At the moment multiverses and string theory are the ’go to’ explanations of the world as we don’t know it.
Intermittently I console myself with the thought that we are a young species with that has only recently confirmed the existence of the Higgs boson so perhaps there is a way to go yet in terms of our understanding of the universe both great and small. Perhaps one day in the not too distant futures some genius will explain everything in a simple and elegant manner that even a politician might understand. Perhaps that latter qualification is asking too much. Nonetheless I feel I should understand more about quantum physics but, given that I struggled with Euclidean geometry, perhaps I am being wildly optimistic. So I will give John Gribbin’s book ‘Computing with Quantum Cats’ another go in the vague hope that something sometime might make sense. Anyway, in all probability the ability for one person to ‘know’ everything last happened a couple of hundred years ago so I suspect that I am not alone in my ignorance.
When I grew up, which as you may guess was some time ago, there was nothing in our household that I or my step-father could not fix, a level of competence that was enhanced by my step-father being a qualified electrician. Given that I was living in the land of the Long White Clod (sic) improvisational skills were always being called on as the rest of the world was reluctant to embrace the New Zealand pound given that it was only backed by sheep of uncertain disposition. ‘Do it yourself’ was the watch cry decades before Bunnings loomed over the suburban landscape. And we did with all the enthusiasm of people who were too optimistic to think that it might actually be difficult. I repaired our car armed only with a chisel and a crescent wrench! Eventually New Zealanders built yachts and powered them with Chinese Gooseberries. What next?
At Art School one of my flat mates built a television from parts stolen from where he worked to fund his voracious requirements for paint. It was not exactly perfect, being housed in an orange crate, the actual casing being too bulky to smuggle out, but it worked reasonably well considering its origins. It provided rolling screen versions of ‘George of the Jungle’, ‘The Avengers’ and “Dangerman’ to an audience all too eager to succumb to the enchantment of guided electrons inside an evacuated phosphor coated tube. Another art student built his own stereo – the first I had ever heard – where I listened entranced to the sound of a train traversing the room from one side to the other.
I made my own trousers with a stapler, gaffer tape, and some purloined paisley.
But there are limits and it takes a while before you see them. Let me give you an example. Our grandfather was President of the Auckland Operatic Society so it was inevitable that Michael and I would go to the opera at quite a young age, dressed to the nines and incredibly unrelaxed in case we farted at that particular moment when the audience becomes absolutely silent for the first time during a performance. The opera was Tosca and my memory of it is remarkably dim except that I recalled that the eponymous heroine throws herself of the balcony in the last act. And that Scarpia was a really bad villain who met an appropriately sticky end
So sixty year later, at vast expense, I set off with my intelligent daughter to the same opera this time performed by the Australian Opera in Melbourne’s Art Centre. Strangely enough Mike and Maria were there probably propelled by the same atavistic instinct to turn back time. Neither of us was worried about flatulence but the rest of the audience might have been. I have to say that it was quite well done performance. Very handsomely staged, good orchestra and direction and more than passable singers. A fruity melodrama with good tunes meant that a good time was had by all.
And then I had to ruin it all and do something that made me realise that home grown competence does not actually mean world class. You may not know that the New York Metropolitan Opera films its performances and broadcasts them around the world in High Definition. They are astoundingly good because you have not the best seat in the house but all the best seats in the house. And the best sound in the house. You are not in the gods looking at the stage which can seem several hundred metres away through your lorgnettes but almost (when appropriate) sitting in the laps of the cast. And New York naturally can employ the best singer/actors in the world, and support an orchestra of the highest class directed by James Levine.
And two days after Tosca I saw the most perfect opera ever written. Mozart’s ‘Marriage of Figaro’. You probably don’t have to like opera to think that it is a treat. It is one of those rare works that manage to seamlessly move from comedy to tragedy in the space of seconds.
I know it’s not fair but when you see how good something can be you realise that the there are some things that you can actually understand at the deepest level. It was, for all practical purposes, a perfect universe.