Does the Universe Exist if We're Not Looking?

Eminent physicist John Wheeler says he has only enough time left to work on
one idea: that human consciousness shapes not only the present but the past
as well.

The world seems to be putting itself together piece by piece on this damp gray
morning along the coast of Maine. First the spruce and white pine trees that
cover High Island materialize from the fog, then the rocky headland, and finally
the sea, as if the mere act of watching has drawn them all into existence. And
that may indeed be the case. While this misty genesis unfolds, the island's most
eminent residentdiscusses notions that still perplex him after seven decades in
physics, including his gut feeling that the very universe may be constantly
emerging from a haze of possibility, that we inhabit a cosmos made real in part
by our own observations.
John Wheeler, scientist and dreamer, colleague of Albert Einstein and Niels
Bohr, mentor to many of today's leading physicists, and the man who chose the
name "black hole" to describe the unimaginably dense, light-trapping objects
now thought to be common throughout the universe, turned 90 last July. He is
one of the last of the towering figures of 20th-century physics, a member of the
generation that plumbed the mysteries of quantum mechanics and limned the
utmost reaches of space and time. After a lifetime of fundamental
contributions in fields ranging from atomic physics to cosmology, Wheeler has
concerned himself in his later years with what he calls "ideas for ideas."
"I had a heart attack on January 9, 2001," he says, "I said, 'That's a signal. I only
have a limited amount of time left, so I'll concentrate on one question: How
come existence?'"
Why does the universe exist? Wheeler believes the quest for an answer to that
question inevitably entails wrestling with the implications of one of the
strangest aspects of modern physics: According to the rules of quantum
mechanics, our observations influence the universe at the most fundamental
levels. The boundary between an objective "world out there" and our own
subjective consciousness that seemed so clearly defined in physics before the
eerie discoveries of the 20th century blurs in quantum mechanics. When
physicists look at the basic constituents of reality— atoms and their innards, or
the particles of light called photons— what they see depends on how they have
set up their experiment. A physicist's observations determine whether an
atom, say, behaves like a fluid wave or a hard particle, or which path it follows
in traveling from one point to another. From the quantum perspective the
universe is an extremely interactive place. Wheeler takes the quantum view
and runs with it.
As Wheeler voices his thoughts, he laces his fingers behind his large head, leans
back onto a sofa, and gazes at the ceiling or perhaps far beyond it. He sits with
his back to a wide window. Outside, the fog is beginning to lift on what
promises to be a hot summer day. On an end table near the sofa rests a large
oval rock, with one half polished black so that its surface resembles the Chinese
yin-yang symbol. "That rock is about 200 million yearsold," says Wheeler. "One
revolution of our galaxy."
Although Wheeler's face looks careworn and sober, it becomes almost boyish
when he smiles, as he does when I extend a hand to help him from the couch
and he says, "Ah, antigravity." Wheeler is short and sturdily built, with sparse
white hair. He retains an impish fascination with fireworks— an enthusiasm
that cost him part of a finger when he was young— and has on occasion lit
Roman candles in the corridors of Princeton, where he became a faculty
member in 1938 and where he still keeps an office. At one point a loud bang
interrupts our interview. Wheeler's son, who lives on a cliff a few hundred
yards away, has fired a small cannon, a gift from Wheeler.
Wheeler is gracious to a fault; one colleague describes him as "a gentleman
hidden inside a gentleman." But that courtly demeanor also hides something
else: one of the most adventurous minds in physics. Instead of shying away
from questions about the meaning of it all, Wheeler relishes the profoundand
the paradoxical. He was an early advocate of the anthropic principle, the idea
that the universe and the laws of physics are fine-tuned to permit the existence
of life. For the past two decades, though, he has pursued a far more
provocative idea for an idea, something he calls genesis by observership. Our
observations, he suggests, might actually contribute to the creation of physical
reality. To Wheeler we are not simply bystanders on a cosmic stage; we are
shapers and creators living in a participatory universe.
