Einstein (92 page)

Einstein was thrilled. “Your cat shows that we are in complete agreement concerning our assessment of the character of the current theory,” he wrote back. “A psi-function that contains the living as well as the dead cat just cannot be taken as a description of a real state of affairs.”
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The case of Schrödinger’s cat has spawned reams of responses that continue to pour forth with varying degrees of comprehensibility. Suffice it to say that in the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, a system stops being a superposition of states and snaps into a single reality when it is observed, but there is no clear rule for what constitutes such an observation. Can the cat be an observer? A flea? A computer? A mechanical recording device? There’s no set answer. However, we do know that quantum effects generally are not observed in our everyday visible world, which includes cats and even fleas. So most adherents of quantum mechanics would not argue that Schrödinger’s cat is sitting in that box somehow being both dead and alive until the lid is opened.
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Einstein never lost faith in the ability of Schrödinger’s cat and his own gunpowder thought experiments of 1935 to expose the incompleteness of quantum mechanics. Nor has he received proper historical credit for helping give birth to that poor cat. In fact, he would later mistakenly give Schrödinger credit for both of the thought experiments in a letter that exposed the animal to being blown up rather than poisoned. “Contemporary physicists somehow believe that the quantum theory provides a description of reality, and even a
complete
description,” Einstein wrote Schrödinger in 1950.“This interpretation is, however, refuted most elegantly by your system of radioactive atom + Geiger counter + amplifier + charge of gunpowder + cat in a box, in
which the psi-function of the system contains the cat both alive and blown to bits.”
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Einstein’s so-called mistakes, such as the cosmological constant he added to his gravitational field equations, often turned out to be more intriguing than other people’s successes. The same was true of his parries against Bohr and Heisenberg. The EPR paper would not succeed in showing that quantum mechanics was wrong. But it did eventually become clear that quantum mechanics was, as Einstein argued, incompatible with our commonsense understanding of locality—our aversion to spooky action at a distance. The odd thing is that Einstein, apparently, was far more right than he hoped to be.

In the years since he came up with the EPR thought experiment, the idea of entanglement and spooky action at a distance—the quantum weirdness in which an observation of one particle can instantly affect another one far away—has increasingly become part of what experimental physicists study. In 1951, David Bohm, a brilliant assistant professor at Princeton, recast the EPR thought experiment so that it involved the opposite “spins” of two particles flying apart from an interaction.
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In 1964, John Stewart Bell, who worked at the CERN nuclear research facility near Geneva, wrote a paper that proposed a way to conduct experiments based on this approach.
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Bell was less than comfortable with quantum mechanics. “I hesitated to think it was wrong,” he once said, “but I knew that it was rotten.”
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That, plus his admiration of Einstein, caused him to express some hope that Einstein rather than Bohr might be proven right. But when the experiments were undertaken in the 1980s by the French physicist Alain Aspect and others, they provided evidence that locality was not a feature of the quantum world. “Spooky action at a distance,” or, more precisely, the potential entanglement of distant particles, was.
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Even so, Bell ended up appreciating Einstein’s efforts. “I felt that Einstein’s intellectual superiority over Bohr, in this instance, was enormous, a vast gulf between the man who saw clearly what was needed, and the obscurantist,” he said. “So for me, it is a pity that Einstein’s idea doesn’t work. The reasonable thing just doesn’t work.”
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Quantum entanglement—an idea discussed by Einstein in 1935 as a way of undermining quantum mechanics—is now one of the weirder elements of physics, because it is so counterintuitive. Every year the evidence for it mounts, and public fascination with it grows. At the end of 2005, for example, the
New York Times
published a survey article called “Quantum Trickery: Testing Einstein’s Strangest Theory,” by Dennis Overbye, in which Cornell physicist N. David Mermin called it “the closest thing we have to magic.”
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And in 2006, the
New Scientist
ran a story titled “Einstein’s ‘Spooky Action’ Seen on a Chip,” which began:

A simple semiconductor chip has been used to generate pairs of entangled photons, a vital step towards making quantum computers a reality. Famously dubbed “spooky action at a distance” by Einstein, entanglement is the mysterious phenomenon of quantum particles whereby two particles such as photons behave as one regardless of how far apart they are.
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Might this spooky action at a distance—where something that happens to a particle in one place can be instantly reflected by one that is billions of miles away—violate the speed limit of light? No, the theory of relativity still seems safe. The two particles, though distant, remain part of the same physical entity. By observing one of them, we may affect its attributes, and that is correlated to what would be observed of the second particle. But no information is transmitted, no signal sent, and there is no traditional cause-and-effect relationship. One can show by thought experiments that quantum entanglement cannot be used to send information instantaneously. “In short,” says physicist Brian Greene, “special relativity survives by the skin of its teeth.”
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During the past few decades, a number of theorists, including Murray Gell-Mann and James Hartle, have adopted a view of quantum mechanics that differs in some ways from the Copenhagen interpretation and provides an easier explanation of the EPR thought experiment. Their interpretation is based on alternative histories of the universe, coarse-grained in the sense that they follow only certain variables
and ignore (or average over) the rest. These “decoherent” histories form a tree-like structure, with each of the alternatives at one time branching out into alternatives at the next time and so forth.

