Feeding the Fire: The Lost History and Uncertain Future of Mankind's Energy Addiction

Book by Eberhart Mark

1

The Thinking man’s diet

At twelve, I was convinced I had stumbled upon the ultimate diet, and it was going to make me rich. I was a skinny kid who spent most of my adolescence combining Hostess Twinkies, instant pudding, heavy cream, lots of eggs, and cans of sweetened condensed milk in various high-caloric proportions in a tireless effort to bulk myself up—while the rest of my family struggled with their weight.

My stepfather swore by The Drinking Man’s Diet, the invention of Robert Cameron (aka Jeffrey Roberts), a San Francisco bon vivant and entrepreneur who marketed a “fun” diet in a fifty-page pamphlet that sold for one dollar in 1964. Predating Atkins by nine years, Cameron advocated healthy weight loss by reducing one’s consumption of carbohydrates, leaving dieters free to dine on porterhouse steaks, lobsters languishing in garlic butter, and salads smothered in Roquefort dressing. Cameron’s real genius was in recognizing that distilled spirits like vodka, gin, and whiskey contain only trace amounts of carbohydrates. Hence, there was no reason to abstain from a brandy after that Chateaubriand. In short, Cameron preached that it was possible to lose weight while eating, drinking, and making merry. So appealing was this message that in only two years’ time The Drinking Man’s Diet had been released in thirteen languages and sold 2.4 million copies. Cameron was set for life. At this writing, the still svelte ninety- something’s diet book is still in print.

If Cameron could get rich by inventing a diet, why couldn’t I? In addition to a diet simply working, it seemed a catchy name was essential to success. I would call mine The Thinking Man’s Diet.

Somewhere—I can’t remember where—I had learned that our brains consume more energy than our skeletal muscles. It was obvious: Think more and lose weight. I pictured a daily regimen where calisthenics were replaced with solving algebra problems, jogging with games of chess, and pumping iron with deciphering the daily crossword puzzle. And if you ate that dish of triple-chocolate-fudge ice cream after dinner, a few jumbles or geometric proofs before bed would serve as penance. This wonderful fact also seemed to explain why I was so skinny—I just thought too much, which is exactly what my grandmother always said. It was clear, at least to me, that The Thinking Man’s Diet could make millions.

But there was a glitch in my master plan. Specifically, the relative energy consumption of brains versus muscles is with respect to the basal metabolic rate, or BMR. For persons totally at rest, their brains consume energy faster than their muscles. Working muscles, however, are a different story.

The skeletal muscles of a typical 75 kg (165 lb) adult male make up about 40 percent of his body mass. This resting muscle consumes slightly less energy than a 15-watt refrigerator bulb. But put only some of these muscles to work pedaling a bicycle and a moderately conditioned rider will burn energy at the same rate as five 100-watt lightbulbs. A world-class rider can use energy at the same rate as a handheld hair dryer, 2,000 watts.

So, if algebra were to substitute for calisthenics, a thinking brain would need to use much more energy than one at rest. Here was the flaw in my get-rich-quick diet plan: Once again, consider a 75 kg adult male whose brain will account for approximately 2 percent of his body mass, roughly 1.5 kg. While sleeping, this brain will be using slightly more than 15 watts. Wake our subject and confront him with a calculus exam, and his brain will still require 15 watts of power. Have him solve the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, take an IQ test, or learn and explain the General Theory of Relativity, and how much power will his brain use? You got it.

Our brain is the only organ that consumes energy at a nearly constant rate, while all other organs respond to the demands placed upon them. Our hearts, which account for only one-half of one percent of our body mass, use a whopping 10 watts of power while resting. Ask the heart to supply blood to the muscles of our cyclist, and its power requirements will increase. The same is true of our kidneys, liver, organs of the gastrointestinal tract, and lungs—all use energy in proportion to the work they are being required to do. Except for our brains.

Alas, there was to be no Thinking Man’s Diet. There was to be no pamphlet—not in any language, let alone in thirteen of them.

