuel instead of wind, water or muscle power. In fact, the Newcomen engine was originally called a “fire engine”.
Fuel can be transported, so engines can operate anywhere. Fuel can be burned at any time, and can be started and stopped at will. If you need more energy, you can use more fuel—as much as you can afford. And through mechanical innovations, we can improve the efficiency and the power of engines.
So the steam engine solved all of the problems with natural forces at once. I’m still early in my reading, but that, it seems to me, is why the steam engine was such a turning point and why it kicked off the Industrial Revolution.
As I mentioned in the previous post, the engine works by letting steam into a chamber, then spraying a bit of cold water into the chamber to condense the steam, creating a vacuum.
My understanding of this is rough, but I think the main inefficiency is that in this process the chamber is being repeatedly heated and cooled—one cycle of that for each stroke of the piston. The repeated heating and cooling wastes a lot of energy and consumes a lot of fuel.
Further, the machine is losing heat proportional to the surface area of the chamber, but generating power proportional to the volume, so the way to make it decently efficient was to make it large. So Newcomen engines were generally big and heavy. They were stationary, in fact I think they generally had a small house/shed constructed to house them on one spot.
If the steam engine had stopped there, we would never have gotten trains or steamships, let alone automobiles.
Enter James Watt. Watt’s key innovation was a separate condenser. Again, my understanding here is rough, but basically there were two chambers—a hot one and a cold one. The water/steam cycled through them. This greatly improved the efficiency of the engine and allowed it to be made smaller and lighter.
It was with Watt’s engine, I believe, that the use of steam power really took off.
The first story of the Industrial Revolution is that of the steam engine. When you think “steam engine”, you may think of James Watt, but the first steam engine was actually created by Thomas Newcomen, in 1712.
The Newcomen engine was not an engine the way we think of engines today: as a kind of motor, turning a shaft or crank. It was a pump. And its original use was to pump water out of mines.
The British iron industry at the time needed a new fuel. Ironmaking requires intense heat and therefore fire. For a long time this was provided by wood (actually by charcoal—but that’s a story for another post). But Britain was rapidly depleting its forests. So, they needed a new fuel, and they turned to coal, which they had plenty of.
The problem was that once you go down far enough in a mine, you hit groundwater, and you need to pump it out. In copper or tin mines, the pump was powered by horses. But coal was needed in vaster quantities, requiring larger volumes of water to be pumped. A better source of motive power was needed.
Enter the Newcomen engine—a steam engine, although it was also known as an atmospheric engine or a “fire engine”. The engine worked on an established scientific principle that had been demonstrated to the Royal Society in the previous century: a piston, filled with steam, will pull with substantial force when the steam is condensed by cooling it.
That science demonstration, however, had to be manually reset with each stroke of the piston. Part of Newcomen’s invention was making the machine reset itself for continuous motion. The action is:
Steam from the boiler is let into the piston, letting the chain attached to the pump sink down.
Cold water is briefly sprayed on the piston, cooling and condensing the steam.
This creates a vacuum, which pulls the chain back up.
Reading this story, I was struck by how much Newcomen was hampered by not having, well, the Industrial Revolution yet. There was no good transportation, so machines had to be built locally, out of local parts and materials, by local craftsmen. The engines were big and heavy. Also the fuel had to be local, because there was no good way to transport the fuel itself. There was no good way to communicate, so innovations that local engineers made didn’t spread and were reinvented by others decades later. Materials science was in its infancy, so they couldn’t use the best metals. Et cetera.
Looking at it this way, it’s clear why progress is exponential: every part of it strengthens every other part. Not only is human progress an interconnected whole, it’s a self-reinforcing, self-accelerating whole.
Conversely, it’s a little brilliant how the whole thing got started. The engine pumped water out of coal mines. It was powered by coal from the mine itself! (And apparently it was small bits of coal from the head of the mine, which weren’t very useful anyway, so it wasn’t a waste.) That’s how they avoided the need for railroads to carry fuel (powered by advanced versions of the steam engine that wouldn’t be invented for decades). It’s like the single-celled prokaryote of the Industrial Revolution, that eventually evolved into the multi-celled organism of today’s global economy.
