Stephen Hawking: The Scientific Sublime Embodied

Lucy Hawking has had the good fortune of being the daughter of the most famous living physicist; she has had the better fortune of having been a teenager before Stephen Hawking became famous, a time when he was known and respected only by other theoretical physicists. In this less hectic time, he was just a father, a man with a disability, to be sure, but not a disabled man, a sufferer from Lou Gehrig’s disease who defied the odds. Who could view as disabled a man who zipped through the streets of Cambridge in a Formula 1 electric wheelchair driven at reckless speeds and, on one occasion at least, almost disastrous consequences? Hawking is now, perhaps, the most famous physicist since Einstein. While his work significantly expands the territory of the scientific sublime, his life embodies that sublime. This is not the ethical sublime that Rachel Carson, the subject of the next chapter, embodies; it is not a code of conduct. Rather, it is our firm sense that we are dealing with an extraordinary human being who has overcome daunting challenges to become an impressive virtual presence, a man who, alone among contemporary scientists, is a star, nay, a superstar. Confined to a wheelchair, he towers above us, an exemplar, a demonstration of just how deep a deep-seated commitment to science can be. But is he any good at physics? Is it all hype? His heroes—Galileo, Newton, and Einstein—are models he cannot hope to emulate. Those on whom he consistently relies—Werner Heisenberg, Paul Dirac, and Richard Feynman—are clearly his superiors. True, he is an elite physicist honored by his peers, but he is more a Dom than a Joe DiMaggio, excellent, though not the very best. As he says himself, “To my colleagues am just another physicist.” But his professional reputation hardly matters, because, as he asserts with characteristic good humor: . . . To the wider public I became possibly the best-known scientist in the world. This is partly because scientists, apart from Einstein, are not widely known rock stars, and partly because I fit the stereotype of a disabled genius. I can’t disguise myself with a wig and dark glasses—the wheelchair gives me away. . . .