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o my mind today, this eleventh day of Christmas, is the
climax, or maybe anticlimax, of the Yuletide season. I warped my own mind years
ago, as I’m sure I’ve written many times, by turning Christmas into Newton’s
Birthday—at least, as far as I was concerned. One of the results is that all
the lights and holly and tinsel are entwined in my memories with reflecting telescopes
and equations and prisms.
Which is all very well and good, except—well, Newton wasn’t
really born on 25 December. I mean, he was, but he wasn’t. The date on which he was born was indeed 25
December, but that was by the calendar established by Julius Caesar back in
Roman times. We use the Gregorian flavor
of that calendar, and there were then ten days difference between them.
Now for traditional observances, like holidays and saints days
and the like, I’m perfectly happy to observe it on the established date,
because that’s, like, you know, the tradition and all. I’m even willing to make
allowances for people born before 1588, since there was only the one calendar
in use. But Newton was born on 4 January according to the calendar we now use,
and which was then in use in large sections of Europe, but not the benighted
backwater that was England. So by the rules I live by Newtonmas should be celebrated
on 4 January, not 25 December, no matter what date Newton preferred to have his
cake and candles and presents on, assuming that those were the birthday customs
of his day.
Others may do as they like, of course, but today I am
remembering Sir Isaac and all that he has brought us—calculus and the laws of
motion and the theory of universal gravitation. I’m not as big on his work on
ancient chronology or Biblical prophecy, though he seems to have regarded this
as at least as important as his contributions to the sciences. As these
encroach on the matters I’ve studied, I can safely say that he was wrong.
I have a certain sympathy for Newton, in that the world of
human relations seemed to be a mystery to him. He supposedly had few friends, no
sexual relationships, and would lecture to an empty classroom if nobody showed
up. While I am in no way qualified to make such a judgment, I’ve often wondered
if he were a high-functioning autistic, or something along that line. Henry
Cavendish strikes me similarly. But I don’t care enough to develop the theme at
the moment.
Happy Newtonmas. Or something.