Wheeler's hunch is that the universe is built like an enormous feedback loop, a
loop in which we contribute to the ongoing creation of not just the present and
the future but the past as well. To illustrate his idea, he devised what he calls
his "delayed-choice experiment," which adds a startling, cosmic variation to a
cornerstone of quantum physics: the classic two-slit experiment.
That experiment is exceedingly strange in its own right, even without Wheeler's
extra kink thrown in. It illustrates a key principle of quantum mechanics: Light
has a dual nature. Sometimes light behaves like a compact particle, a photon;
sometimes it seems to behave like a wave spread out in space, just like the
ripples in a pond. In the experiment, light — a stream of photons — shines
through two parallel slits and hits a strip of photographic film behind the slits.
The experiment can be run two ways: with photon detectors right beside each
slit that allow physicists to observe the photons as they pass, or with detectors
removed, which allows the photons to travel unobserved. When physicists use
the photon detectors, the result is unsurprising: Every photon is observed to
pass through one slit or the other. The photons, in other words, act like
particles.

But when the photon detectors are removed, something weird occurs. One
would expect to see two distinct clusters of dots on the film, corresponding to
where individual photons hit after randomly passing through one slit or
theother. Instead, a pattern of alternating light and dark stripes appears. Such a
pattern could be produced only if the photons are behaving like waves, with
each individual photon spreading out and surging against both slits at once, like
a breaker hitting a jetty. Alternating bright stripes in the pattern on the film
show where crests from those waves overlap; dark stripes indicate that a crest
and a trough have canceled each other.
The outcome of the experiment depends on what the physicists try to measure:
If they set up detectors beside the slits, the photons act like ordinary particles,
always traversing one route or the other, not both at the same time. In that
case the striped pattern doesn't appear on the film. But if the physicists remove
the detectors, each photon seems to travel both routes simultaneously like a
tiny wave, producing the striped pattern.
Wheeler has come up with a cosmic-scale version of this experiment that has
even weirder implications. Where the classic experiment demonstrates that
physicists' observations determine the behavior of a photon in the present,
Wheeler's version shows that our observations in the present can affect how a
photon behaved in the past.
To demonstrate, he sketches a diagram on a scrap of paper. Imagine, he says, a
quasar — a very luminous and very remote young galaxy. Now imagine that
there are two other large galaxies between Earth and the quasar. The gravity
from massive objects like galaxies can bend light, just as conventional glass
lenses do. In Wheeler's experiment the two huge galaxies substitute for the
pair of slits; the quasar is the light source. Just as in the two-slit experiment,
light — photons — from the quasar can follow two different paths, past one
galaxy or the other.
Suppose that on Earth, some astronomers decide to observe the quasars. In
this case a telescope plays the role of the photon detector in the two-slit
experiment. If the astronomers point a telescope in the direction of one of the
two intervening galaxies, they will see photons from the quasar that were
deflected by that galaxy; they would get the same result by looking at the other
galaxy. But the astronomers could also mimic the second part of the two-slit
experiment. By carefully arranging mirrors, they could make photons arriving
from the routes around both galaxies strike a piece of photographic film
simultaneously. Alternating light and dark bands would appear on the film,
identical to the pattern found when photons passed through the two slits.
Here's the odd part. The quasar could be very distant from Earth, with light so
faint that its photons hit the piece of film only one at a time. But the results of
the experiment wouldn't change. The striped pattern would still show up,
meaning that a lone photon not observed by the telescope traveled both paths
toward Earth, even if those paths were separated by many light-years. And
that's not all.
By the time the astronomers decide which measurement to make — whether
to pin down the photon to one definite route or to have it follow both paths
simultaneously — the photon could have already journeyed for billions of
years, long before life appeared on Earth. The measurements made now, says
Wheeler, determine the photon's past. In one case the astronomers create a
past in which a photon took both possible routes from the quasar to Earth.
Alternatively, they retroactively force the photon onto one straight trail toward
their detector, even though the photon began its jaunt long before any
detectors existed.
