Hidden figures: 2.303, slide rules and classrooms mired in the last century

A five -place table of logarithms from my dad's CRC Handbook of 

Mathematics (why is that set of values circled?) and a circa 

1958 Hemmi 257 slide rule designed for chemical calculations.  

 Wonder why random values of 2.303 are "hidden" in formulae? To make them easier to use with a slide rule.¹ 

A slide rule?  The last slide rule slid out the door of Keuffel & Esser in 1975 (they sent their engraving equipment to the Smithsonian).  You can still find them, used and even new - still packaged up to sell to engineers and scientists.  The Oughtred Society has a online museum, as well.

We still have my mother-in-law's K&E, in it's leather case with her name impressed into it.  Family history says she bought it with the money she earned tutoring Jackie Robinson in chemistry at UCLA.

I have an essay out in this month's Nature Chemistry, "It figures", about how the computational tools we use shapes what we teach and not necessarily in good ways. Given that slide rules were obsolete by the time many of my student's parents were born, why does their use still linger in general chemistry book?  (The 2.303's in texts are lowly going away. I checked texts running back about a decade.)

More critically to my mind why, several decades after  digital computing tools became ubiquitous on college campuses do many physical chemistry texts eschew any discussion of numerical techniques for solving the rate equations for a chemical reaction?  I suspect the chasm between the computational tools used in the field and those used in the classroom is a result of apathy. We teach what we learned as we learned it.  As I note in the article, I don't think it is defensible on intellectual grounds.

Don't know how to use a slide rule?  It's fun, it's geeky. No need to buy one to play, check out this simulator and the instructions at Nature Chemistry!

You can read the article here:  http://rdcu.be/sY5Q

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1.  2.303 is the natural log of 10. To change the base of logs recognize that
x = b^log_bx
so
ln(x) = ln(10^log₁₀x)
ln(x) = log₁₀x ln(10)
ln(x) =(log₁₀x)(2.303)
ln(x) = 2.303(log₁₀x)

Chemists: Strangers to fiction

That Mars habitat?

"The basement corridor is dim, I can hear pumps chugging, hoods noisily venting, and the solid-state physicist down the hall swearing. 'Welcome to Mars!' says the cheery sign outside my colleague’s door. Perhaps it is the pile of grading on my desk or the endless round of meetings on my calendar that is fuelling my escapist fantasy, but every time I pass Selby’s office, I imagine the door is a portal and if I were to walk through, I’d  find myself in a habitat on Mars, its pumps working hard to compress the thin atmosphere." from "Strangers to Fiction" in Nature Chemistry, 8, 636-637 (2016).

I've been a sci-fi fan for going on five decades, imagining myself in labs on Mars, mining comets, and exploring strange new worlds. I don't read it for the chemistry, which is a good thing, because there isn't much fiction in which chemistry plays a key role.

My latest Nature Chemistry Thesis column looks at chemistry and fiction, suggesting that there are good reasons to both read SF, particularly for young chemists, and for chemists to encourage the writing of chemistry-inflected science fiction.  And if you have the talent for it (which I do not!) perhaps even give the writing of it a fly.

You can read the whole thing here.  My list of fictional chemistry is here.

Chemical fiction

Topi Barr's Antithiotimoline is in this vintage Analog

Seven years ago, Andy Mitchinson, an editor at Nature, wrote at The Sceptical Chymist (Episodes II and III) about the dearth of science fiction that involved the science of chemistry in a substantive way.  Why isn't there more of it?

He pointed to a list put together by Connie Willis, an award winning SF author, and an article by Philip Ball in Chemistry World.

I'm working on a column for Nature Chemistry about the ways in which chemistry and science fiction play off each other.  Is science fiction more than escapist entertainment?  Should chemists care that there's not more chemistry inflected fiction out there?  Should we deliberately expose students to science fiction? Should we encourage them to write it?

