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Time of India
9 hours ago
- Science
- Time of India
When a Princeton Doctor stole Einstein's brain to uncover the secret of his genius: The bizarre tale of science and obsession
A Pathologist's Quiet Heist — PhysInHistory (@PhysInHistory) Where in the World is Einstein's Brain? — medicalmuseum (@medicalmuseum) What the Studies Found; and Didn't A Brain That Outlived Its Owner You Might Also Like: How Albert Einstein engaged with India & why some Indian scientists are reimagining his notion of gravity On April 18, 1955, Albert Einstein, the revolutionary physicist whose theories changed how we perceive the universe, died in Princeton, New Jersey, at the age of 76. True to his philosophy of simplicity and humility, Einstein had left clear instructions: no monuments, no posthumous glorification, and most importantly, no dissection. He wanted his body cremated and his ashes scattered in secret. But what happened next would become one of science's most puzzling and ethically murky pathologist assigned to perform Einstein's autopsy, Dr. Thomas Stoltz Harvey, made a controversial decision—he removed Einstein's brain without informing the family. Sliced into 240 pieces, the organ that had decoded the mysteries of space and time was placed into jars, boxes, and eventually even a trunk. Harvey kept it hidden for over four decades, traveling across the U.S. and Canada with parts of the brain in his car. He claimed he did it for science, believing the brain held secrets about Einstein's extraordinary intellect. Eventually, Einstein's son, Hans Albert, gave reluctant permission, but by then the deed was long pathologist's unauthorized preservation attempt soon spiraled into a bizarre chase. Some fragments of the brain were sent to researchers across the globe; others were tucked away in Harvey's basement. According to BBC and Science, around 170 blocks eventually returned to Princeton's University Medical Center. Forty-six wafer-thin slices are displayed at the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia. But many pieces simply vanished. Despite Harvey's efforts to preserve and study the brain, large sections remain unaccounted for to this first major scientific insight didn't come until 1985, when neurologist Marian Diamond from UC Berkeley studied samples provided by Harvey. Her team discovered an unusual concentration of glial cells per neuron, possibly hinting at heightened information processing. Later analyses, including one in 2012, found a unique extra groove in Einstein's frontal lobe, associated with memory and planning. But as Britannica notes, no definitive link between these anatomical quirks and Einstein's genius has ever been established. The biggest mystery, perhaps, is whether genius can ever be reduced to biology to a report from Aurora, Einstein once famously said, 'I want to leave when I want. It's in bad taste to prolong life artificially.' Yet ironically, his brain has outlived him in the most artificial and fragmented way. Thomas Harvey 's obsession cost him his marriage, his job, and ultimately, peace of mind. He died after a long illness, haunted by the organ he tried to now, parts of Einstein's brain sit behind museum glass, some circulate in scientific archives, and others are presumed lost—perhaps tucked away in forgotten drawers, private collections, or academic vaults. As Science wryly concluded, 'Einstein's brain could be anywhere.'The question remains: did dissecting Einstein's brain bring us any closer to understanding genius? Perhaps not. The more we tried to bottle it, the more it slipped through our fingers. In life, Einstein reshaped our understanding of space and time. In death, he left behind a riddle no one seems able to solve—where, exactly, is the mind of Albert Einstein?
Time of India
18-05-2025
- Science
- Time of India
How a physicist's Greek alphabet joke overshadowed his student's legacy on the origins of the universe
In the annals of scientific history, some names shine brightly while others, despite their brilliance, remain cast in the shadow. One such tale unfolds in the spring of 1948, when a PhD student named Ralph Alpher co-authored a groundbreaking paper on the origins of the universe—only to find his moment of recognition upstaged by a pun. Ralph Alpher was no ordinary doctoral student. Under the mentorship of the legendary physicist George Gamow , Alpher was delving into one of the deepest mysteries of the cosmos: the birth of chemical elements after the Big Bang. Their joint paper, eventually titled The Origin of Chemical Elements , laid the foundation for what we now understand as Big Bang nucleosynthesis . It was Alpher's calculations that argued that the early universe produced hydrogen, helium, and other primordial elements in precise proportions—predictions that would later be vindicated by observational cosmology . This was not just another academic exercise. It was a monumental piece of theoretical physics. But while Alpher toiled over the data and equations, Gamow, known for his eccentric sense of humor, had other ideas brewing. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Outdoor Clothing | Designed to Perform. Built to Endure. Trek Kit India Shop Now Undo — PhysInHistory (@PhysInHistory) Enter the Gamma Gag To Gamow, the paper's authorship presented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—not to elevate his student's hard-earned credibility, but to indulge in a clever linguistic twist. Spotting a near-anagram between his student's name and his own, and sensing the possibility of an alphabetic pun, Gamow decided to add a third author to the paper: Hans Bethe . Hans Bethe was a towering figure in physics and a close acquaintance of Gamow's. But in this instance, he had no involvement whatsoever in the paper's development. That didn't stop Gamow from including him anyway. Why? To create the irresistible author trio of Alpher, Bethe, and Gamow—or, as it soon became widely known, the αβγ (alpha-beta-gamma) paper, a cheeky nod to the first three letters of the Greek alphabet. You Might Also Like: Want a fear-free mango season? Here is the science behind mango pimples and ulcers, and how to avoid them It was an April Fool's Day publication , after all. — phalpern (@phalpern) A Cosmic Discovery with a Comic Twist The paper's contributions to cosmology were no laughing matter. It offered the first theoretical explanation for how matter in the universe came to exist in its current form. Yet, despite the paper's scientific gravitas, its whimsical authorship threatened to eclipse the very scholar who made it possible. Gamow's decision, while received in good humor by Bethe—who played along with the joke and later contributed meaningfully to the field—left Alpher feeling side-lined. Imagine pouring your intellectual soul into a PhD thesis, only to have your advisor toss in a celebrity co-author for a clever play on words. You Might Also Like: How a Nobel-nominated scientist was cancelled for exposing the invisible danger we face every day In his 1952 book The Creation of the Universe , Gamow cheekily recounted that Bethe 'did not object' to his name being included, and even mused about Bethe possibly changing his name to 'Zacharias' when the theory later faced criticism. The satire continued with a nod to physicist R.C. Herman, who refused to change his name to 'Delter' to complete the Greek sequence. A Legacy Diminished by a Laugh Despite the charm and cleverness of the joke, according to a report from The Daily Telegraph , Alpher was not amused. He believed, rightly so, that his recognition as a young scientist had been compromised. Decades later, even as the theory gained renewed respect, Alpher continued to express frustration about how Gamow's stunt had diluted the credit he deserved. In a world where name recognition can define a scientific career, the addition of Bethe—a Nobel laureate and senior scientist—overshadowed the immense contribution of a graduate student who had cracked open the secrets of the early universe. The Irony of Eternal Credit As irony would have it, the paper lives on not under its formal title, but as the 'Alpher–Bethe–Gamow paper'—a clever mnemonic immortalized in textbooks, lectures, and journals. Meanwhile, the name Ralph Alpher remains obscure to the broader public, his legacy punctuated not by acclaim, but by an academic inside joke. Science is often a discipline of rigor and reverence. But sometimes, a well-timed jest can leave a permanent imprint—one that lifts a laugh but lowers a name from its rightful pedestal. And in this curious case, a young man's cosmic calculations ended up orbiting forever around a physicist's pun.
