The Two Cultures(C.P.Snow) | Sep 12 2007- THE TWO CULTURES
It is about three years since I made a sketch in
print of a problem which had been on my mind
for some time.1 It was a problem I could not avoid
just because of the circumstances of my life. The
only credentials I had to ruminate on the subject
at all came through those circumstances, through
nothing more than a set of chances. Anyone with
similar experience would have seen much the
same things and I think made very much the same
comments about them. It just happened to be an
unusual experience. By training I was a scientist:
by vocation I was a writer. That was all. It was a
piece of luck, if you like, that arose through com
ing from a poor home.
But my personal history isn't the point now. All
that I need say is that I came to Cambridge and
did a bit of research here at a time of major scientific
activity. I was privileged to have a ringside
view of one of the most wonderful creative periods
in all physics. And it happened through the flukes
of war -- including meeting W. L. Bragg in the buf
fet on Kettering station on a very cold morning in
1939, which had a determining influence on my
practical life -- that I was able, and indeed morally
forced, to keep that ringside view ever since. So
for thirty years I have had to be in touch with sci
entists not only out of curiosity, but as part of a
working existence. During the same thirty years I
was trying to shape the books I wanted to write,
which in due course took me among writers.
There have been plenty of days when I have
spent the working hours with scientists and then
gone off at night with some literary colleagues. I
mean that literally. I have had, of course, intimate
friends among both scientists and writers. It was
through living among these groups and much
more, I think, through moving regularly from one
to the other and back again that I got occupied
with the problem of what, long before I put it on
paper, I christened to myself as the 'two cultures'.
For constantly I felt I was moving among two
groups-comparable in intelligence, identical in
race, not grossly different in social origin, earning
about the same incomes, who had almost ceased to
communicate at all, who in intellectual, moral and
psychological climate had so little in common that
instead of going from Burlington House or South
Kensington to Chelsea, one might have crossed an
ocean.
In fact, one had travelled much further than
across an ocean -- because after a few thousand At
lantic miles, one found Greenwich Village talking
precisely the same language as Chelsea, and both
having about as much communication with M.I.T.
as though the scientists spoke nothing but Ti
betan. For this is not just our problem; owing to
some of our educational and social idiosyncrasies,
it is slightly exaggerated here, owing to another
English social peculiarity it is slightly minimised;
by and large this is a problem of the entire West.
By this I intend something serious. I am not
thinking of the pleasant story of how one of the
more convivial Oxford greats dons -- I have heard
the story attributed to A. L. Smith -- came over to
Cambridge to dine. The date is perhaps the 1890's.
I think it must have been at St John's, or possibly
Trinity. Anyway, Smith was sitting at the right
hand of the President -- or Vice-Master -- and he was
a man who liked to include all round him in the
conversation, although he was not immediately en
couraged by the expressions of his neighbours. He
addressed some cheerful Oxonian chit-chat at the
one opposite to him, and got a grunt. He then
tried the man on his own right hand and got an
other grunt. Then, rather to his surprise, one
looked at the other and said, 'Do you know what
he's talking about?''I haven't the least idea.' At
this, even Smith was getting out of his depth. But
the President, acting as a social emollient, put him
at his ease, by saying, 'Oh, those are mathemati
cians! We never talk to them'.
No, I intend something serious. I believe the in
tellectual life of the whole of western society is
increasingly being split into two polar groups.
When I say the intellectual life, I mean to include
also a large part of our practical life, because I
should be the last person to suggest the two can at
the deepest level be distinguished. I shall come
back to the practical life a little later. Two polar
groups: at one pole we have the literary intellec
tuals, who incidentally while no one was looking
took to referring to themselves as 'intellectuals'' as
though there were no others. I remember G. H.
Hardy once remarking to me in mild puzzlement,
some time in the 1930's: 'Have you noticed how
the word "intellectual" is used nowadays? There seems
to be a new definition which certainly
doesn't include Rutherford or Eddington or Dirac
or Adrian or me. It does seem rather odd, don't y'
know.'2
Literary intellectuals at one pole -- at the other
scientists, and as the most representative, the phys
ical scientists. Between the two a gulf of mutual
incomprehension -- sometimes (particularly among
the young) hostility and dislike, but most of all
lack of understanding. They have a curious dis
torted image of each other. Their attitudes are so
different that, even on the level of emotion, they
can't find much common ground. Non-scientists
tend to think of scientists as brash and boastful.
