THE FLOW OF THOUGHT ■ 1 35esoteric problems, the paradigm [or theoretical approach] forces scien
tists to investigate some part of nature in a detail and depth that would
otherwise be unimaginable.” This concentration is made possible by
“rules that limit both the nature of acceptable solutions and the steps
by which they are obtained.” And, Kuhn claims, a scientist engaged in
“normal” science is not motivated by the hope of transforming knowl
edge, or finding truth, or improving the conditions of life. Instead,
“what then challenges him is the conviction that, if only he is skillful
enough, he will succeed in solving a puzzle that no one before has solved
or solved so well.” He also states, “The fascination of the normal re
search paradigm ... [is that] though its outcome can be anticipated
... the way to achieve that outcome remains very much in doubt.
... The man who succeeds proves himself an expert puzzle-solver, and
the challenge of the puzzle is an important part of what usually drives
him on.” It is no wonder that scientists often feel like P. A. M. Dirac,
the physicist who described the development of quantum mechanics in
the 1920s by saying, “It was a game, a very interesting game one could
play.” Kuhn’s description of the appeal of science clearly resembles
reports describing why riddling, or rock climbing, or sailing, or chess,
or any other flow activity is rewarding.
If “normal” scientists are motivated in their work by the challeng
ing intellectual puzzles they confront in their work, “revolutionary”
scientists—the ones who break away from existing theoretical paradigms
to forge new ones—are even more driven by enjoyment. A lovely exam
ple concerns Subrahhmanyan Chandrasekhar, the astrophysicist whose
life has already acquired mythical dimensions. When he left India as a
young man in 1933, on a slow boat from Calcutta to England, he wrote
out a model of stellar evolution that with time became the basis of the
theory of black holes. But his ideas were so strange that for a long time
they were not accepted by the scientific community. He eventually was
hired by the University of Chicago, where he continued his studies in
relative obscurity. There is one anecdote told about him that best typi
fies his commitment to his work. In the 1950s Chandrasekhar was
staying in Williams Bay, Wisconsin, where the main astronomical ob
servatory of the university is located, about eighty miles away from the
main campus. That winter he was scheduled to teach one advanced
seminar in astrophysics. Only two students signed up for it, and Chand
rasekhar was expected to cancel the seminar, rather than go through the
inconvenience of commuting. But he did not, and instead drove back
to Chicago twice a week, along back-country roads, to teach the class.
A few years later first one, then the other of those two former students