with a roar of noise and a glory of daylight

The enclave looks—well, take everything you know about Hollywood-Burbank and throw it away. What Delphi sees coming down is a neat giant mushroom-farm, domes of all sizes up to monsters for the big games and stuff. It's orderly. The idea that art thrives on creative flamboyance has long been torpedoed by proof that what art needs is computers. Because this showbiz has something TV and Hollywood never had—automated inbuilt viewer feedback. Samples, ratings, critics, polls? Forget it. With that carrier field you can get real-time response-sensor readouts from every receiver in the world, served up at your console. That started as a thingie to give the public more influence on content. Yes. Try it, man. You're at the console. Slice to the sex-age-educ-econ-ethno-cetera audience of your choice and start. You can't miss. Where the feedback warms up, give 'em more of that. Warm—warmer—hot! You've hit it—the secret itch under those hides, the dream in those hearts. You don't need to know its name. With your hand controlling all the input and your eye reading all the response you can make them a god . . . and somebody'll do the same for you.

What they do like up there is to have things orderly, especially their communications. You could say they've dedicated their lives to that, to freeing the world from garble. Their nightmares are about hemorrhages of information: channels screwed up, plans misimplemented, garble creeping in.

Thoreau continued to search for this balance. Over the years, the struggle became less intense, but he remained worried. One evening, for example, when he had spent a day at a river, scribbling page after page of notes on botany and wildlife, he finished the entry with the sentence: ‘Every poet has trembled on the verge of science.’ But as he plunged into Humboldt’s writing, Thoreau slowly lost his fear. Cosmos taught him that the collection of individual observations created a portrait of nature as a whole, in which each detail was like a thread in the tapestry of the natural world. Just as Humboldt had found harmony in diversity, so too did Thoreau. Detail led to the unified whole or, as Thoreau put it, ‘a true account of the actual is the rarest poetry.’ The most graphic proof of this change came when Thoreau stopped using one journal for ‘poetry’ and another for ‘facts’. He no longer knew which was which. It had all become one and the same, because ‘the most interesting & beautiful facts are so much the more poetry,’ as Thoreau said.

What kind of science was this, Thoreau asked, ‘which enriches the understanding, but robs the imagination’? This was what Humboldt had written about in Cosmos. Nature, Humboldt explained, had to be described with scientific accuracy but without being ‘deprived thereby of the vivifying breath of imagination’. Knowledge did not ‘chill the feelings’ because the senses and the intellect were connected. More than any other, Thoreau followed Humboldt’s belief in the ‘deeply-seated bond’ that united knowledge and poetry. Humboldt allowed Thoreau to weave together science and imagination, the particular and the whole, the factual with the wonderful.

At a time when imagination had been firmly excluded from the sciences, Humboldt insisted that nature couldn’t be understood in any other way. One look at the heavens, Humboldt said, was all it took: the brilliant stars ‘delight the senses and inspire the mind’, yet at the same time they move along a path of mathematical precision.

In the history of publishing, the book’s popularity was ‘epoch making’, Humboldt’s German publisher announced. He had never seen so many orders – not even when Goethe had published his masterpiece Faust. Students read Cosmos, as did scientists, artists and politicians. Prince von Metternich, the Austrian Chancellor of State, who had so disagreed with Humboldt about reforms and revolutions, now brushed politics aside and enthused that only Humboldt was capable of such great work. Poets admired it, as did musicians, with the French Romantic composer Hector Berlioz declaring Humboldt a ‘dazzling’ writer. The book was so popular among musicians, Berlioz said, that he knew one who had ‘read, re-read, pondered and understood’ Cosmos during his breaks at opera performances when his colleagues played on. In England Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, requested a copy, while Darwin professed himself impatient for the English translation. Within weeks of the book’s publication in Germany and France, a pirated English language edition had begun to circulate – translated in such execrable prose that Humboldt worried it might ‘severely damage’ his reputation in Britain. His ‘poor Cosmos’ had been butchered and was unreadable in this version.