They hear Mr T. S. Eliot, who just for these illus
trations we can take as an archetypal figure, saying
about his attempts to revive verse-drama, that we
can hope for very little, but that he would feel
content if he and his co-workers could prepare the
ground for a new Kyd or a new Greene. That is
the tone, restricted and constrained, with which
literary intellectuals are at home: it is the subdued
voice of their culture. Then they hear a much
louder voice, that of another archetypal figure,
Rutherford, trumpeting: 'This is the heroic age of
science! This is the Elizabethan age!' Many of us
heard that, and a good many other statements be
side which that was mild; and we weren't left in
any doubt whom Rutherford was casting for the
role of Shakespeare. What is hard for the literary
intellectuals to understand, imaginatively or intel
lectually, is that he was absolutely right.
And compare 'this is the way the world ends, not
with a bang but a whimper' -- incidentally, one of
the least likely scientific prophecies ever made --
compare that with Rutherford's famous repartee,
'Lucky fellow, Rutherford, always on the crest of
the wave.''Well, I made the wave, didn't I?'
The non-scientists have a rooted impression that
the scientists are shallowly optimistic, unaware of
man's condition. On the other hand, the scientists
believe that the literary intellectuals are totally
lacking in foresight, peculiarly unconcerned with
their brother men, in a deep sense anti-intellec
tual, anxious to restrict both art and thought to
the existential moment. And so on. Anyone with
a mild talent for invective could produce plenty
of this kind of subterranean back-chat. On each
side there is some of it which is not entirely base
less. It is all destructive. Much of it rests on misin
terpretations which are dangerous. I should like to
deal with two of the most profound of these now,
one on each side.
First, about the scientists' optimism. This is an
accusation which has been made so often that it
has become a platitude. It has been made by some
of the acutest non-scientific minds of the day. But
it depends upon a confusion between the individ
ual experience and the social experience, between
the individual condition of man and his social con
dition. Most of the scientists I have known well
have felt -- just as deeply as the non-scientists I have
known well -- that the individual condition of each
of us is tragic. Each of us is alone: sometimes we
escape from solitariness, through love or affection
or perhaps creative moments, but those triumphs
of life are pools of light we make for ourselves
while the edge of the road is black: each of us dies
alone. Some scientists I have known have had faith
in revealed religion. Perhaps with them the sense
of the tragic condition is not so strong. I don't
know. With most people of deep feeling, however
high-spirited and happy they are, sometimes most
with those who are happiest and most high-spir
ited, it seems to be right in the fibres, part of the
weight of life. That is as true of the scientists I
have known best as of anyone at all.
But nearly all of them -- and this is where the col
our of hope genuinely comes in -- would see no
reason why, just because the individual condition
is tragic, so must the social condition be. Each of
us is solitary: each of us dies alone: all right, that's
a fate against which we can't struggle -- but there is
plenty in our condition which is not fate, and
against which we are less than human unless we
do struggle.
Most of our fellow human beings, for instance,
are underfed and die before their time. In the
crudest terms, that is the social condition. There is
a moral trap which comes through the insight into
man's loneliness: it tempts one to sit back, com
placent in one's unique tragedy, and let the others
go without a meal.
As a group, the scientists fall into that trap less
than others. They are inclined to be impatient to
see if something can be done: and inclined to
think that it can be done, until it's proved other
wise. That is their real optimism, and it's an opti
mism that the rest of us badly need.
In reverse, the same spirit, tough and good and
determined to fight it out at the side of their
know. With most people of deep feeling, however
high-spirited and happy they are, sometimes most
with those who are happiest and most high-spir
ited, it seems to be right in the fibres, part of the
weight of life. That is as true of the scientists I
have known best as of anyone at all.
But nearly all of them -- and this is where the col
our of hope genuinely comes in -- would see no
reason why, just because the individual condition
is tragic, so must the social condition be. Each of
us is solitary: each of us dies alone: all right, that's
a fate against which we can't struggle -- but there is
plenty in our condition which is not fate, and
against which we are less than human unless we
do struggle.
Most of our fellow human beings, for instance,
are underfed and die before their time. In the
crudest terms, that is the social condition. There is
a moral trap which comes through the insight into
man's loneliness: it tempts one to sit back, com
placent in one's unique tragedy, and let the others
go without a meal.
As a group, the scientists fall into that trap less
than others. They are inclined to be impatient to
see if something can be done: and inclined to
think that it can be done, until it's proved other
wise. That is their real optimism, and it's an opti
mism that the rest of us badly need.
