I Have Landed by Stephen Jay Gould

personal innovation.)
    This Nabokovian argument for a strictly
positive
correlation (as opposed to the usual philistine claim for negative opposition) between extensive training and potential for creative innovation may be more familiar to scientists than to creative artists. But this crucial key to professional achievement must be actively promoted within science as well. Among less thoughtful scientists, we often encounter a different version of the phony argument for disassociation of attention to detail and capacity for creativity—the fallacy embedded in Zaleski’s statement (cited on page 44) that Nabokov’s obsessive love of detail made him a “laboratory drudge,” even while opening prospects of greatness in literature.
    The false (and unstated) view of mind that must lie behind this assertion—and that most supporters of the argument would reject if their unconscious allegiance were made explicit—assumes a fixed and limited amount of mental “stuff” for each intellect. Thus, if we assign too much of our total allotment to the mastery of detail, we will have nothing left for general theory and integrative wonder. But such a silly model of mental functioning can only arise from a false metaphorical comparison of human creativity with irrelevant systems based on fixed and filled containers—pennies in a piggy bank or cookies in a jar.
    Many of the most brilliant and revolutionary theoreticians in the history of science have also been meticulous compilers of detailed evidence. Darwin developed his theory of natural selection in 1838, but prevailed because, when he finally published in 1859, he had also amassed the first credible factual compendium (overwhelming in thoroughness and diversity) for the evolutionary basis of life’s history. (All previous evolutionary systems, including Lamarck’s, had been based on speculation, however cogent and complex the theoretical basis.) Many key discoveries emerged and prevailed because great theoreticians respected empirical details ignored by others. In the most familiar example, Kepler established the ellipticity of planetary orbits when he realized that Tycho Brahe’s data yielded tiny discrepancies from circularity that most astronomers would have disregarded as “close enough”—whereas Kepler knew that he could trust the accuracy of Tycho’s observations.
    I do not deny that some scientists see trees but not forests, thereby functioning as trustworthy experts of meticulous detail, but showing little interest or skill in handling more general, theoretical questions. I also do not deny that Nabokov’s work on butterfly systematics falls under this rubric. But I strenuously reject the argument that Nabokov’s attention to descriptive particulars, or his cherishing of intricate factuality, precluded strength in theory on principle. I do not understand Nabokov’s psyche or his ontogeny well enough to speculate about his conservative approach to theoretical questions, or his disinclination to grapple with general issues in evolutionary biology. We can only, Isuspect, intone some clichés about the world’s breadth (including the domain of science), and about the legitimate places contained therein for people with widely divergent sets of skills.
    I therefore strongly reject any attempt to characterize Nabokov as a laboratory drudge for his love of detail and his lack of attention to theoretical issues. The science of taxonomy has always honored, without condescension, professionals who develop Nabokov’s dedication to the details of a particular group, and who establish the skills and “good eye” to forge order from nature’s mire of confusing particulars. Yes, to be frank, if Nabokov had pursued only butterfly taxonomy as a complete career, he would now be highly respected in very limited professional circles, but not at all renowned in the world at large. But do we not honor