Illuminating idea: volunteers light 5,000 candles in the shape of planet earth, during Earth Hour 2012, Berlin. Photo: Getty
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The Gaia guy: how James Lovelock struggled to be taken seriously

Nowadays, the area of study called “earth systems science” uses many ideas originally championed by Lovelock, though people are still allergic to the name Gaia.

A Rough Ride to the Future
James Lovelock
Allen Lane, 185pp, £16.99

Homage to Gaia: the Life of an Independent Scientist
James Lovelock
Souvenir Press, 428pp, £18

It’s all William Golding’s fault. It was the author of Lord of the Flies who long ago suggested to James Lovelock, one evening in the pub, that the scientist use the name “Gaia” for his new vision of our planet. A nice literary idea, to borrow the name of the Greek goddess of the earth. The problem was that, to other scientists, “Gaia theory” sounded immediately like hippie earth-mother nonsense. And so began Lovelock’s decades-long struggle to be taken seriously.

In his revised and reissued autobiography, Homage to Gaia, Lovelock recounts with joy and wit an extraordinary life as an entrepreneurial scientist, inventor and gadfly. He claims to be not quite sure why “Gaia” got everyone’s back up so much, yet he gives sufficient reason later on, when he mentions that his American publishers retitled one of his books Healing Gaia, thus ensuring it would go on shelves in the New Age section of bookstores. I suspect that if Lovelock had deployed his alternative term, “geophysiology”, from the start, he wouldn’t have had so much trouble getting his ideas accepted.

For accepted many of them now are. And “geophysiology” is a clearer umbrella term to describe what Lovelock means by Gaia. The guiding concept is that the earth and all the life on it constitute a self-regulating system, which keeps itself in homoeostasis like a human body does. (Lovelock’s own training was in medicine and chemistry.) He first had the idea while working at Nasa’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in the 1960s. Thinking about how the first Mars landers might test that planet for life, Lovelock realised that the presence of life changes the atmosphere of a planet to one of chemical disequilibrium. “If there were life on Mars,” he explained, “it would be obliged to use the atmosphere as a source of its raw materials and a place to deposit its waste products, just as we do.” (Our “waste products” in this sense include the carbon dioxide we exhale.) Lovelock’s experiment was used in the Viking landers, and his kind of atmospheric analysis is now a basic tool of astronomers.

This was the seed of the fundamental Gaian idea: that life and the planet exist in a feedback relationship that keeps the whole system at optimal levels for the continuation of life. Lovelock does not think the earth is actually alive like a goddess, but he will defend it as a metaphor. (Arguably it’s less iniquitous than the metaphor of the “selfish gene”.) “The deepest error of modern biology,” he writes, “is the entrenched belief that organisms interact only with other organisms and merely adapt to their material environment. This is as wrong as believing that the people of a village interact with their neighbours but merely adapt to the material conditions of their cottages.”

Nowadays, the area of study called “earth systems science” uses many ideas originally championed by Lovelock, though people are still allergic to the name Gaia, and so he doesn’t get as much credit as he should. But this splendid iconoclast is no friend to the green movement, either. Environmentalism – he says in his fascinatingly provocative new book, A Rough Ride to the Future, which shows, among other things, that even as a nonagenarian (he turns 95 in July), he hasn’t lost any of his appetite for a fight – has become as dogmatic as religion.

Lovelock particularly despises the species guilt some greens force on us for allegedly “trashing” the planet; it does, when you think about it, sound rather original sin-ish, with the steam engine as the new forbidden fruit. He calls Greenpeace a “great and powerful negative feedback on all that enlightened technical progress stands for”, and despairs of the popular fear of radiation. He makes the strong point, for instance, that the global media obsession with the story of the Fukushima plant flooding (which killed no one) in effect ignored the 27,000 people who had actually died because of the Japanese tsunami. That Germany and Italy subsequently shut down all their nuclear reactors he describes with simple outrage as “a wicked act”.

One of the main questions A Rough Ride addresses is what to do about global warming. Lovelock is no stranger to atmospheric threat (it was he who detected the atmospheric build-up of CFCs that were tearing a hole in the ozone layer) or simplified mathematical models (his Daisyworld model is a beautiful demonstration of how organisms can keep their environment at conditions ideal for life, with no planning or interplanetary competition required). He accepts that uncomfortable warming is probably inevitable, especially given that even if we stopped emitting all greenhouse gases tomorrow there would already be decades of warming to come because of the lag in the global climate system. The question, then, is what to do about it.

Lovelock finds the prospect of covering England with wind turbines as “satanic” as Blake found their ancestors. Geo-engineering he reckons beyond our capability and stupid anyway. Why try to control the whole climate artificially when we could accelerate the movement of the world’s population into cities and just regulate the city climates? (Perhaps, he suggests intriguingly, we are evolving into “superorganisms”: just as some biologists suppose that an ant’s nest is an aggregate organism unto itself, so a city full of human beings is one superorganism, too.) Gaia – who is under no such existential threat from global warming: she is, as one of Lovelock’s collaborators once put it vividly, “a tough bitch” – will take care of the rest of the world outside.

That essentially is his message: we can’t stop global warming (just look at energy politics since the Kyoto Protocol), so we’d better adapt to it with nuclear power and
urban air-conditioning. Would it be so bad, he wonders, if more cities were like Singapore, which is 12° Celsius hotter than the global average but still a highly desirable place to live?

The other future threat Lovelock considers is the rise of the machines, as in the Terminator films. He argues that since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, we have, by human selection, inflated the speed of evolution of our technical artefacts by a factor of about a million compared to the lackadaisical pace of natural selection. Should we be worried that intelligent computers will take over? No, he says breezily. Either we’ll merge with them in a kind of cyborg utopia, or they will be so amazing as the next stage of planetary evolution that we should feel happy to have ushered them into existence.

It’s unfair to accuse Gaia-style thinking of being misanthropic, yet it does imply a benignly disinterested view of humanity – maybe, after all, something like a goddess’s-eye view. We are interesting, like ants, but just one component of what is most important: the whole system. Among the best things one can then say for humanity is that we are the crucial organisms that will construct the electronic creatures that succeed us, and that will be able to survive for longer and so keep Gaia going as the sun grows inexorably hotter. In other words, rejoice! We are nothing less than the John the Baptist species for the glorious robot future.

Steven Poole’s “Who Touched Base in My Thought Shower? A Treasury of Unbearable Office Jargon” is published by Sceptre (£9.99)

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, India's worst nightmare?

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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