And I agree that I've never heard the word 'science' used as a curiousity stopper.
Not the word, the concept. If I meant the word, I'd have said "Science!" rather than "Science" - though, come to think of it, no one had any logical way of knowing that... studies show we communicate much more ambiguously than we think we do.
No one is actually walking around pointing to light switches and saying, "Why does it work?" and hearing someone else respond "Science!" Rather, they fail to ask the question at all, because of the concept that it belongs to "science", the scientific magisterium, and therefore, should be marked as "understood" rather than "mysterious". Even though, in fact, they don't know why the light switch works.
If anyone is going to ask for a real-world example of someone who does not know how a light switch works, I can't provide one off the top of my head, but I'd suggest looking at this, which is even more dreadful.
What I am trying to do - to fulfill HA's request of coming out and saying everything bluntly - is reawaken the delight in a world full of mysteries, which has been sapped by the notion that they are already understood, and therefore, no longer important. It's not a verbal belief, but a way of seeing the world, which I am trying to bring into clear focus with parables. If I just said, "Hey, I saw a guy pass a light switch the other day, and he didn't look at it curiously," this would be true real-world example but it would not make the point.
There is a tremendous demand for mysteries which are frankly stupid. I wish this demand could be satisfied by scientific mysteries instead. But before we can live in that world, we have to undo the idea that what is scientific is not curiosity-material, that it is already marked as "understood".
it's fine for you to say that your purpose here is to focus on writing speed without worrying about quality
I did not say that, as you should be well aware if you are going to debate subtle and fine points. I certainly worry about quality. But there are specific things which take up a lot of time, such as finding a good illustrative real-world example, which I can't do once a day. I do them whenever I have a good example ready to hand, e.g. as in "Say not 'Complexity'", but if not, then I can compose a parable in my head in bounded time because it draws only on internal resources. The Net is infinitely deep - for all practical purposes - and if a Google search fails once, I'll give up and compose a parable. I will, of course, try to make it as high-quality a parable as possible.
"If anyone is going to ask for a real-world example of someone who does not know how a light switch works, I can't provide one off the top of my head, but I'd suggest looking at this, which is even more dreadful."
Imagine that I, in full view of live television cameras, raised my hands and chanted abracadabra and caused a brilliant light to be born, flaring in empty space beyond my outstretched hands. Imagine that I committed this act of blatant, unmistakeable sorcery under the full supervision of James Randi and all skeptical armies. Most people, I think, would be fairly curious as to what was going on.
But now suppose instead that I don’t go on television. I do not wish to share the power, nor the truth behind it. I want to keep my sorcery secret. And yet I also want to cast my spells whenever and wherever I please. I want to cast my brilliant flare of light so that I can read a book on the train—without anyone becoming curious. Is there a spell that stops curiosity?
Yes indeed! Whenever anyone asks “How did you do that?” I just say “Science!”
It’s not a real explanation, so much as a curiosity-stopper. It doesn’t tell you whether the light will brighten or fade, change color in hue or saturation, and it certainly doesn’t tell you how to make a similar light yourself. You don’t actually know anything more than you knew before I said the magic word. But you turn away, satisfied that nothing unusual is going on.
Better yet, the same trick works with a standard light switch.
Flip a switch and a light bulb turns on. Why?
In school, one is taught that the password to the light bulb is “Electricity!” By now, I hope, you’re wary of marking the light bulb “understood” on such a basis. Does saying “Electricity!” let you do calculations that will control your anticipation of experience? There is, at the least, a great deal more to learn.1
If you thought the light bulb was scientifically inexplicable, it would seize the entirety of your attention. You would drop whatever else you were doing, and focus on that light bulb.
But what does the phrase “scientifically explicable” mean? It means that someone else knows how the light bulb works. When you are told the light bulb is “scientifically explicable,” you don’t know more than you knew earlier; you don’t know whether the light bulb will brighten or fade. But because someone else knows, it devalues the knowledge in your eyes. You become less curious.
Someone is bound to say, “If the light bulb were unknown to science, you could gain fame and fortune by investigating it.” But I’m not talking about greed. I’m not talking about career ambition. I’m talking about the raw emotion of curiosity—the feeling of being intrigued. Why should your curiosity be diminished because someone else, not you, knows how the light bulb works? Is this not spite? It’s not enough for you to know; other people must also be ignorant, or you won’t be happy?
There are goods that knowledge may serve besides curiosity, such as the social utility of technology. For these instrumental goods, it matters whether some other entity in local space already knows. But for my own curiosity, why should it matter?
Besides, consider the consequences if you permit “Someone else knows the answer” to function as a curiosity-stopper. One day you walk into your living room and see a giant green elephant, seemingly hovering in midair, surrounded by an aura of silver light.
“What the heck?” you say.
And a voice comes from above the elephant, saying,
“Oh,” you say, “in that case, never mind,” and walk on to the kitchen.
I don’t know the grand unified theory for this universe’s laws of physics. I also don’t know much about human anatomy with the exception of the brain. I couldn’t point out on my body where my kidneys are, and I can’t recall offhand what my liver does.2
Should I, so far as curiosity is concerned, be more intrigued by my ignorance of the ultimate laws of physics, than the fact that I don’t know much about what goes on inside my own body?
If I raised my hands and cast a light spell, you would be intrigued. Should you be any less intrigued by the very fact that I raised my hands? When you raise your arm and wave a hand around, this act of will is coordinated by (among other brain areas) your cerebellum. I bet you don’t know how the cerebellum works. I know a little—though only the gross details, not enough to perform calculations . . . but so what? What does that matter, if you don’t know? Why should there be a double standard of curiosity for sorcery and hand motions?
Look at yourself in the mirror. Do you know what you’re looking at? Do you know what looks out from behind your eyes? Do you know what you are? Some of that answer Science knows, and some of it Science does not. But why should that distinction matter to your curiosity, if you don’t know?
Do you know how your knees work? Do you know how your shoes were made? Do you know why your computer monitor glows? Do you know why water is wet?
The world around you is full of puzzles. Prioritize, if you must. But do not complain that cruel Science has emptied the world of mystery. With reasoning such as that, I could get you to overlook an elephant in your living room.
1 Physicists should ignore this paragraph and substitute a problem in evolutionary theory, where the substance of the theory is again in calculations that few people know how to perform.
2 I am not proud of this. Alas, with all the math I need to study, I’m not likely to learn anatomy anytime soon.