I find these few paragraphs of the preface of "the 4th phase of water" fitting to the discussion:
"Treating any scientific formulation as sacred is a serious error. Any framework of understanding that we build needs to rest on solid foundations of experimental evidence rather than on sacred formulations; otherwise, the finished product may resemble one of M.C. Escher’s renderings of subtle impossibility — a result worth avoiding. Even long-standing models remain vulnerable if they have not managed to bring simple, satisfying understandings. Galileo’s story teaches us that when an established foundation requires the support of elaborate “epicycles” to agree with empirical observations, it’s time to begin searching for simpler foundations.
This book attempts to build reliable foundations for a new science of water. The foundation derives from recent discoveries. Upon this new foundation, we will build a framework of understanding with considerable predictive power: everyday phenomena become plainly explainable without the need for mind-bending twists and jumps. Then comes the bonus: the process of building this new framework will yield four new scientific principles — principles that may prove applicable beyond water and throughout all of nature.
Thus, the approach I take is unconventional. It does not build on the “prevailing wisdom”; nor does it reflexively accept all current foundational principles as inherently valid. Instead, it returns to the root method of doing science — relying on common observation, simple logic, and the most elementary principles of chemistry and physics to build understanding. Example: in observing the vapor rising from your cup of hot coffee, you can actually see the clouds of vapor. What must that tell
you about the nature of the evaporative process? Do prevailing foundational principles sufficiently explain what you see? Or must we begin looking elsewhere?
This old-fashioned approach may come across as mildly irreverent because it pays little homage to the “gods” of science. On the other hand, I believe the approach may provide the best route toward an intuitive understanding of nature — an understanding that even laymen can appreciate.
I certainly did not begin my life as a revolutionary. In fact, I was pretty conventional. As an undergraduate electrical engineering student, I came to class properly dressed and duly respectful. At parties, I wore a tie and jacket just like my peers. We looked about as revolutionary as members of an old ladies’ sewing circle.
Only in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania did someone implant in me the seeds of revolution. My field of study at the time was bioengineering. I found the engineering component rather staid, whereas the biological component brought some welcome measure of leavening. Biology seemed the happening place; it was full of dynamism and promise for the future. Nevertheless, none of my biology professors even hinted that students like us might one day create scientific breakthroughs. Our job was to add flesh to existing skeletal frameworks.
I thought that incrementally adding bits of flesh was the way of science until a colleague turned on the flashing red lights. Tatsuo Iwazumi arrived at Penn when I was close to finishing my PhD. I had built a primitive computer simulation of cardiac contraction based on the Huxley model, and Iwazumi was to follow in my footsteps. “Impossible!” he asserted. Lacking the deferential demeanor characteristic of most Japanese I’d known, Iwazumi stated in no uncertain terms that my simulation was worthless: it rested on the accepted theory of muscle contraction, and that theoretical mechanism couldn’t possibly work. “The mechanism is intrinsically unstable,” he continued. “If muscle really worked that way, then it would fly apart during its very first contraction.”
Whoa! A frontal challenge to Huxley’s muscle theory? No way.
Although (the late) Iwazumi exuded brilliance at every turn and came with impeccable educational credentials from the University of Tokyo and MIT, he seemed no match for the legendary Sir Andrew Huxley. How could such a distinguished Nobel laureate have so seriously erred? We understood that the scientific mechanisms announced by such sages constituted ground truth and textbook fact, yet here came this brash young Japanese engineering student telling me that this particular truth was not just wrong, but impossible.
Reluctantly, I had to admit that Iwazumi’s argument was persuasive — clear, logical, and simple. As far as I know, it stands unchallenged to this very day. Those who hear the argument for the first time quickly see the logic, and most are flabbergasted by its simplicity.
For me, this marked a turning point. It taught me that sound logical arguments could trump even long-standing belief systems buttressed by armies of followers. Once disproved, a theory was done — finished. The belief system was gone forever. Clinging endlessly was tantamount to religious adherence, not science. The Iwazumi encounter also taught me that thinking independently was more than just a cliché; it was a necessary ingredient in the search for truth. In fact, this very ingredient led to my muscle-contraction dispute with Sir Andrew Huxley (which never did resolve)."