In reverse, the same spirit, tough and good and
determined to fight it out at the side of their
know. With most people of deep feeling, however
high-spirited and happy they are, sometimes most
with those who are happiest and most high-spir
ited, it seems to be right in the fibres, part of the
weight of life. That is as true of the scientists I
have known best as of anyone at all.
But nearly all of them -- and this is where the col
our of hope genuinely comes in -- would see no
reason why, just because the individual condition
is tragic, so must the social condition be. Each of
us is solitary: each of us dies alone: all right, that's
a fate against which we can't struggle -- but there is
plenty in our condition which is not fate, and
against which we are less than human unless we
do struggle.
Most of our fellow human beings, for instance,
are underfed and die before their time. In the
crudest terms, that is the social condition. There is
a moral trap which comes through the insight into
man's loneliness: it tempts one to sit back, com
placent in one's unique tragedy, and let the others
go without a meal.
As a group, the scientists fall into that trap less
than others. They are inclined to be impatient to
see if something can be done: and inclined to
think that it can be done, until it's proved other
wise. That is their real optimism, and it's an opti
mism that the rest of us badly need.
In reverse, the same spirit, tough and good and
determined to fight it out at the side of their
brother men, has made scientists regard the other
culture's social attitudes as contemptible. That is
too facile: some of them are, but they are a tempo
rary phase and not to be taken as representative.
I remember being cross-examined by a scientist
of distinction. 'Why do most writers take on social
opinions which would have been thought distinctly
uncivilised and dmod at the time of the Planta
genets? Wasn't that true of most of the famous
twentieth-century writers? Yeats, Pound, Wynd
ham Lewis, nine out of ten of those who have
dominated literary sensibility in our time -- weren't
they not only politically silly, but politically
wicked? Didn't the influence of all they represent
bring Auschwitz that much nearer?'
I thought at the time, and I still think, that the
correct answer was not to defend the indefensible.
It was no use saying that Yeats, according to friends
whose judgment I trust, was a man of singular
magnanimity of character, as well as a great poet.
It was no use denying the facts, which are broadly
true. The honest answer was that there is, in fact,
a connection, which literary persons were culpably
slow to see, between some kinds of early twentieth-
century art and the most imbecile expressions of
anti-social feeling.3 That was one reason, among
many, why some of us turned our backs on the art
and tried to hack out a new or different way for
ourselves.4
But though many of those writers dominated
literary sensibility for a generation, that is no
longer so, or at least to nothing like the same ex
tent. Literature changes more slowly than science.
It hasn't the same automatic corrective, and so its
misguided periods are longer. But it is ill-consid
ered of scientists to judge writers on the evidence
of the period 1914-50.
Those are two of the misunderstandings be
tween the two cultures. I should say, since I began
to talk about them -- the two cultures, that is -- I
have had some criticism. Most of my scientific ac
quaintances think that there is something in it,
and so do most of the practising artists I know.
But I have been argued with by non-scientists of
strong down-to-earth interests. Their view is that
it is an over-simplification, and that if one is going
to talk in these terms there ought to be at least
three cultures. They argue that, though they are
not scientists themselves, they would share a good
deal of the scientific feeling. They would have as
little use -- perhaps, since they knew more about it,
even less use -- for the recent literary culture as the
scientists themselves. J. H. Plumb, Alan Bullock
and some of my American sociological friends have
said that they vigorously refuse to be corralled in a
cultural box with people they wouldn't be seen
dead with, or to be regarded as helping to produce
a climate which would not permit of social hope.
I respect those arguments. The number 2 is a
very dangerous number: that is why the dialectic
is a dangerous process. Attempts to divide any
thing into two ought to be regarded with much
suspicion. I have thought a long time about going
in for further refinements: but in the end I have
decided against. I was searching for something a
little more than a dashing metaphor, a good deal
less than a cultural map: and for those purposes
the two cultures is about right, and subtilising any
more would bring more disadvantages than it's
worth.
At one pole, the scientific culture really is a cul
ture, not only in an intellectual but also in an an
thropological sense. That is, its members need not,
and of course often do not, always completely un
derstand each other; biologists more often than
not will have a pretty hazy idea of contemporary
physics; but there are common attitudes, common
standards and patterns of behaviour, common ap
proaches and assumptions. This goes surprisingly
wide and deep. It cuts across other mental pat
terns, such as those of religion or politics or class.