To go alone with the piece, I'm trying to create a periodic table of chemical fiction (not including articles called out by Retraction Watch).  Are there pieces on my list you particularly love?  Something I'm missing?  I'd love to hear in the comments!

For a full set of periodic science fiction short stories, I encourage you to browse Michael Swanwick's Periodic Table of Science Fiction.  What really happened to the Hindenburg?

	Author	Work
As	Asimov, Isaac	Whiff of Death, The Endochronic Properties of Resublimated Thiotimoline, Thiotimoline to the Stars, Pate de Fois Gras
Pb	Ball, Philip	The Sun and Moon Corrupted
Ba	Barr, Topi	“Antithiotimoline”
B	Bujold, Lois McMaster	Vorkosigan series
Ac	Christie, Agatha	"The Blue Geranium” in The Thirteen Problems
Cl	Clements, Hal	Phases in Chaos
Co	Conan Doyle, Arthur	Holmes
Md	Dewar, Michael	“Temporal Chirality:  The Burgenstock Communication”
F	Foster Wallace, David	Infinite Jest
Ag	Goodman, Allegra	Intuition
He	Heinlein, Robert	Glory Road, Have Spacesuit will Travel
Hf	Hoffman, Roald	Oxygen
Li	King, Laurie	Russell & Holmes series
U	Le Guin, Ursula	“Schrödinger’s Cat”
Sn	Lem, Stanislaw	“Uranium Earpieces” in Mortal Engines
P	Levi, Primo	The Monkey’s Wrench
Am	McCaffrey, Anne	Pern series
H	Piper, H Beam	Omnilingual
Kr	Robinson, Kim Stanley	Mars series
O	Sachs, Oliver	Uncle Tungsten
Dy	Sayer, Dorothy	The Documents in the Case
Sm	Smith, Edward Elmer “Doc”	“Tedric,” “Lord Tedric" in The Best of E. E. “Doc” Smith
Ne	Stephenson, Neal	Anathem
Br	Stoker, Bram	Dracula
Fr	Vance, Jack	“Potters of Firsk”
K	Vonnegut, Kurt	Cat’s Cradle
V	Vourvoulias, Sabrina	INK
Hg	Well, H.G.	“The Diamond Maker” in The Stolen Bacillus and Other Incidents
C	Willis, Connie	The Sidon in the Mirror

Polysemy and Polyphony: Listening to Messiah

Last spring I wrote a piece for Nature Chemistry on polysemy — the phenomenon where words take on quite different meanings in different contexts. The iconic chemistry example might be mole (the quantity versus the animal versus the verb¹), but there's a long list.

So you might think that when I ran into a homograph² on Twitter the other day, I'd be alert to the possibility. My first thought when the conversation between two chemists about the insights they find in Messiah showed up in my feed they were talking about the classic quantum mechanics text by French physicist Albert Messiah.  Actually, not.  Handel's Messiah was the text under discussion.  Polyphony crashes into polysemy.  And evidence I really am a science geek first and foremost.

The text is still in print, though Albert Messiah died in 2013 at aged 92.   I used Messiah's text when I took a year long course in quantum physics as a graduate student (from the physics department, have exhausted the chemistry offerings as an undergrad). We pronounced his name "mess-ee-uh" rather than "mess-eye-uh," making this technically a homograph (though not a capitonym³).  I wondered today how he might have pronounced his name, is it really a homograph, or did my professor simply choose to pronounce it this way to avoid sounding like an evangelical preacher when he assigned reading?  I dove into the interwebs to see if I could uncover any clues.  I discovered Messiah had been part of the French Resistance in World War II (joining at age 19, the age my youngest son is now), worked at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton with Niels Bohr and eventually returned to France to teach and write this text.

I also listened to a few minutes of a presentation Messiah gave in 2009 at Le Ecole Polytechnique.  It was oddly moving to hear the voice of someone whose written words I had spent so much time wrestling with almost forty years ago.  And at the end of the questions, I learned how he pronounced his name.