The adage “You can do anything you put your mind to” had to be nonsense. With a constant power supply, our brains must function like a car with a broken accelerator—the driver can neither speed up nor slow down. Is this true? Are we limited in what we can do with our brains? We can check by measuring the rate at which brainwork accumulates. If our brains are like that car with the broken accelerator, brainwork will accumulate at a constant rate.

However, before we can start our bookkeeping, we need a more tangible definition. What exactly is the product of the working brain?

For most organs, this is an uncomplicated question. The work done by the heart is measured by the quantity of blood it pumps. The work done by the gut is related to the amount of food digested. And the work done by the lungs is associated with the volume of air inhaled. When it comes to the brain, though, the issue is not as obvious.

An essential component of brainwork is connected with actuating the nerves of the voluntary and involuntary muscles. When I reach across the table to grab the last chocolate chip cookie, it is because my brain is sending signals to my arm, shoulder, hand, and fingers. However, in human beings, only a small portion of the brain is involved with this task; the greater part is busy with other activities that are more easily illustrated than explained. So, picture yourself driving a rollover-prone SUV at 75 mph on a straight stretch of interstate. Suddenly, a piece of debris causes the front right tire to blow.

Two things have just occurred: First, you did exactly as I asked. You formed a mental image of an SUV striking a piece of debris. Second, not only did you imagine the SUV as instructed, but you also took the next step unbidden and pictured the vehicle tumbling end-over-end down the interstate. Our imaginations display an almost physical inertia—once the process begins, it must continue. This is what imagination is all about. We have the ability to hold on to real or fictitious ideas and events and explore the multifold possible outcomes that may result. In short, we have the ability to ask and seek answers to the question “What if?” Your response to the SUV situation is the natural result of attempting to envision the consequences of the question I posed, “What if the SUV you are driving has a blowout?”

For the most part, we are unaware of all the What if? questions our minds grapple with on a daily basis. All of us have had at least one of those Eureka! moments, when an idea or solution to a problem seems to pop into our heads. In fact, when this happens our brains have been struggling with the problem for hours, days, perhaps even years, experimenting with one scenario after another. It is only after (finally) settling upon a solution or course of action that the question is shifted from the mental background to consciousness—and, Eureka! Our brains are always questioning, always searching for answers, always imagining. Our brains are like that car with the broken accelerator, always running at full speed.

Yet searching, questioning, and thinking are not brainwork, any more than revving the engine of a parked car is driving. Work is the useful product of an action. Whereas our heart, lungs, and gut do work by maintaining our body, our brain does work when providing the stuff that can nourish another person’s imagination. You don’t have to look far to find examples of brainwork. This book was written to nourish your mind. In turn, I was only able to write it because I had access to a computer, text-editing software, the Internet, and reference books. All of these things served to feed my imagination. And the designers of each of these things drew sustenance from the inventions and ideas of others—from other inventors’ and scientists’ and writers’ brainwork.

Brainwork is self-propagating. Each invention grows our collective imagination. With a more robust imagination, we create even more things, which further nourish our imaginations, and so on. The adage about doing anything you put your mind to appears to be true after all. Which means we are left with a paradox: How can we do more with an apparently constant energy supply?

The solution is obvious. All of the “stuff” that nourishes our imaginations comes with an energy source. The energy to power the computer and text-editing software I mentioned did not come from the 15 watts allocated to my brain. I also did not have to draw from my own brain when looking for information—I did an Internet search that was powered through a worldwide electrical distribution system. And when I could not find what I wanted on the World Wide Web, I did it the old-fashioned way and read books, which had been produced with the aid of electric printing presses and were then distributed to libraries and bookstores with trucks powered by gasoline and diesel engines. In a very real sense, I could do more brainwork because my imagination was able to tap in to a virtually unlimited energy resource—a pipeline of brainwork, so to speak.

Brainwork is the defining product of a civilization. Hence, it is not surprising to see cultures flourish when energy is available and collapse when it dwindles. The United States—blessed with abundant timber, coal, oil, and hydroelectric power—has risen to become one of history’s great civilizations. Our brainwork is unprecedented, inclu...