23 December 2016

We're going to need a new definition of what is and isn't a planet… Again.

Many people were understandably shaken when the International Astronomical Union rocked the world—err, solar system—by reclassifying Pluto as a dwarf planet in 2006. There were all sorts of opinions about it, even among scientists, but ultimately what the scientific community all agreed on was that our understanding of planets had changed drastically in the nearly eighty years since Pluto had been discovered, and our classifications needed to reflect that.

Some pushed for classifications that would include Pluto as a planet, while others (perhaps tongue-in-cheek) argued that worlds like Earth, Mercury, Venus, and Mars, aren't really planets either. The long and short of it is that any informed opinion recognizes that the concept of a planet is, in the mind of the public at least, very loosely constructed, and largely misinformed.

We now understand that there are multiple types of planet, including rocky inner planets, gas giants, ice giants, and—depending on how you classify things—dwarf planets. Beginning with the most familiar, we have Earth, a rocky, inner planet, and the only place in the universe confirmed to sustain life. Saying that the Earth is a rocky planet really just means that it has a solid surface to land on. Perhaps surprisingly for some, this isn't a fact that is common to all planets: Mercury, Venus, and Mars also have solid surfaces, as do Pluto, Eris, and the other dwarf planets, but the giant planets Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune do not.

In fact, the closest you could come to landing on any of the giant planets would be to land on one of their planet-sized moons. Jupiter's moon Ganymede is larger than the planet Mercury, as is Saturn's moon Titan, which has clouds, rivers, seas, sand dunes, and a fully formed atmosphere. All said, there are over a dozen moons in the solar system—including our own—that are large enough to be either planets or dwarf planets, and all of them have solid surfaces. (Two of them are larger than Mercury, a total of seven are larger than Pluto, and in all sixteen are larger than the dwarf planet Ceres.)

Planet-sized moons* in the Solar System:
Earth1“Luna”¹
Jupiter4Europa¹, Ganymede², Io¹, Callisto¹
Saturn5Tethys, Dione, Rhea, Titan², Iapetus
Uranus4Ariel, Umbriel, Titania, Oberon
Neptune1Triton¹
Pluto1Charon
Total16

In many ways, these planet-sized moons fit the common idea of what a planet is better than the giant planets do. They are all large enough to be round. They have solid surfaces that we can land on. They have enough gravity to keep us from flying off into space, but not enough to kill us. A few of them even have vast oceans of liquid water, which would allow us to build underwater colonies, and perhaps even find life outside of our home world.

For a bit of contrast, Jupiter is made almost entirely of thick clouds of poisonous gas. At some point, the gas may transition to liquid, but the pressure and gravitational forces of the giant planet would crush any spacecraft long before it got that far. On top of that, it produces extreme levels of radiation, so much so that Jupiter actually puts out more heat than it gets from the Sun, scorching the faces of its nearby moons. Jupiter's gravitational pull is so strong that from nearly half a billion miles away (about 780 million kilometers), it pulls on the Sun itself, causing the gravitational center of the solar system to actually be an empty point in space somewhere between the Sun and Mercury. On top of this, Jupiter has 67 known moons orbiting around it—almost like its own mini solar system—complete with four that are planet-sized. The stories for the other giant planets are similar, with the key take-home message being that these are places to orbit around, not places to visit and land on. In this way, although they are clearly not stars, they are in some ways much more like stars than like the concept of planets that most people have.

In the coming decades and centuries, as we venture out further into the solar system and begin more in-depth exploration—and even colonization—of the planet-sized moons, these contrasts between the giant planets and the rest of the worlds out there will become even more apparent. As such, I propose that in the coming centuries, we will likely again adopt a new definition of a planet: A round object with a solid surface that humans can land on.

This new definition would bring the number of (known) planets up to around seventy, including four rocky planets³; one asteroid planet⁴; eighteen satellite planets⁵; and at least 50 icy planets out past Neptune⁶. Part of the debate at the time of Pluto's reclassification centered on the idea that allowing dwarf planets to be called planets would lead to an unwieldy number of planets—too many for school children to learn. Frankly, this argument is absurd. (Continued below.)