And, on the Sceptical Chymist, Reuben Hudson has a post responding to my column on a different kind of doubling-up in chemical language.

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1.  Yes, mole is a verb, to mole a garden is to remove the moles.
2.  Homographs are words that have the same spelling, but different pronunciation (lead and lead).
3.  Capitonyms are homographs with different capitalization.  DEFT and deft.

Shedding some light on chemistry: Mole Day and the Year of Light

[If you want to participate in some science about science blogs, see the bottom of this post!]

It's October and there is lots of science to celebrate.  Chemists in the US and elsewhere are celebrating Mole Day on Friday (October 23 at 6:02 pm) to honor Avogadro's number (6.02 x 10²³ items are in a mole -- it's the chemist's version of a dozen).  It's also the International Year of Light, and while you might think that light is the purview of physicists, it's an element of chemistry as well.  I suggested in a recent essay that one might want to celebrate the year of light on the 10th October at 3 in the afternoon (3 x 10¹⁰  is the speed of light in cm/sec)

I've written two pieces on the relationship between chemistry and light for the celebration.  The first for Nature Chemistry, The Enlightenment of Chemistry, looks at the two-way relationship between chemistry and light.  Light is  not just an energy source for doing chemistry, but the production of light in various ways has pushed chemistry forward.  The full text is here.

The second, for the UN's Year of Light blog celebrates the October 27th anniversary of Bunsen's and Kirchhoff's publication on the spectroscope and atomic emission spectra — and the role the spectroscope played in not only filling out the periodic table, but in confirming the periodicity of the table.

"Hunting for new elements spectroscopically meant you didn’t actually need to have any of it in your lab or even on your planet, as long as you could observe the light from a burning sample. In 1868 several chemists and astronomers independently observed a faint line in the spectrum of the sun, and assigned it to a new element, helium, which as far as they knew did not exist on earth. It would take nearly 30 years for two Swedish chemists to confirm that it was present on earth — by matching the spectrum with that of a gas found in a uranium ore. (The helium to be found on earth comes from radioactive decay.)" — read the rest here.

Want to participate in some science to celebrate?

Help us do science! I’ve teamed up with researcher Paige Brown Jarreau to create a survey of the Culture of Chemistry's readers. By participating, you’ll be helping me improve the blog and contributing to SCIENCE on blog readership. You will also get science art from Paige's Photography for participating, as well as a chance to win a t-shirt, a $50 Amazon gift card and other perks!   It should only take 10-15 minutes to complete. You can find the survey here: http://bit.ly/mysciblogreaders. 

Chemists are wildly polysemous

STO-3G//STO-3G calculated Raman spectrum of arsole

A few months ago this BBC news report - about the evacuation of a building because of a volatile compound got chemists on Twitter talking about language, particularly those words that mean one thing to chemists and something quite different to the rest of the world.  (Thanks @NatalieFey_NLS, ‏@stephengdavey and @stuartcantrill!) Like volatile (high vapor pressure vs. explosive) or to my mind the most overexposed chemical example and the inspiration for far too many t-shirts: mole.  One thing led to another, or at least, one comment by @stuartcantrill led to my Thesis column in  this month's Nature Chemistry.

Is RT retweet or 2.5 kJ/mol?

This piece was pure fun to write.  I enjoyed crowdsourcing examples of chemical double meanings. (List of 200 examples is here.) By far the favorite mechanism of formation for chemists is polysemy, where words share a common ancestor, but the meanings have drifted apart.  Take flush, as in flush a column, or flush a toilet or  flush game or even a straight flush.  All these senses derive from the Latin fluxus for flow.  (Don't see the connection to poker? The OED suggests you think of a flush as a "run" or flow of cards.)

