collapse

A light ray passing near a massive body bends around it, like a runner rounding the corner of a stadium. For a neutron star, this deflection angle is usually assumed to be the same as for a point mass. But if the star is wrapped in an invisible halo of dark matter, the picture changes: light passing through the halo is deflected less than the total mass would predict.

A black hole pulls in anything that gets too close. But if you toss in not one object but a pair, one of them can fly back out, carrying off some of the hole's rotational energy. This trick, devised by Roger Penrose in 1969, works only because a black hole has a horizon — a boundary beyond which nothing returns. Now it turns out the horizon isn't necessary.

The calm surface of a lake suddenly ripples — somewhere in the depths, an underwater cliff has collapsed. The water trembles almost imperceptibly, and the circles spread wider and wider until they reach a bobber near the shore.

A homogeneous, spherical cloud of cosmic dust begins to contract under its own gravity. At some point, by classical laws, it should collapse into a point of infinite density — a singularity.

A neutron star is the ultra-dense remnant of a supernova: the mass of the Sun packed into a sphere the size of a city. For billions of years, it travels through space, gathering around itself invisible matter, dark matter, which emits no light but pulls with gravity.

A globular cluster, a dense swarm of hundreds of thousands of stars, plows through a galaxy like a bullet through water. In ordinary dark matter (the invisible mass that holds galaxies together), it should quickly lose speed due to dynamical friction.

A campfire burns steadily and long. But when the wind blows, the flame flickers out, leaving only embers. A similar story plays out with the gravastar — a hypothetical object that was supposed to replace the black hole. An ordinary black hole hides a singularity — a point where the laws of physics break down.

Three invisible strings oscillate in the intergalactic void. This is not poetry, but a hypothesis about the nature of dark matter — an ultralight quantum field with spin 1, carrying three polarizations.

In the heart of a dense star cluster, a true forge reigns: here stars, like glowing blanks, collide and merge under gravity, and these mergers are not a catastrophe but an opportunity. Each strike of the stellar hammer transfers spin to the future black hole.

The universe hasn't always been expanding. In some models, it first contracted, nearly empty and flat, and then, upon reaching a limit, bounced back and started growing, like the world we know. This scenario is called bouncing cosmology.

A black hole is like a spinning drop of viscous liquid. Normally, such a drop tends to stay whole: splitting would reduce its surface area, which contradicts the law of non-decrease of entropy (a measure of disorder, like a broken cup doesn't glue itself back together).

LIGO and Virgo detectors catch ripples in spacetime, but some signals force us to rewrite the scripts of stellar death. GW190814 — the merger of a black hole of 23 solar masses with a compact object of 2.6 solar masses — is a discordant chord in the symphony of standard models.

A star contracts under its own gravity, and at some point its fate hangs on a razor-thin balance. Classical physics paints a grim picture: if the mass and the force of compression are tuned with terrifying precision, what emerges is not a black hole but a 'naked' singularity.

A blob of cold helium swoops dangerously close to a black hole. But this isn't just a blob: it's a dead star the size of Earth, yet with a mass comparable to the Sun's.

A massive star ends its life in a spectacular collapse: the core compresses into a neutron star or a black hole, while the outer layers fly off in a dazzling supernova.

Dark matter is the invisible scaffold of the universe. It doesn't shine, but its gravity holds stars in galaxies. In some models, dark matter particles can collide and exchange energy, like molecules in warm air.

Imagine a packed dance floor where dancers glide without any friction — passing through each other without a touch. That's a superfluid. In a neutron star's crust, neutrons could behave this way, but a rigid lattice of ions gets in the way, like suddenly sticking the dance floor full of pillars.

In the standard picture, black holes are the undisputed density champions: all their matter is squeezed into a single point. Imagine the entire mass of Mount Everest packed into a grain of salt. But physicists have found a theoretical trick.

A light bulb that doesn't burn out but flares brighter and brighter until it blows the whole fixture apart. That's roughly how the most massive stars in the universe die. When a star's core heats up to billions of degrees, pairs of particles (electrons and their antimatter counterparts, positrons) begin to form.

Imagine an interpreter at a crucial negotiation suddenly switching to another language, and the meaning of everything changes. That's roughly what neutrinos do in the depths of a dying star. These invisible particles are born in enormous numbers when a star's core compresses into a city-sized lump. But on their way out, neutrinos can change their type — physicists call this flavor transformation.