It would be tempting to dismiss Wheeler's thought experiment as a curious
idea, except for one thing: It has been demonstrated in a laboratory. In 1984
physicists at the University of Maryland set up a tabletop version of the
delayed-choice scenario. Using a light source and an arrangement of mirrors to
provide a number of possible photon routes, the physicists were able to show
that the paths the photons took were not fixed until the physicists made their
measurements, even though those measurements were made after the
photons had already left the light source and begun their circuit through the
course of mirrors.
Wheeler conjectures we are part of a universe that is a work in progress; we
are tiny patches of the universe looking at itself — and building itself. It's not
only the future that is still undetermined but the past as well. And by peering
back into time, even all the way back to the Big Bang, our present observations
select one out of many possible quantum histories for the universe.
Does this mean humans are necessary to the existence of the universe? While
conscious observers certainly partake in the creation of the participatory
universe envisioned by Wheeler, they are not the only, or even primary, way by
which quantum potentials become real. Ordinary matter and radiation play the
dominant roles. Wheeler likes to use the example of a high-energy particle
released by a radioactive element like radium in Earth's crust. The particle, as
with the photons in the two-slit experiment, exists in many possible states at
once, traveling in every possible direction, not quite real and solid until it
interacts with something, say a piece of mica in Earth's crust. When that
happens, one of those many different probable outcomes becomes real. In this
case the mica, not a conscious being, is the object that transforms what might
happen into what does happen. The trail of disrupted atoms left in the mica by
the high-energy particle becomes part of the real world.
At every moment, in Wheeler's view, the entire universe is filled with such
events, where the possible outcomes of countless interactions become real,
where the infinite variety inherent in quantum mechanics manifests as a
physical cosmos. And we see only a tiny portion of that cosmos. Wheeler
suspects that most of the universe consists of huge clouds of uncertainty that
have not yet interacted either with a conscious observer or even with some
lump of inanimate matter. He sees the universe as a vast arena containing
realms where the past is not yet fixed.
Wheeler is the first to admit that this is a mind-stretching idea. It's not even
really a theory but more of an intuition about what a final theory of everything
might be like. It's a tenuous lead, a clue that the mystery of creation may lie not
in the distant past but in the living present. "This point of view is what gives me
hope that the question — How come existence? — can be answered," he says.

William Wootters, one of Wheeler's many students and now a professor of

physics at Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, sees Wheeler as
an almost oracular figure. "I think asking this question — How come existence?
— is a good thing," Wootters says. "Why not see how far you can stretch? See
where that takes you. It's got to generate at least some good ideas, even if the
question doesn't get answered. John is interested in the significance of
quantum measurement, how it creates an actuality of what was a mere
potentiality. He has come to think of that as the essential building block of
reality."
In his concern for the nature of quantum measurements, Wheeler is addressing
one of the most confounding aspects of modern physics: the relationship
between the observations and the outcomes of experiments on quantum
systems. The problem goes back to the earliest days of quantum mechanics
and was formulated most famously by the Austrian physicist Erwin
Schrödinger, who imagined a Rube Goldberg-type of quantum experiment with
a cat.
Put a cat in a closed box, along with a vial of poison gas, a piece of uranium,
and a Geiger counter hooked up to a hammer suspended above the gas vial.
During the course of the experiment, the radioactive uranium may or may not
emit a particle. If the particle is released, the Geigercounter will detect it and
send a signal to a mechanism controlling the hammer, which will strike the vial
and release the gas, killing the cat. If the particle is not released, the cat will
live. Schrödinger asked, What could be known about the cat before opening
the box?
If there were no such thing as quantum mechanics, the answer would be
simple: The cat is either alive or dead, depending on whether a particle hit the
Geiger counter. But in the quantum world, things are not so straightforward.