Sometimes the two meanings sit close to the surface for chemists, other times we are pretty blind to the lexical ambiguity.  My youngest son is toying with the idea of a chemistry major, and when I read him examples from the list, he was quick to note both senses for many words: cell, salt, aromatic.  But when I got to molar, he wanted to know what else it meant beyond the concentration of a solution.  "Teeth?" I suggested.  He face palmed.  Whether he majors in chemistry or not, we've already messed with his mind.

Polysemy is productive — as the linguists would say — not just in terms of the language, but of new chemistry.  We ought not to discourage lexical play in chemists (not that one has much control over language in any case, IUPAC's gold book notwithstanding) it gives us a rich set of images to draw on and as I said in the essay, "we can't look for what our language doesn't let us imagine."

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Read the essay here. ($)

Chemistry by accident

I just finished another Thesis column for Nature Chemistry, this one on the notion that chemistry sets are an essential part of turning kids into chemists — more particularly, what I called the Uncle Tungsten trope: risky chemistry is more fun and makes better chemists. As part of the article, I wondered how many accidents there are in home labs (not counting home meth labs). It turns out that in the US, the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry (ATSDR) keeps track of hazardous substance events. The data suggests there are around 1000 chemical incidents in private homes each year, and the vast majority involve carbon monoxide (nearly all the fatalities are caused by CO) or inappropriate mixing of common household chemicals (usually of bleach and something else: ammonia, pool acid, pesticides). As far as I can tell, none of the accidents were part of amateur chemistry gone awry.

There are no narratives linked to the data, but a chemist can read between the lines. When the primary chemical listed in a chemical accident is sucrose — table sugar — (a) what is the secondary chemical likely to be? (b) What was the intended goal of the experiment?

Answers: (a) potassium nitrate (or potassium chlorate) and (b) solid rocket fuel (or sparklers or smoke bombs or...). Sucrose oxidizes readily (toasted marshmallows, anyone?), and potassium salts (KNO₃, KClO₃) are good oxidizing agents.

It should go without saying, but do not try this at home. Especially do not try mixing bleach with anything. It will not make a stronger cleaner, bug killer, or weed killer. But it might kill you.

The most Zen of molecules

Chemists are the Zen masters of science. Chemistry is a minimalist art. Its structures and mechanisms resemble the spare ink characters which trickle down scrolls. We seek elegant syntheses in which a few, carefully chosen pieces collapse into a whole. There is particular pleasure chemists take in crafting a molecule that strains the bounds of possibility — such as cubane — which evokes the aesthetic of Noh, where nearly impossible movements are made to look effortless. And despite our abilities to peer into the depths of a molecule with lasers or beams of neutrons, we haven't lost our connection our history. We are still distilling and crucibles are not merely historical artifacts. Zen sees a beauty in the old and well-used, a touch of wabi.

I've a piece in this month's Nature Chemistry on what makes a molecule beautiful (here, $), through the lens of the ten molecules that I consider to be most beautiful. I've already had a couple of emails suggesting gorgeous molecules that didn't make my list. What's on your list of elegant molecules?

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My list of the ten most beautful molecules

azulene
carvone
ferrocene
ethanol
vanillin
penicillin
insulin
snoutane
cubane

Weird Words of Chemistry: Frigorific

I ran across this word when my youngest, who I'm coaching for the thermodynamics event for Science Olympiad,asked me why the freezing point of water was 32^o on the Fahrenheit scale. The Celsius/centigrade scale was originally pinned to the freezing point and boiling point of pure water at 1 atmosphere of pressure. (Now it's pinned to absolute zero and the triple point of water.) What physical property was 0^o linked to? The freezing point of something other than water? I had to admit I didn't know and now that my curiosity was piqued, went off to hunt it down.

The zero of Fahrenheit's temperature scale was essentially pinned to the temperature of a "frigorific" mixture of ice, water and solid ammonium chloride in a 1:1:1 ratio, along with the freezing point of water and the temperature of the human body. Frigorific seems to have been coined by Robert Boyle to describe particles of cold that were transferred from body to body, and ultimately got attached to mixtures that achieved a particular temperature regardless of the starting temperatures of the materials. Wandering through the old chemistry literature, I found this table of frigorific mixtures "sufficient for all practical and philosophical purposes, in any part of the world in any season," useful in the days before refrigerators, still useful for those who need a constant temperature bath at low temperatures.