Another theme from A Culture of Growth is the role of relgious freedom in creating the Englightenment:
Between 1500 and 1700, many of the heterodox scientists and innovators were threatened by some authority that sensed a challenge. Religion had not yet divorced itself from physics, astronomy, and even medicine and chemistry, and it represented powerful forces that supported the status quo.
Fortunately, tolerance won out:
In the market for ideas, one of the most successful ones that won out in the seventeenth century in much of Western Europe was the idea of tolerance. Religious bigotry did not die easily, as the follies of the aging Louis XIV attest, but in its most extreme and virulent forms, it was doomed. What was needed was not just a set of incentives and motives for those who did science, but also an ideology that protected them from those whose entrenched monopoly on explaining the world was being threatened by science and its insistence on evidence and logic.
Mokyr describes religious tolerance among the intellectuals of the time:
… it is striking how blithely intellectuals bridged or ignored altogether the chasms between different religions. The Republic of Letters on the whole seems to have paid fairly little heed to the religious beliefs of its citizens. Grafton (2009a, p. 12) explains that it was regarded morally wrong to break off scholarly communication with people of different religious convictions, because such “restrictions could only hamper the flow of information and ideas.” Moreover, citizens of the Republic of Letters argued against religious persecution, a voice that became louder as wars of religion increasingly showed themselves to be destructive and pointless after 1562. Prominent citizens of the Republic of Letters, from Sebastian Castellio (1515– 1563) to Spinoza to Voltaire, argued for religious tolerance and against the persecution of apostates (Zagorin, 2003). 20 Even scholars of fundamentalist religious beliefs, such as the great Swiss Huguenot polymath Louis Bourguet (1678– 1742), were able to develop what Barnett (2015, p. 149) has felicitously called a “strategy of toleration” in which deeply felt religious differences were papered over in scientific exchanges and a scholarly civility was maintained despite private outrage at the heretical opinions of “unbelievers.” The Republic of Letters is an illustration of Cipolla’s (1972, p. 52) remark that the same qualities that make people tolerant also make them receptive to new ideas.
He chalks some of this up to political fragmentation:
The dark forces of reaction in the sixteenth century were no less benighted than those of the fourteenth, but it became increasingly difficult for those forces to work together, in part because some defenders of the conventional wisdom were Protestant and others Catholic. The forces of the Catholic reaction were fragmented among themselves. Authorities could not agree on who were heretics and what to do about them, and the heretics took full advantage of this. The unique situation in Europe, then, was that intolerance and the suppression of cultural heterodoxy, long before they fell out of fashion, could not be properly coordinated.
I said in the beginning that I am interested in progress of all kinds: moral and political as well as technological and scientific. One thing I’m already starting to see is how those stories are intertwined. Progress in science, technology and economics depends on progress in politics and perhaps vice versa. The story of human progress is a single, integrated story.
A critical cultural belief that drives economic growth and complements the belief in the “virtuousness of technology” is a belief in progress, and specifically in economic progress.
In a later passage, Mokyr elaborates:
What has not received enough attention in the recent literature in which economists have begun to reexamine the effect of culture on economic development is the matter of cultural beliefs regarding the relationship between humans and their physical environment and the virtuousness of technology. If the natural environment is treated with too much respect or fear and if the aversion to playing God or angering a deity was too strong, the willingness of humans to manipulate their physical settings for their material benefit could be impeded. Similarly, if nature is regarded as unfathomable and beyond human comprehension, or as totally arbitrary and capricious, there can be little advantage in controlling it for human purposes.
What struck me in particular about this passage was the notion of treating nature with “too much respect or fear”, which reminds me of the anti-technology attitudes of some in the environmentalist movement (or, I would argue, inherent in the movement).