In the case of the EPR thought experiment, the position of one of the two particles is measured on one branch of history. Because of the common origin of the particles, the position of the other one is determined as well. On a different branch of history, the momentum of one of the particles may be measured, and the momentum of the other one is also determined. On each branch nothing occurs that violates the laws of classical physics. The information about one particle
implies
the corresponding information about the other one, but nothing
happens
to the second particle as a result of the measurement of the first one. So there is no threat to special relativity and its prohibition of instantaneous transmission of information. What is special about quantum mechanics is that the simultaneous determination of the position and the momentum of a particle is impossible, so if these two determinations occur, it must be on different branches of history.
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Einstein’s fundamental dispute with the Bohr-Heisenberg crowd over quantum mechanics was not merely about whether God rolled dice or left cats half dead. Nor was it just about causality, locality, or even completeness. It was about reality.
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Does it exist? More specifically, is it meaningful to speak about a physical reality that exists independently of whatever observations we can make? “At the heart of the problem,” Einstein said of quantum mechanics, “is not so much the question of causality but the question of realism.”
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Bohr and his adherents scoffed at the idea that it made sense to talk about what might be beneath the veil of what we can observe. All we can know are the results of our experiments and observations, not some ultimate reality that lies beyond our perceptions.

Einstein had displayed some elements of this attitude in 1905, back when he was reading Hume and Mach while rejecting such unobservable concepts as absolute space and time. “At that time my mode of thinking was much nearer positivism than it was later on,” he recalled.
“My departure from positivism came only when I worked out the general theory of relativity.”
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From then on, Einstein increasingly adhered to the belief that there
is
an objective classical reality. And though there are some consistencies between his early and late thinking, he admitted freely that, at least in his own mind, his realism represented a move away from his earlier Machian empiricism. “This credo,” he said, “does not correspond with the point of view I held in younger years.”
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As the historian Gerald Holton notes, “For a scientist to change his philosophical beliefs so fundamentally is rare.”
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Einstein’s concept of realism had three main components:

1. His belief that a reality exists independent of our ability to observe it. As he put it in his autobiographical notes: “Physics is an attempt conceptually to grasp reality as it is thought independently of its being observed. In this sense one speaks of ‘physical reality.’ ”
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2. His belief in separability and locality. In other words, objects are located at certain points in spacetime, and this separability is part of what defines them. “If one abandons the assumption that what exists in different parts of space has its own independent, real existence, then I simply cannot see what it is that physics is supposed to describe,” he declared to Max Born.
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3. His belief in strict causality, which implies certainty and classical determinism. The idea that probabilities play a role in reality was as disconcerting to him as the idea that our observations might play a role in collapsing those probabilities. “Some physicists, among them myself, cannot believe,” he said, “that we must accept the view that events in nature are analogous to a game of chance.”
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It is possible to imagine a realism that has only two, or even just one, of these three attributes, and on occasion Einstein pondered such a possibility. Scholars have debated which of these three was most fundamental to his thinking.
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But Einstein kept coming back to the hope, and faith, that all three attributes go together. As he said in a speech to
a doctors convention in Cleveland near the end of his life, “Everything should lead back to conceptual objects in the realm of space and time and to lawlike relations that obtain for these objects.”
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At the heart of this realism was an almost religious, or perhaps childlike, awe at the way all of our sense perceptions—the random sights and sounds that we experience every minute—fit into patterns, follow rules, and make sense. We take it for granted when these perceptions piece together to represent what seem to be external objects, and it does not amaze us when laws seem to govern the behavior of these objects.

But just as he felt awe when first pondering a compass as a child, Einstein was able to feel awe that there are rules ordering our perceptions, rather than pure randomness. Reverence for this astonishing and unexpected comprehensibility of the universe was the foundation for his realism as well as the defining character of what he called his religious faith.

He expressed this in a 1936 essay, “Physics and Reality,” written on the heels of his defense of realism in the debates over quantum mechanics. “The very fact that the totality of our sense experiences is such that, by means of thinking, it can be put in order, this fact is one that leaves us in awe,” he wrote. “The eternal mystery of the world is its comprehensibility . . . The fact that it is comprehensible is a miracle.”
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His friend Maurice Solovine, with whom he had read Hume and Mach in the days of the Olympia Academy, told Einstein that he found it “strange” that he considered the comprehensibility of the world to be “a miracle or an eternal mystery.” Einstein countered that it would be logical to assume that the opposite was the case. “Well, a priori, one should expect a chaotic world which cannot be grasped by the mind in any way,” he wrote. “There lies the weakness of positivists and professional atheists.”
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Einstein was neither.

To Einstein, this belief in the existence of an underlying reality had a religious aura to it. That dismayed Solovine, who wrote to say that he had an “aversion” to such language. Einstein disagreed. “I have no better expression than ‘religious’ for this confidence in the rational nature of reality and in its being accessible, to some degree, to human reason.
When this feeling is missing, science degenerates into mindless empiricism.”
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Einstein knew that the new generation viewed him as an out-of-touch conservative clinging to the old certainties of classical physics, and that amused him. “Even the great initial success of the quantum theory does not make me believe in a fundamental dice-game,” he told his friend Max Born, “although I am well aware that our younger colleagues interpret this as a consequence of senility.”
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Born, who loved Einstein dearly, agreed with the Young Turks that Einstein had become as “conservative” as the physicists of a generation earlier who had balked at his relativity theory. “He could no longer take in certain new ideas in physics which contradicted his own firmly held philosophical convictions.”
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But Einstein preferred to think of himself not as a conservative but as (again) a rebel, a nonconformist, one with the curiosity and stubbornness to buck prevailing fads. “The necessity of conceiving of nature as an
objective reality
is said to be obsolete prejudice while the quantum theoreticians are vaunted,” he told Solovine in 1938. “Each period is dominated by a mood, with the result that most men fail to see the tyrant who rules over them.”
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