The size of a degree was set by bisecting the difference between the point at which ice and water were in equilibrium and body temperature six times, or 64 degrees (2⁶). Binary was easier to use when you had to make your own instrument than decimal.

Frigorific has essentially vanished from the chemist's vocabulary, though it's still apparently alive and well in the engineering literature. As words of science go, it sounds awkward to my ears — as roughly sharp as heaved Arctic ice.

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Nova has an excellent piece on the hunt for absolute zero. Thanks, Kathryn J for the reference!

For more on what I think about well-formed science words, you can read "Neolexia" at Nature Chemistry.

What makes a molecule beautiful?

I just finished a piece for the March issue of Nature Chemistry on what (in my mind) make a molecule beautiful. I will admit a preference for sparer, less baroque structures. (If you want to know more about my molecular aesthetic, you'll have to wait for the piece to appear!). In the meantime there is an article in this month's Nature Chemistry with the intriguing title "Quantifying the Chemical Beauty of Drugs" [Bickerton et al. Nature Chem. 4, 93-97 (2012), full text is free]. It's not so much beauty in the abstract these chemists are trying to quantitatively capture, but desirability. How attractive is this molecule as a target for drug development? Would a chemist be willing to surrender time and bench space to the synthesis of this molecule?

The model takes as its inspiration Lipinski's rule of 5. If most or all of Lipinski's five characteristics are present, a molecule has a good chance of being a viable candidate for an oral drug [Lipinkski et al. Adv. Drug Dev. Rev. 23 3-25 (1997)]. The goal is to develop an expert model system, one that mimics (or improves on) a chemist's intuition about what makes for a good drug.

Earlier work had suggested that chemical fashion sense is drifting toward more baroque structures for their drugs, despite various rule sets that suggest that bloated molecules are less likely to survive to clinical trials. Chemists apparently like their molecules "tractable" (which would seem to mitigate against molecular overelaboration?), synthetically and otherwise! Molecular docility is desirable.

For a somewhat darker take on chemical intuition and seat of the pants drug design read "Chemists in the Shadows" by Adam Piore in March's Discover Magazine. The article focuses on underground chemists who are developing new recreational pharmaceuticals that skirt current drug laws (steroids for athletes, and rave drugs). The conceptual framework used by some of these chemists would be familiar to any medicinal chemist (particularly in the early days, before QSAR).

Writing Science: The End

My quarter long science writing course came to a close last Friday. We test-drove one of the methods sections students wrote early on (how to make the perfect cup of hot chocolate, rather than coffee), ate pastries from the wonderful shop down the street and read from favorite works we'd written or read as part of the course. It was a lovely way to bring things to an end.

The final "writing" prompt
Bring a selection (roughly 200 to 300 words in length) from a piece you wrote that you'd like to read or a piece you read during the course that you'd like to share.

Thanks, too, to everyone who followed along, and especially those who shared, here (in the comments) and there.

Reading
I had more on my list of things to read than we could possibly get to -- if anyone would like the full reading list, send me a note and I'd be happy to share.

Final writing assignment
Write an 'In Your Element'-style essay for Nature Chemistry's science writing contest on any one of the following elements — helium, nitrogen, sodium, copper, bromine, indium or plutonium. 700-800 -words. All the details are here. Deadline is August 1, 2011.

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Illustration is from Wikimedia commons.

Scientists should blog about their pets

My latest Thesis column is out in March's Nature Chemisty: Blogging on the sidelines (subscription needed). In part a response to Royce Murray's editorial in Analytical Chemistry last fall, the column considers what the role of blogging critically about the primary literature might be. Does blogging by scientists about science help researches? My short answer is yes, it's an effective post-publication filter, a niche that has been filled at other times in other ways.

