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On one particular Saturday, over a plate of cheese enchiladas, I had one of the most uncomfortable conversations of my career. One of my fellow volunteers, Bob, was a retired Army officer who had come to prefer spending his days feeding the giraffes over analyzing military tactics. He asked me what I was studying, and I replied that I was exploring squid biomechanics. His eyes, sharp with scrutiny, posed a simple yet profound question: “Why?” He wasn’t probing the scientific essence but the purpose. I clumsily mumbled about the intrinsic value of knowledge and some nebulous idea of understanding life as a squid. But Bob’s query dug deeper. He questioned the economic rationale: why the public dime funded my education and why national funds poured into a project that, to him, smacked of what he called “silly science.” Behind his inquiry was an earnest taxpayer’s need to see tangible returns on investment. And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I simply couldn’t answer his question. My research wasn’t going to solve any major world issues. The scientific work that had consumed my life for the past three years wasn’t going to do anything as far as I could predict.
Perhaps my research was useless, but I recognize now that it was not worthless. Still on that day, over enchiladas, I failed to articulate the essence and significance of “silly science.” Now, under the Trump administration, we are seeing unprecedented cuts to federal funding of research. Scientists like me no longer have the luxury of botching these conversations with the taxpaying public. So let me explain myself.
Likewise, although squid have indeed been an engineering inspiration (check out the Robosquid), my research had nothing to do with application. Years after defending my doctoral work, I still don’t know how my research can directly benefit humankind. Luckily, I am in good company. Albert Einstein also saw no immediate application when he developed his theory of relativity. It wasn’t until almost a hundred years later that his theory became useful in everyday life via GPS. Now, I’m no Einstein, not even relatively speaking, but we do share the enchanting and powerful world of curiosity-driven science.
Perhaps my research was useless, but I recognize now that it was not worthless.
Einstein found his academic home, and endless support for his curiosity-driven research, at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, N.J. The institute, the brainchild of Abraham Flexner, was envisioned to be a “paradise for scholars,” where researchers would have no administrative duties or students. Their job description was simply the “unobstructed pursuit of useless knowledge.” As a professor who spends an extraordinary amount of time in faculty meetings, this does indeed sound like a paradise. It was Flexner’s belief that human curiosity, mixed with a dash of serendipity, was the path to transformative ideas. His conviction was that only from the perspective of hindsight would knowledge that was gained through unhampered inquiry end in practical applications. Einstein was hardly the only scholar to benefit from Flexner’s vision. His institute birthed 35 Nobel laureates, 42 Fields medalists, 21 Abel Prize laureates, and many winners of Wolf and MacArthur prizes. Clearly, the focus on curiosity-driven research has led to scientific discoveries that rocked our world.
It has been estimated that more than half of all economic growth comes from innovations that began in the world of basic discovery. But if new technology doesn’t convince you, perhaps a look into medical advances will help. A team of researchers dove into the discovery of drugs and found that basic research is “the best route to the generation of powerful new medicines.” Most drugs don’t begin with research intended to make that drug. In fact, the results of their study showed that 80 percent of the medicines on their list led back to a discovery from basic research without any intention of creating a new drug.
Such political mockery has real effects on science and scientists. No one wants to be the next “shrimp on a treadmill” headline. In 2011, a biologist, David Scholnick, and his research on the physiological performance of shrimp in bacteria-laden water were blasted by Sen. Tom Coburn for squandering taxpayer money when a video clip of a shrimp running on a tiny treadmill went viral. Forbes described Scholnick’s research as wasting $3 million from taxpayers, and the AARP created a nationally televised commercial of lab-coat-wearing scientists observing shrimp on treadmills to highlight the lack of federal support for retiree health-care services. Certain politicians went so far as to say studies of shrimp on a treadmill had limited military spending.
It has been estimated that more than half of all economic growth comes from innovations that began in the world of basic discovery.
Although it might look like government money is handed out willy-nilly, this is far from the reality. Researchers must submit detailed proposals outlining their intended research, the potential significance of the work, a clear methodology, and a budget detailing how every dollar will be spent. These proposals are then peer reviewed by other experts in the field who assess the feasibility, significance, and potential impact of the research. Only the most promising and impactful proposals receive funding at a rate of around 25 percent. Furthermore, once a grant is awarded, researchers are not just given free rein with the funds. They are required to submit periodic progress reports and financial statements, ensuring that the money is being used effectively and for its intended purpose. After the grant period, a detailed report on the findings and implications of the research is also required. This oversight ensures accountability and maximizes the return on investment for the public’s money. The true cost of David Scholnick’s infamous shrimp treadmill? It was less than $50.
Under the current administration, the rhetoric of ridicule that was once confined to Golden Fleece press releases has seeped into policy. We are witnessing the dismantling of a system that once made space for pure curiosity. But if we lose our commitment to basic research, we risk stalling the very engine of innovation that has propelled us forward for generations. Now more than ever, we must fight for the kind of science that doesn’t always have an answer to “why?” — at least not yet.
This essay is adapted from The Salmon Cannon and the Levitating Frog and Other Serious Discoveries of Silly Science (Basic Books, 2025).