With over seventy planets, the difficulty of learning them all could indeed become an issue, but as we come to explore and colonize these worlds, they will each develop their own unique histories and cultures, much like the countries of our own world, of which there are many more than seventy. Just as children learn a few facts about major countries and regions of the world today in their geography classes, they would learn the principle facts about the major planets and groupings of planets in their classes on solar system “geography”. Planetary populations—such as the planets orbiting Jupiter, or those orbiting Saturn or those orbiting within the Kuiper belt—would become the new continents, and interplanetary and other regional alliances would be studied and understood just as well as other countries, regions, and continents are understood today.

The principle “continental” regions of the solar system:
  • Inner system
    • Mercury
    • Venus
    • Earth & Luna
    • Mars
    • Near-Earth objects
  • Asteroid belt
    • Ceres
    • Vesta, Pallas, and the other asteroids
  • Jupiter system
    • Europa
    • Ganymede
    • Io
    • Callisto
    • minor moons and trojans of Jupiter
  • Saturn system
    • Mimas
    • Enceladus
    • Tethys
    • Dione
    • Rhea
    • Titan
    • Iapetus
    • rings and minor moons of Saturn
  • Uranus system
    • Miranda
    • Ariel
    • Umbriel
    • Titania
    • Oberon
    • rings, minor moons, and trojans of Uranus
  • Neptune system
    • Triton
    • minor moons and trojans of Neptune
  • Outer system
    • Pluto & Charon
    • Haumea
    • Quaoar
    • Makemake
    • OR10
    • Eris & Dysnomia
    • Sedna
    • many others

To be perfectly clear, I'm not proposing a new definition of planet for right now, or for a decade or even a century from now. I'm simply making the observation that as we step out into the solar system, our current idea of what is and isn't a planet will likely naturally shift as we gain specific experience with the various worlds of the solar system. As this happens, it will become more and more clear that the giant planets are more things to orbit around than things to land on, and as such, it is likely that we will begin to think of them as essentially different from the solid bodies of the solar system.

21 December 2016

The Hebrew Alphabet is a Mess

For the past week or so, I've been learning modern Hebrew on Duolingo, just for fun. Hebrew is a fascinating language, and an amazing example of a nearly-dead language taking on new life to become a flourishing part of everyday life for millions of people. But as my title already says, the Hebrew alphabet is a mess.

The Hebrew alphabet—or alef‑bet—officially has 22 letters, but five of these letters have separate forms at the end of a word. If that were all, it might be OK. But that's not all—not by a long shot. First of all, vowels aren't written in Hebrew, so when you see a word for the first time, even if you know the consonants, there's no way to know what the vowels are, which can completely change the meaning of a word. And knowing the consonants isn't a trivial matter either!

Letters with more than one sound

There are six consonant letters that can each make more than one sound. So bet sometimes makes a b sound and sometimes a v sound; he is sometimes pronounced like an English h and is sometimes not pronounced at all; vav is sometimes pronounced as a v, sometimes as an o, and sometimes as u; yod can either be the y sound or the i sound; kaf can either make a k sound or a kh sound (like Scottish ch in ‘loch’); pe makes either a p or f sound; and shin/sin is either pronounced sh or s. Of course, it's possible to use special dots on the letters to show the exact pronunciation, but this is only common in dictionaries and very basic children's books. This means that as an adult learning Hebrew, when you see a new word, you really have to guess how to pronounce it. For example, seeing the word שכב (shin/sin-kaf-bet) for the first time, there's absolutely no way to know whether it's pronounced sakab, sakav, sakhav, sakhab, shakab, shakav, shakhav, or shakhab. (It's shakhav.) And once again, that's assuming you know the vowels as well. There are some patterns—like that pe, bet, and kaf are more likely to be pronounced as p, b, and k at the start of a word and as f, v, and kh everywhere else—but there are no guarantees!