But I also think that scientists writing about life in the lab or their pets or commute has a role to play in making better science. That wouldn't fit in the column, so the delightful editors at Nature Chem have posted it on their blog.

Urban Myths of Chemistry Redux: The Enantiomers of Thalidomide

A few months ago I mused about the persistence of an urban myth of chemistry - the meaning of the p in pH. The musings grew into an essay which appeared in Nature Chemistry in August. [Urban legends of chemistry, Nature Chemistry 2, 600 (2010) - caveat, you or your institution need to have a subscription]. The in vivo behavior of the enantiomers of thalidomide turns out to be grist for another persistent myth.

"Ryoji Noyori, who shared the 2001 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for his contributions to asymmetric synthesis, uses the tragedy of thalidomide to open his Nobel lecture: 'A compelling example of the relationship between pharmacological activity and molecular chirality was provided by the tragic administration of thalidomide to pregnant women in the 1960s. (R)-Thalidomide has desirable sedative properties, while its S enantiomer is teratogenic and induces fetal malformations. Such problems arising from inappropriate molecular recognition should be avoided at all costs.'

A close reading of these tales raises more than a few flags. Details differ — was thalidomide marketed for depression or insomnia or morning sickness or to prevent miscarriage? (No, yes, yes and no.) Here is another urban legend of chemistry — with multiple authoritative sources, varying in detail, superficially reasonable, persistent — and with an incredibly compelling plot line. Yet it's not true — as even the tellers acknowledge on occasion. Both forms are teratogenic when administered, as they rapidly racemize in vivo.

Why would chemists pass on urban legends (and ones known to be false, at least in part)? Carl Jung suggested that 'no intellectual formulation comes near the richness and expressiveness of mythical imagery'" ....[read the rest at Nature Chemistry]

Prof. Israel Agranat (whose paper about chiral switches I reference in the essay) wrote me to share that it's not only chemistry textbooks in which these myths circulate. He pointed me to examples, including this one, from the law literature:

Citalopram is a racemate... Such molecules are called chiral (from χειρ, a hand) because, like a pair of hands, they are mirror images which cannot be completely superimposed on each other. They are conventionally designated (+) and (-). It has been well known for many years that, despite their similarities, the two enantiomers may bind to different proteins and produce different biological effects. The most notorious example was thalidomide, which consisted of a (+) enantiomer which was effective to prevent morning sickness in pregnant women and, unknown to the consumers, a (-) enantiomer which was teratogenic and caused severe birth defects." — excerpted from Lord Hoffman's decision of the England and Wales Court of Appeal in the Escitalopram oxalate (Cipralex, Lexapro in the US) patent litigation, H. Ludbeck A/s vesus Generics (UK)

So why do we pass on the legends? My short answer is that resistance is futile!

Are scientists palatable?

In the early part of the 19th century, the word scientist had yet to be coined. As the scope of materials and phenomena that natural philosophers and historians dealt with increased, there was a growing sense that these terms were inadequate to describing the task of this new breed of inquirers. In the 1830s, the British Association for the Advancement of Science explored potential candidates, but ultimately rejected various proposed terms, including scientist:

"Philosophers was felt to be too wide and too lofty a term,..; savans was rather assuming,..; some ingenious gentleman proposed that, by analogy with artist, they might form scientist, and added that there could be no scruple in making free with this termination when we have such words as sciolist, economist, and atheist — but this was not generally palatable."

The need remained, however, and a decade later, William Whewell, a philosopher and biologist pushed the issue again: “We need very much a name to describe a cultivator of science in general. I should incline to call him a Scientist.” This time it stuck.

Once the name stuck, an image quickly became attached -- wild hair, lab coats and odd apparatus all became part and parcel of what it means to be a scientist. My most recent Thesis columnin Nature Chemistry -- Men of Mystery -- takes up popular images of scientists, and considers the impact the images might have on public discourse about science.