Statistically, I suppose slightly more scientists
are in religious terms unbelievers, compared with
the rest of the intellectual world -- though there are
plenty who are religious, and that seems to be in
creasingly so among the young. Statistically also,
slightly more scientists are on the Left in open
politics -- though again, plenty always have called
themselves conservatives, and that also seems to be
more common among the young. Compared with
the rest of the intellectual world, considerably
more scientists in this country and probably in the
U.S. come from poor families.5 Yet, over a whole
range of thought and behaviour, none of that mat
ters very much. In their working, and in much of
their emotional life, their attitudes are closer to
other scientists than to non-scientists who in reli
gion or politics or class have the same labels as
themselves. If I were to risk a piece of shorthand,
I should say that naturally they had the future in
their bones.
They may or may not like it, but they have it.
That was as true of the conservatives J. J. Thom
son and Lindemann as of the radicals Einstein or
Blackett: as true of the Christian A. H. Compton
as of the materialist Bernal: of the aristocrats
Broglie or Russell as of the proletarian Faraday:
of those born rich, like Thomas Merton or Victor
Rothschild, as of Rutherford, who was the son of
an odd-job handyman. Without thinking about it,
they respond alike. That is what a culture means.
At the other pole, the spread of attitudes is
wider. It is obvious that between the two, as one
moves through intellectual society from the physi
cists to the literary intellectuals, there are all kinds
of tones of feeling on the way. But I believe the
pole of total incomprehension of science radiates
its influence on all the rest. That total incompre
hension gives, much more pervasively than we real
ise, living in it, an unscientific flavour to the whole
'traditional' culture, and that unscientific flavour
is often, much more than we admit, on the point of
turning anti-scientific. The feelings of one pole
become the anti-feelings of the other. If the scien
tists have the future in their bones, then the tra
ditional culture responds by wishing the future did
not exist.6 It is the traditional culture, to an extent
remarkably little diminished by the emergence of
the scientific one, which manages the western
world.
This polarisation is sheer loss to us all. To us as
people, and to our society. It is at the same time
practical and intellectual and creative loss, and I
repeat that it is false to imagine that those three
considerations are clearly separable. But for a mo
ment I want to concentrate on the intellectual loss.
The degree of incomprehension on both sides is
the kind of joke which has gone sour. There are
about fifty thousand working scientists in the coun
try and about eighty thousand professional engi
neers or applied scientists. During the war and in
the years since, my colleagues and I have had to
interview somewhere between thirty to forty thou
sand of these -- that is, about 25 per cent. The num
ber is large enough to give us a fair sample, though
of the men we talked to most would still be under
forty. We were able to find out a certain amount
of what they read and thought about. I confess that
even I, who am fond of them and respect them,
was a bit shaken. We hadn't quite expected that
http://www.questia.com/PM.qst?a=o&d=58108775
Thanks for rzp, this is what I can freely got.
I only read the chinese version. Here are some chinese comments:
Ļ--˹˹ŵ(C.P.Snow,1905-1980)
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ʵɲͬĻ˼ս˹ŵ֮ǰг֡Ӣʷһ۷۶ĺ裨T. H. Huxley, 1825-1895뱻ΪάʱĻʹͽޡŵ (M. Arnold, 1822-1888) ֮䡣1880꣬ӢĹҵIJһƪΪѧĻ˵ҪΪЩϣ¹ҵҵṩϵͳĿѧͳĹŵԿѧγ̵ĵƣơѧɱرѧȡŵ1882ڽΪѧѧݽԻػĽָΪֻҪԲ䣬ĻͽΪǵĵṩ֧㡣Ȥǣ77꣬ŵ˹ŵȴͬһͬһ£RedeݽǽŴѧⰲŰɡ
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ǣΪʲôһǵݺ˹ŵݽ֮űѧ˹㷺עأͲܲһ˹ŵ˺ݽʱ
Ϊ˹ŵ綨һݣŴѧѧԺʿԱĵʲʵҴºоԱѧߣС˵Һ;ңҵʣңļѧӢι۵ĹĴߣҲʿоһλĻͻüӵķʽľġ
˹ŵݽĶѧҪӽϵ֡ʵϣ˹ŵݽɡĻΪ¬ɵ֪ʶӡѧ͡IJɣںһ֣ǰһֱѧۺĽ㣬ر˹ŵ֪ʶӱͼԵٻԿִ¬ɣLudditesʹѧά˹F. R. Leavis, 1895-1978ΪļҲΪһ˼dz֮ͽ
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http://janetyajanetya.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!2C59898C9CC42528!463.entry
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