LetterSound(s)
א(silent)
בb or v
גg
דd
הh
וv, o, or u
זz
חkh
טt
יy or i
כ, ךk or kh
לl
מ, םm
נ, ןn
סs
ע(silent)
פ, ףp or f
צ, ץts
קk
רr
שsh or s
תt

Sounds with more than one letter

On top of all this, when you hear a new word for the first time, there's often no way to tell how it should be spelled. It seems like with twenty-two letters, six of which have multiple pronunciations, there should be around twenty-eight different consonant sounds in Hebrew, right? Well, actually there are only twenty consonant sounds. This is because seven of the consonant sounds of Hebrew can be written in multiple ways, so even with multiple pronunciations for some letters, there are still fewer sounds than letters. The v sound can either be written with bet or with vav; the kh sound is either kaf or khet; the t sound is either tet or tav; the k sound is either kaf or kof; the s sound is either samekh or sin; and to top it all off, in spoken Israeli Hebrew, there are two letters (alef and ayn) that are always silent and one (he) that is usually silent at the end of a word, and sometimes silent at the start of the a word. This means that if someone tells you the word for cake in Hebrew is ooga, there's no way to know whether it's אוגה, אוגא, אוגע, עוגה, עוגא, or עוגע. (It's עוגה.) Even for a seemingly straightforward word like katav (“he wrote”), there are eight possible spellings (כתב, כתו, כטב, כטו, קתב, קתו, קטב,  or קטו—the right one is כתב)!

SoundLetter(s)
(silent)א, ע, (ה)
bב
vב, ו
gג
dד
hה
zז
khח, כך
tט, ת
yי
kכך, ק
lל
mמם
nנן
sס, ש
pפף
fפף
tsצץ
rר
shש

The vowels are even worse

Of course, these lists don't even include the vowels. They're rarely written, but when they are, they have the same problem as the consonants. By most accounts, there are only five vowel sounds in modern Israeli Hebrew: a, e, i, o, and u, which are pronounced the same as in most European languages. That seems fairly straightforward, except that for those five vowels, there are fourteen different sets of niqqud (the little dots used in children's books and dictionaries). So when you hear the a sound, it could be אַ or אָ or אֲ or אֳ (all of these examples are given with alef as the base letter); when you hear an e sound, it could be אֵ or אֶ or אֱ or אְ; and the i, o, and u sounds can all be written either with or without a helping consonant (yod for i and vav for o and u). In older dialects of Hebrew, all these different symbols made different sounds—some were long and others were short, one a was pronounced further back than the other, etc.—but in modern Israeli Hebrew, there's really no way to tell which of the four a sounds someone is actually pronouncing, or whether or not to write a vav for an o sound. Because of this, hearing a word like zot for the first time, there's no way to know whether the o is just written as a dot (i.e., usually not written at all) or written with a vav. (In this case, it's actually not written at all, and there's a silent alef where the 'vav' would be: זאת [zayin-alef-tav].) A word with multiple vowel sounds ends up having multiple possible spellings, like lehitraot, which has sixty-four (!) different potential spellings, depending on the different versions of e, i, a, and o used. (And that's assuming you already know the right consonants to use!)

64 possible ways to write lehitra'ot:
לֵהִיתרָאוֹת, לֵהִיתרָאֹת, לֵהִיתרַואֹת, לֵהִיתרַאֹת, לֵהִיתרֲאוֹת, לֵהִיתרֲאֹת, לֵהִיתרֳאוֹת, לֵהִיתרֳאֹת, לֵהִתרָאוֹת, לֵהִתרָאֹת, לֵהִתרַאוֹת, לֵהִתרַאֹת, לֵהִתרֲאוֹת, לֵהִתרֲאֹת, לֵהִתרֳאוֹת, לֵהִתרֳאֹת, לֶהִיתרָאוֹת, לֶהִיתרָאֹת, לֶהִיתרַאוֹת, לֶהִיתרַאֹת, לֶהִיתרֲאוֹת, לֶהִיתרֲאֹת, לֶהִיתרֳאוֹת, לֶהִיתרֳאֹת, לֶהִתרָאוֹת, לֶהִתרָאֹת, לֶהִתרַאוֹת, לֶהִתרַאֹת, לֶהִתרֲאוֹת, לֶהִתרֲאֹת, לֶהִתרֳאוֹת, לֶהִתרֳאֹת, ל`הִיתרָאוֹת, ל`הִיתרָאֹת, ל`הִיתרַאוֹת, ל`הִיתרַאֹת, ל`הִיתרֲאוֹת, ל`הִיתרֲאֹת, ל`הִיתרֳאוֹת, ל`הִיתרֳאֹת, ל`הִתרָאוֹת, ל`הִתרָאֹת, ל`הִתרַאוֹת, ל`הִתרַאֹת, ל`הִתרֲאוֹת, ל`הִתרֲאֹת, ל`הִתרֳאוֹת, ל`הִתרֳאֹת, לֱהִיתרָאוֹת, לֱהִיתרָאֹת, לֱהִיתרַאוֹת, לֱהִיתרַאֹת, לֱהִיתרֲאוֹת, לֱהִיתרֲאֹת, לֱהִיתרֳאוֹת, לֱהִיתרֳאֹת, לֱהִתרָאוֹת, לֱהִתרָאֹת, לֱהִתרַאוֹת, לֱהִתרַאֹת, לֱהִתרֲאוֹת, לֱהִתרֲאֹת, לֱהִתרֳאוֹת, לֱהִתרֳאֹת