UPDATED: See Snail's Tails post about philosophy and philosophical instruments. The ad for the "philosophical instrument makers" is fascinating!

Sex and the scientist

(Cross posted at my other blog.)

I am in the midst of writing an essay for Nature Chemistry - about why people are so curious about stereotypes of scientists, but seem less so about other fields. There is the DAST (draw a scientist test), but not as far as I can discover similar instruments to assess the images of other professions. Where are the DATTs (draw a teacher test) and DACTs (draw a chef test)? On the other end of the cultural spectrum there is the Big Bang Theory.

The earliest anthropological study I can find dates to the late 1950s and is by Margaret Mead (yes, that Margaret Mead) and Rhoda Metraux under the auspices of the AAAS. They analyzed thousands of essays, drawn from a set of 35,000 written by US high school students. The 1 page essays were written in response to one of three prompts. Prompt I read "When I think about a scientist, I think of..."

What took my breath away was Prompt II (italics are not mine, but as given in Mead's original paper - Science 126, 384-390 (1957)):

If you are a boy, complete the following statement in your own words.
If I were going to be a scientist, I should like to be the kind of scientist who...

If you are a girl, you may complete either the sentence above or this one:
If I were going to marry a scientist, I should like to marry the kind of scientist who..."

Math Man points out that I did both.

UPDATE: So there is a draw-a-teacher test (DATt) (H/T to Neil who commented on drawing God - another area that has been explored by educators and psychologists)

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Images are from K.D. Finson, J.B. Beaver, B.L. Cramond, "Development and Field Test of a Checklist for the Draw-A-Scientist Test" School Science and Mathematics 95, p. 195 (1995).

Word Wraps: From the ACS meeting

I am at the ACS meeting in Washington DC, here as "press" rather than chemist. It's a very different way to see the meeting. I went to a press briefing this morning - on the first phases of development of aresol vaccines for measles (Robert Sievers). The press center is tucked away next to the registration, and has everything a writer might want: food, wireless access and a steady stream of caffeine and conversation.

The briefings are being streamed live on the web and journalists watching can send their questions in to be asked. Miss something the first time round? Watch the replay here.

Listening as a scientist to a talk, and as a writer to the briefing turn out to be slightly different experiences. Both require critical listening, but listening as a writer prompts me to think far more about the words the science is coming wrapped in. The shorthand scientists use sounds almost staccato in this context. "Measles naive" instead of "never exposed to the measles virus" or "no evidence of viremia" instead of "no measurable virus in the bloodstream".

We try to be both precise and concise, but I wonder how often the combination in giving a talk, or even reading a paper in the literature leads to attentional processing deficits? An interesting experiment in attentional processing is to present subjects with a rapidly changing sequences of letter, interspersed with numbers. If two numbers are placed too close together, subjects can "miss" the second letter while their brain is busy processing the first. Pack too much into a sentence, and your "subjects" might miss bits.

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My Thesis column in Nature Chemistry this month, Stretching Toplogy, takes a slightly different tack in thinking about the ways words wrap around science.

Table Manners in Nature Chemistry

The second issue of Nature Chemistry appeared online today, with my musings about the shapes the periodic table can take, and why I think chemists like to keep their elements in boxes.

"Chemists have created hundreds of variations in search of the perfect periodic table. The periodic table has been mapped onto spirals, circles, triangles and elephants. The first such “alternative” periodic table, based on a sprial, was proposed by Gustavus Hinrichs of the University of Iowa in 1867, two years before Mendeleev published the forerunner to the current blocked tabular form. Still, open 50 random introductory chemistry texts and it is a fair bet that all 50 of them have IUPAC’s standard periodic table inside, or its generic sister. Chemists are stuck in the box." Read the rest of the column here (requires a subscription...).

Or if my Table Manners are not to your taste, this article in the same issue on syntheses of Moebius molecules might be.