I was listening to Brain Food Podcast this morning and one of the questions he reviewed was on Robert Hooke’s letter to Isaac Newton that said that if a hole could be drilled straight through the earth, an object could pass from opening to opening with sufficiently reduced friction that the entire trip would take less than 45 minutes. And in a vehicle with a low enough mass, there would almost be no need for a boost at the midpoint and the it would slow to a stop at exactly the exit point. After I finished thinking lousy molten core—we gotta get on this, I started to wonder about why we don’t hear about Hooke more often?
Most people probably aren’t all gonzo for 17th century scientists the way I am, but Hooke’s architecture is used every day all over America—have main artery streets with smaller lanes shooting of them at intervals. His work on the compound microscope lets us see billions of light years away. He invented the universal joint—used in your car—and the wrote the Law of Elasticity—used in your wristwatch. Lexigraphically, he coined the word “cell.” Take that, Anton van Leeuwenhoek! And he wrote with a quill afire:
An Attempt to Prove the Motion of the Earth by Observations:
It cannot, I confess, but seem very uncouth and strange to such as have been used to confine the World with less dimensions, that this annual Orb of the Earth of so vast a magnitude, should have no sensible Parallax amongst the fixt Stars, and therefore ’twas in vain to indeavour to answer that objection. For it is unreasonable to expect that the fancies of most men should be so far streined beyond their narrow dimensions, as to make them believe the extent of the Universe so immensly great as they must have granted it to be, supposing no Parallax could have been found.
I reread the first half of Quicksilver last year, and Waterhouse’s plague year sojourn at Epsom was as funny and breathtakingly smart as I remember it—mostly because he spends the entire time trying to avoid Hooke, who keeps trying to make him help out with experiments that are, essentially, vivisection. So Waterhouse putters around, trying to get Christopher Wren to notice him and require his aid, but Wren is taken with apiaries and can’t be bothered. So Waterhouse ends up learning all about cells, and bellows and vacuums, which come in handy much later on down the line when his descendents are organ-players and code-breakers.
Let’s remember Robert Hooke. I think I’m going to go ahead and have a full blown crush on him.