Vowelniqqud, etc.
aאַ, אָ, אֲ, אֳ
eאֵ, אֶ, אְ, אֱ
iאִ, יִ
oאֹ, וֹ
uאֻ, וּ

Time for a reform?

When you add the vowels' ambiguity to the consonants' ambiguity, you end up with even more possible spellings for any new word you hear. The reformist in me wishes we could just pare it down to one sound per letter, and one letter per sound. So, for example, instead of bet sometimes being pronounced as b and sometimes as v, and vav also sometimes being pronounced v, bet would always be pronounced b and vav would always be pronounced v. As long as we're thinking about changing things, there's really no reason for five letters to have different word-final forms while the other letters don't, so we could get rid of the word-final forms, too. This would give us exactly twenty consonant sounds and twenty letters:

SoundLetter(s)
(silent)א
bב
vו
gג
dד
hה
zז
khח
tט
yי
kק
lל
mמ
nנ
sס
pפ
fף
tsצ
rר
shש

If we did this, we could keep the word-final form of pe for the f sound. This is the only alternate sound that can't be written with a separate letter, so keeping the final form would be a reasonable thing to do. Also worth noting is that kaf, ayn, and tav would be removed completely, since their sounds are covered by other letters (kof, alef and tet).

This all seems well and good. If we did this, a word like shakhav could be unambiguously written as שחו (shin-khet-vav), and a person who's never seen the word before would know exactly how to pronounce it. (Well, the consonants, anyway.) But our spelling reform would have some unfortunate unintended consequences. Just like English, Hebrew's weird spelling system actually has one benefit: it makes it easier to see the relationships between words. A good example of this in English is the word electric and the related word electricity. If we got rid of the letter C and just used k or s instead, we could spell these words elektrik and elektrisity, making the pronunciation more closely tied to the spelling, but also making it ever so slightly less obvious that these words are related. This is the case even more in Hebrew, where words like pa'al and nif'al are less obviously related when the p and the f are completely separate letters.


A compromise

For this reason, along with a host of others, Hebrew speakers haven't implemented any major alphabetic reforms. But they have introduced a few conventions that make it ever so slightly less impossible to figure out the correlations between spelling and pronunciation. One of these conventions—using yod for the I sound and vav for the o and u sounds—actually dates back centuries. Without it, a word like ooga (which means ‘cake’, from a few paragraphs back) would simply be written עגה (ayn-gimel-he), and we would have absolutely no idea what the vowels were. With the vav, we can at least narrow the first vowel down to one of two possibilities. Along with this, when vav does make a v sound instead of a vowel sound, it's often written as a double vav, as in the word barvaz (ברווז) ‘duck’, which, without the double vav could be confused for barooz or baroz. Similarly, when yod makes an ay or ey sound, it's often written as a double yod, as in tsaharaym (צהריים) 'noon'.

While these conventions don't solve the problem—it still feels very much like the Hebrew alphabet was designed for a completely different language—they help a little. And short of convincing every Hebrew speaker everywhere to change the way they do things, I don't think there's much I can do other than just view reading and writing in Hebrew as a special sort of challenge. After all, if I can figure this out, that's saying something, right?