Huygens — the series
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Every front is a source
Treat each point of a wavefront as though it were a little source of its own, and take the envelope of what they produce. That one rule gives straight-line propagation, reflection, Snell's law and diffraction — and its most famous failure is what told everyone what was missing from it.
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The spiral that says how much light arrives
Huygens' construction says where a wave has got to and refuses to say how bright it is, because an envelope is a locus and a locus has no amplitude. Adding the wavelets with their phases instead of taking their envelope turns the whole subject into one curve, and every near-field pattern there is becomes a chord of it.
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The wave that comes from the rim
A shadow's edge is not a boundary between light and no light, and the fringes on either side of it are not a smudge. The whole pattern is the sum of two things — the light nothing blocked, and a single wave that behaves in every respect as though the rim of the obstacle were radiating it — and splitting it that way is exact rather than a picture.
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The backward wave Huygens had to remove
Every point of a wavefront is a source of a spherical wavelet, and a spherical wavelet goes in every direction — so the construction predicts a wave travelling backwards as well as forwards. Nothing of the kind exists, and the repair is a factor that Huygens' geometry has no room for.
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The fan of plane waves inside every beam
Huygens added up wavelets from every point of a front. The same content can be written as a sum over plane waves travelling in every direction, and then propagation stops being an integral and becomes a multiplication: each plane wave picks up a phase in proportion to the distance. One square root in that phase holds all of diffraction, near field and far field alike — and when the square root turns imaginary, it holds the reason no instrument a wavelength away can see detail finer than half a wavelength.
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The wiggle faster than any wave in it
Light passing through a lens carries no detail finer than half a wavelength, because no travelling wave in it varies faster than that. It would seem to follow that the light itself cannot vary faster anywhere. It can. A sum of slow waves can be arranged to wiggle faster than any of them over a stretch of any length chosen — and to focus to a spot as narrow as wanted — provided the stretch sits between side lobes that grow exponentially with every extra wiggle.
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The mirror that sends a wave back to where it began
Record a wave as it arrives at a row of microphones, then play each recording backwards through the loudspeaker beside it, and the sound converges on the place it came from — however twisted the route it took. Huygens said every point on a wavefront acts as a source; a time-reversal mirror takes him literally, making every point of a recorded front re-emit its own history in reverse. The result has a property no lens has. Put a thicket of scatterers between the source and the mirror, so that the arriving wave is an unrecognisable jumble, and the reversed wave still finds its way back — to a sharper focus than it could reach in empty space, because the disorder acts as a lens wider than the mirror.
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The wave that arrives first by going the long way
A shot fired at the ground sends a wave straight along the surface layer to a distant listener, and another down to a faster rock beneath, along the boundary and back up. The second path is longer, and beyond a certain distance it arrives first, because most of it is run at the faster speed. Huygens's construction shows what the second wave is: a front drawn by wavelets that the disturbance racing along the faster floor sends up into the slower layer, the Mach cone of a source moving faster than the layer can carry sound. Reading where it overtakes the direct wave gave Andrija Mohorovičić the thickness of the Earth's crust in 1909, and gives every refraction survey since the depth to whatever lies beneath.
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The thunder that passes over the listener's head
Lightning twenty-five kilometres away is plainly visible and usually silent, though the air between is clear and absorbs the low notes of thunder hardly at all. The thunder has not faded; it has gone over the listener's head. Daytime air cools upwards, sound slows as it climbs, and Huygens's wavelets, smaller at the top of every front than at the bottom, tilt each front towards the sky. Beyond the ray that just grazes the ground there is a shadow the sound cannot enter — and a hundred and fifty kilometres further out, the stratosphere can bend it back down.