Forsooth, if the electron, in its first and already so fleeting form, appeared to mine eye like some ungraspable memory, that which Master Nottale doth now propose, with his theory of scale, delves deeper still into the very abyss of reality. There, where space itself doth lose its smooth and comforting countenance, to reveal a complexity most wondrous and unlooked for; much like those inner landscapes a man discovers within his own soul as the years do turn, ever more vast and winding than his first surmise.
Imagine, if thou wilt, that the stage upon which this electron doth enact its evolutions is no longer that homogenous and predictable void our minds were wont to conjure. Nay, 'tis a fabric whose very weave, when observed with an ever more piercing gaze – as one might pore upon each syllable from Burbage's tongue to catch its subtlest inflection – would show itself not smooth, but infinitely fractured, fractal. 'Tis somewhat as if the well-trod path to Stratford, which I believed I knew by rote, did multiply at every stride into a countless myriad of hidden lanes, each with its own peculiar logic, its own meandering will, rendering the very notion of a "direct way" but an illusion born of our coarse perception.
Master Nottale's electron, mark ye well, would no longer be that quantum sprite, whose inexplicable leaps are born of mere intrinsic fancy. Nay, it becomes, in a manner almost more melancholic and fated, the simple traveller following the most natural line, the geodesic, yet one inscribed upon this dizzily complex map of a non-differentiable spacetime. Its uncertain gait, its carp-like leaps within the wave, would then be but the reflection of the infinite anfractuosity of the path it is constrained to tread. 'Tis as if, to pass from one point to another in the Globe's own tiring-house, one had not to cross a chamber with well-ordered furnishings, but to navigate a labyrinth of whispered plots, of sidelong glances, of meanings hid beneath a courtier's smile, where every step must be adjusted to the microscopic scale of unseen social currents, invisible to the distant observer.
Thus, what in quantum philosophy appeared as a limit to our knowing, a probabilistic veil, becomes with Master Nottale a description of the very geometry of the electron's existence. The "resolution" with which one observes it would alter its perceived nature. Like a sentiment which, examined o'er-closely, dissolves into a myriad of contrary sensations, or which, contemplated with the perspective of time, takes on a new coherence, Nottale's electron doth teach us that reality is a matter of scale. Its dance is no longer merely that of a particle in a void, but the dance of the void itself, whose intimate structure, rough and discontinuous, dictates the choreography. Its mass, its charge, were no longer arbitrary attributes, labels affixed by decree, but manifestations of the manner in which this electron did interact with the manifold scales of this fractal tapestry. Like a lute's note, whose resonance doth change with the very stones of the chapel, the electron's properties emerged from its dance with the infinite resolutions of the cosmos.
Quantum philosophy left us before a shrouded mystery; Scale Relativity, for its part, lifts a corner of that shroud, to let us glimpse that the mystery resides in the infinite richness of reality's very frame. Where the Copenhagen school doth embrace a fundamental indeterminism, Scale Relativity, by binding quantum behaviour to an underlying geometry (though complex and non-differentiable), opens the door to a form of geometric determinism, wherein probabilities would arise from the exploration of this infinity of fractal paths.
Therefore, 'tis to a new humility that this vision doth summon us: the electron, in its waltz dictated by the infinite folds of space at infinitesimal scales, reminds us that what we hold for certain – the smoothness of a line, the surety of a place – is perhaps but an illusion, born of our incapacity to perceive the infinitely detailed warp and woof of the real. It stands witness that the universe, like a conscience plumbing its own depths, is perhaps more akin to a work of an finest lace, with patterns endlessly repeated and varied, than to a smooth canvas stretched by a painter in haste. And its trajectory, that unspeakable "fractal," would be the very signature of this fundamental complexity, whispering to the ear of him who knows how to listen, that the simplest path, in a world infinitely rich, is itself of an infinite richness. Each measurement, each interaction, was like a new scene at Elsinore, revealing aspects hitherto unsuspected of this fundamental character of matter.