The particle and the cat now form a quantum system consisting of all possible
outcomes of the experiment. One outcome includes a dead cat; another, a live
one. Neither becomes real until someone opens the box and looks inside. With
that observation, an entire consistent sequence of events— the particle
jettisoned from the uranium, the release of the poison gas, the cat's death— at
once becomes real, giving the appearance of something that has taken weeks
to transpire. Stanford University physicist Andrei Linde believes this quantum
paradox gets to the heart of Wheeler's idea about the nature of the universe:
The principles of quantum mechanics dictate severe limits on the certainty of
our knowledge.
"You may ask whether the universe really existed before you start looking at
it," he says. "That's the same Schrödinger cat question. And my answer would
be that the universe looks as if it existed before I started looking at it. When
you open the cat's box after a week, you're going to find either a live cat or a
smelly piece of meat. You can say that the cat looks as if it were dead or as if it
were alive during the whole week. Likewise, when we look at the universe, the
best we can say is that it looks as if it were there 10 billion years ago."
Linde believes that Wheeler's intuition of the participatory nature of reality is
probably right. But he differs with Wheeler on one crucial point. Linde believes
that conscious observers are an essential component of the universe and
cannot be replaced by inanimate objects.
"The universe and the observer exist as a pair," Linde says. "You can say that
the universe is there only when there is an observer who can say, Yes, I see the
universe there. These small words — it looks like it was here— for practical
purposes it may not matter much, but for me as a human being, I do not know
any sense in which I could claim that the universe is here in the absence of
observers. We are together, the universe and us. The moment you say that the
universe exists without any observers, I cannot make any sense out of that. I
cannot imagine a consistent theory of everything that ignores consciousness. A
recording device cannot play the role of an observer, because who will read
what is written on this recording device? In order for us to see that something
happens, and say to one another that something happens, you need to have a
universe, you need to have a recording device, and you need to have us. It's not
enough for the information to be stored somewhere, completely inaccessible
to anybody. It's necessary for somebody to look at it. You need an observer
who looks at the universe. In the absence of observers, our universe is dead.
"Will Wheeler's question— How come existence?— ever be answered?
Wootters is skeptical. "I don't know if human intelligence is capable of
answering that question," he says. "We don't expect dogs or ants to be able to
figure out everything about the universe. And in the sweep of evolution, I
doubt that we're the last word in intelligence. There might be higher levels
later. So why should we think we're at the point where we can understand
everything? At the same time I think it's great to ask the question and see how
far you can go before you bump into awall." 
Linde is more optimistic.
"You know, if you say that we're smart enough to figure everything out, that is
a very arrogant thought. If you say that we're not smart enough, that is a very
humiliating thought. I come from Russia, where there is a fairy tale about two
frogs in a can of sour cream. The frogs were drowning in the cream. There was
nothing solid there; they could not jump from the can. One of the frogs
understood there was no hope, and he stopped beating the sour cream with
his legs. He just died. He drowned in sour cream. The other one did not want to
give up. There was absolutely no way it could change anything, but it just kept
kicking and kicking and kicking. And then all of a sudden, the sour cream was
churned into butter. Then the frog stood on the butter and jumped out of the
can. So you look at the sour cream and you think, 'There is no way I can do
anything with that.' But sometimes, unexpected things happen. 
"I'm happy that some people who previously thought this question — How
come existence? — was meaningless did not stop us from asking it. We all
learned from people like John Wheeler, who asks strange questions and gives
strange answers. You may agree or disagree with his answers. But the very fact
that he asks these questions, and suggests some plausible — and implausible
— answers, it has shaken these boundaries of what is possible and what is
impossible to ask."
And what does the oracle of High Island himself think? Will we ever understand
why the universe came into being?
"Or at least how," he says. "Why is a trickier thing." Wheeler points to the
example of Charles Darwin in the 19th century and how he provided a simple
explanation — evolution through natural selection — for what seemed an
utterly intractable problem: how to explain the origin and diversity of life on
Earth. Does Wheeler think that physicists might one day have a similarly clear
understanding of the origin of the universe?
"Absolutely," he says. "Absolutely."