A coffee whirlpool can span two spots in a cup — a blur of swirling liquid. Quantum particles behave similarly: a spacetime whirlpool where they exist in two places at once. But gravity acts as the spoon that stirs the fabric of space and time.

Quantum objects live in a world of superpositions — being here and there at the same time, with one spin and another. But as soon as they gain enough mass, this magic fades. Roger Penrose suggested that gravity itself is to blame.

When a massive star exhausts its fuel, the core collapse can spawn a supernova and a neutron star, but with enough mass, nothing halts the crush — a black hole is born.

A dying star is not just fading away. In its final moments, the core, starved of fuel, collapses into itself at colossal speed. Classical gravity leaves no choice: if the mass is large enough, a black hole is born — a region from which not even light can escape.

Stars tens of times heavier than our Sun don't die as thought before. Computer models show that their core often doesn't ignite a supernova, but quickly collapses into a black hole. Imagine a soufflé: the center suddenly sinks, and almost all the batter falls into the funnel, with just a few drops splashing out.

A star weighing a hundred thousand Suns lives bright and brief. Its finale is a rapid collapse into a black hole. But just before the end, it manages to wrap itself in a dense gas cocoon.

A thrown stone arcs along a clean trajectory, but an electron's position in an atom is smeared out like fog. The transition from one to the other is a puzzle. New work shows that the fuzziness disappears not because of an observer, but because of the particle's own gravity.

When a heavy atomic nucleus splits, it doesn't break into even halves. First, two fragments form that look like pears pressed together at their narrow ends. Then the junction begins to smooth out, like two droplets merging and the surface quickly leveling. In that brief moment, the surface moves inward, and particles inside the nucleus can bounce off it, like a ball off an oncoming wall.

In a dark cloud where no star has yet ignited, gas begins to pull together toward a common center. This is how the most massive stars in the Galaxy are born: those tens of times heavier than the Sun. Astronomers pointed radio telescopes at the cloud SDC335.579-0.292 and saw gas molecules lining up into streams falling inward.

When a massive star dies and collapses into a supernova, a neutron star is born — a city-sized sphere with the Sun's mass. Its matter is so compressed that a teaspoon weighs more than Mount Everest. Physicists are trying to learn the "recipe" of this matter — the equation of state that explains how matter behaves under extreme pressure.

When two black holes merge, the newborn hole should ring like a bell, emitting gravitational waves — ripples in space. Yet before the ring, a silence can fall: the black hole gets caught in a phantom trap, as if an invisible hand grips the bell’s clapper.

The galaxy's kitchen has a recipe for stellar soup. The main ingredient is hydrogen, but the flavor depends on a pinch of metals. Astronomers have now peered into the pots where that pinch is almost absent, and found that the smallest stars are missing.

A neutron star is the ultra-dense remnant of a supernova explosion, whose existence was predicted by Fritz Zwicky back in the 1930s. Later, Jocelyn Bell Burnell detected them as pulsars — rotating sources of strictly periodic radio signals.

In 2014, astronomers spotted a massive yellow star in the Andromeda galaxy. By 2022, it had vanished without a trace — without the usual blinding explosion of a supernova. It was as if someone simply switched off the light.

A young star is like a layered spinning top: its outer layers rotate slower, its inner ones faster. The magnetic field here acts like sturdy threads binding these layers together. When the speeds differ, the threads begin to twist and stretch more and more.

Some stars fizzle out like a dud firework: instead of a bright blast, just a cloud of smoke. Usually, a massive star ends with a supernova explosion, leaving a black hole. But sometimes there's no bang: the star collapses straight into a black hole, almost unnoticed.

In 2019, Betelgeuse suddenly dimmed, sparking rumors of an imminent explosion. But clouds of cosmic dust turned out to be the culprit. Now, the Gemini North telescope has discerned a minuscule companion star in its dazzling glare, just as calculations had predicted.

The universe exists in a state of false vacuum, like water behind a dam. Behind it lies the true vacuum — an abyss with different laws. Normally, water can only seep through the pores in a thin trickle (a quantum effect), barely changing the level.

At the center of galaxy NGC 1600, 200 million light-years away, astronomers spotted a dense cluster of stars. It looked like a bright knot against the diffuse glow, and that was unexpected.

On November 23, 2023, the LIGO, Virgo, and KAGRA detectors caught a gravitational wave from the merger of two black holes with masses of 137 and 103 solar masses. Both fall into the pair-instability mass gap, the range from 69 to 139 solar masses where ordinary stellar evolution leaves behind nothing but expanding gas.