In 1973, John Archibald Wheeler described the relationship between space and matter in two sentences: “Space acts on matter, telling it how to move. In turn, matter reacts back on space, telling it how to curve.” Wheeler’s words serve as a pithy encapsulation of general relativity, Albert Einstein’s theory of gravity.
Wheeler’s sentences also lay out a challenge that theorists face today: When they build a model of the universe — at least one that works at the quantum level — it’s been difficult to get space and matter to interact in the way that they must.
Einstein cast gravity not as a force but as the geometric bending of space and time. In a popular analogy, the fabric of space-time is like the flat expanse of a mattress, and a massive object like a star is like a bowling ball sitting on top. The weight of the bowling ball compresses the mattress, forming a dimple — matter tells space-time how to curve.
In this analogy, a planet is like a smaller ball. If it rolls close enough to the bowling ball, its path will be altered by the dimple in the mattress — space-time tells matter how to move.
But general relativity has a fatal flaw. When a star dies and collapses, its mass is concentrated into an unimaginably dense point. The dimple in the mattress stretches into a deep depression, one that essentially rips all the way through. Physicists call this arrangement a black hole. If a ball reaches such a rip, it’s no longer guided by the fabric, and the analogy breaks down; scientists need a new theory to understand this and other, similarly extreme situations.
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