Saving Schrödinger's Cat

Ashes to Ashes

Recently the Australian National University School of Physics published a paper on the prevalence of an isotope of iron known as ⁶⁰Fe, or Iron-60. More specifically, they found an increased concentration of it imbued in sediment that dates from about 33,000 years ago to the present. According to the paper, this suggests that Earth’s solar system is travelling through the remnants of a supernova that exploded millions of years ago and left its ashes to drift down upon our home.

Supernovae are fascinating phenomenon. A supernova is what happens when a star, reaching the end of its life, decides to go out with a bang. Some of the heavier elements, such as iron, copper, and phosphorus are made in these cataclysmic explosions, eventually collecting into planets such as ours. Countless supernovae from eons past have seeded our planet with the essential building blocks of life. As Carl Sagan said, we are star stuff.

California is a blazing inferno at the moment. Perhaps having the gasoline of climate change poured on it hasn’t helped matters, but fires are nothing new here. They happen every year, and when they are done, the following spring new growth pokes it head through the ashes and turns the charred countryside green again.

I haven’t really been thinking about death lately (despite being of morbid temperament) but the supernova story got me thinking about the cycle of life. Death is a common event in literature, an extreme event from which can be extracted the most drama and emotional response. Rebirth is also a common theme, usually to complement death. The promise of rebirth is the driving hope beneath many religions.

I think of writing as the single coin on which death and rebirth are two different sides. When an author puts words to paper, the words are frozen on the page, unchanging in a sort of temporal death. When someone reads it, the author’s thoughts are reborn and take on a new life. Even centuries after the author has died, their work lives on, and it can change based upon the perspective of whoever is reading. Think of the many ways that Shakespeare has been reimagined, or Homer, or the poetry of Beowulf. Think of the stories they further inspired throughout the ages, new stories rising from the ashes of the old. In a way these great authors are the supernovae of their time, and we still see their echoes today. I guess it’s as close to immortality as we will ever get.

Why do you write? Personally I wouldn’t want actual immortality even if it were possible. Can you imagine the boredom after an eon or two? But while I don’t write for this reason, I wouldn’t turn down the chance to go supernova – assuming I actually had that sort of talent. What do you think? Would you go supernova if you could, seeding the literary stars so as to inspire for centuries? Or are you more of Earth-friendly spectral class-G star, warm and reliable, but never standing out in a galaxy of billions?