Part of why I am interested in studying human progress is to understand, not only its history, but its future—what will sustain and accelerate it, and also what might threaten or halt it. Progress isn’t natural—indeed, for most of human history there wasn’t much of it—and it certainly isn’t inevitable. If we don’t understand the roots of progress, we will lose it.
Another thing I learned from A Culture of Growth is the importance and influence of Francis Bacon, who plays a key role in Mokyr’s story.
Bacon championed a number of key ideas. One was the importance of experimental science vs. rationalism or arbitrary hypotheses: “Bacon’s legacy was a concrete and materialistic science based on data and experiments, sharply rejecting what the age called ‘hypotheses’ but which in our lingo would be thought of as speculation.” At the same time, though, he advocated for a methodical approach, vs. the more haphazard trial-and-error approach some investigators were taking at the time.
Another was the idea of “useful knowledge”—that scientific knowledge would be applicable to the problems of life in practical ways, captured by his famous dictum that “knowledge is power.” Indeed, Mokyr refers multiple times to “the Baconian program”: a grand vision in which scientists would find patterns in nature and apply those to the benefit of industry.
Essentially, Bacon predicted and advocated the Industrial Revolution, two hundred years before it actually began. And what is even more remarkable than his foresight is that his vision took hold among the European intellectual elite and that they stuck with it, even though tangible progress came far slower than any of them expected.
I began this project simply thinking that I wanted to study the history of the Industrial Revolution.
There wasn’t an obvious place to start. I searched for books and asked friends for recommendations, but there wasn’t a clear one-volume overview that could serve as a starting point.
At the same time, I had recently read a great article in The Atlantic,“Progress Isn’t Natural”, by Joel Mokyr. I was especially intrigued by this quote:
… most people in the more-remote past believed that history moved in some kind of cycle or followed a path that was determined by higher powers. The idea that humans should and could work consciously to make the world a better place for themselves and for generations to come is by and large one that emerged in the two centuries between Christopher Columbus and Isaac Newton. Of course, just believing that progress could be brought about is not enough—one must bring it about. The modern world began when people resolved to do so.
The article continues:
Why might people in the past have been hesitant to embrace the idea of progress? The main argument against it was that it implies a disrespect of previous generations. … With the great voyages and the Reformation, Europeans increasingly began to doubt the great classical writings on geography, medicine, astronomy, and physics that had been the main source of wisdom in medieval times. With those doubts came a sense that their own generation knew more and was wiser than those of previous eras.
This was a departure from the beliefs of most societies in the past, which were usually given to some measure of “ancestor worship”—the belief that all wisdom had been revealed to earlier sages and that to learn anything one should peruse their writings and find the answer in their pages.
This isn’t a normal blog. The posts are going to be frequent and short—my goal is that each one contains only one idea (maybe I should say, at most one idea).
The posts aren’t going to be polished, which is not my normal style. They’re going to be informal, rough, off-the-cuff, almost stream-of-consciousness. I’ll try to make up for that by making them short and focused.
I’m doing this so that I can actually get the posts out—if they had to be long and polished, I’d never write them. And I’m doing it because what I really want to do is make notes as I do my research.
So if you want to follow my notes and my thinking in real time, as it evolves—read along. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
My motivation in this project is to discover the nature of human progress: to learn its history and therefore to discover its nature. By “progress”, I mean progress of all kinds: technological, scientifical, political, moral.
I began this project a few months ago thinking that I was setting out to study the history of the Industrial Revolution. But after reading A Culture of Growth, by Joel Mokyr, I became inspired to set my sights on a broader concept of human progress, and to set this as a goal for myself over the next 5–10 years.
I am interested in this because I believe that the story of human progress is the most important story in the world. I believe that understanding it is the foundation for some of the most important questions of philosophy and politics.
This is a long-term project. I don’t know exactly where it’s going to go or how I’m going to go about it. But I’m inspired to do this, and if you’re inspired too, I hope you’ll enjoy going on the journey with me.