Refraction — the series
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The bend at the boundary, and what it is really about
Light changes direction when it changes speed. Snell's law is the geometry of that statement, and it can be derived without knowing anything about light at all.
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The law that only asks about one component
A boundary between two media cannot change the part of a wave that runs along it, because both sides have to agree on the phase at every point of the surface at every instant. That single restriction produces the refracted ray, the critical angle, the evanescent field and every order of a diffraction grating, out of one drawing made with a compass.
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The angle that is two angles
Snell's law survives a complex index by giving a complex answer, and a complex angle is not an angle. What the phase-matching argument actually fixes is the tangential wavenumber, and when the medium absorbs, the surfaces of constant phase and the surfaces of constant amplitude stop being parallel. In silver at 550 nanometres the phase fronts run within four degrees of the surface while the amplitude decays straight into it.
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The ray on the wrong side of the normal
The phase-matching construction draws a circle and a line, and the line crosses the circle twice. Every earlier construction silently took the upper intersection. Which one is physical is decided by where the energy goes rather than by where the wavevector points, and in a medium whose group velocity opposes its phase velocity the answer is the other one — so the refracted ray leaves on the same side of the normal it arrived on, a flat slab focuses, and a lens can beat the diffraction limit until loss stops it.
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The reflection that needs no surface
Change the refractive index of a whole medium at one instant and a wave already travelling through it splits in two, one part running on and one running back, though there is no surface anywhere for it to reflect from. A boundary in time is Snell's law with space and time exchanged: the wavelength is kept and the frequency changes, momentum is conserved and energy is not.
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The crystal made of moments
A stack of layers that repeats in space refuses a band of frequencies and reflects them. A medium that repeats in time — its refractive index swung up and down everywhere at once — refuses a band of wavenumbers instead, and a wave with a wavenumber in that band does not reflect. It grows, exponentially, drawing on whatever is swinging the index. The construction is exact, the gap is computable from one period of the modulation, and the obstacle to building one for light is how fast a material would have to change.
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The index that falls below one
Glass bends light because light is slower in it. X-rays are not slower in glass, or in anything: every material's refractive index for them is slightly less than one, by a few parts in a million. Everything about X-ray optics follows from that small number with the wrong sign. A lens that focuses them must be thinner in the middle than at the edges, and so weak that dozens are stacked in a row. A mirror reflects them only if they arrive at a glancing angle of less than a degree — totally, from the outside, the reverse of the way a diamond traps light — which is why the mirrors of an X-ray telescope are long, nested barrels rather than dishes.
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The surface that cancels whatever skims it
Glass reflects four per cent of light falling straight on it, and water at radio frequencies two-thirds of the wave's amplitude. Tilt either towards grazing and the difference disappears: every surface, whatever it is made of, reflects a wave that only skims it completely, and turns it upside down. A wave travelling along a surface therefore meets its own reflection reversed and cancels on the surface itself. That one limit explains a dark fringe Humphrey Lloyd saw with a single mirror in 1834, why a mobile signal over flat ground fades with the fourth power of distance rather than the second, why a radar above the sea is blind at the horizon, and how a cliff in Sydney became the first radio interferometer.
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The rough surface that is a mirror at a glance
A sheet of office paper is matt from above and shines when sighted along its surface. A choppy sea scatters a radar beam from overhead and returns it like a mirror near the horizon. An X-ray mirror polished to a third of a nanometre is still rough to X-rays except at angles below a degree. All three are one rule: two rays reflected from points at different heights differ in path by twice the height times the sine of the grazing angle, so roughness is measured in wavelengths times that sine — and every surface, however rough, is a mirror for light that skims it closely enough.
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The lens with its glass taken out
Snell's law turns a ray at a surface by an angle set by the slope of the surface where the ray crosses, and the glass behind the surface does not enter it. So a lens can be sliced into rings, the glass between the slopes thrown away, and the rays will not notice. Fresnel did it for lighthouses in 1822. The waves notice — every step cuts a few hundred wavelengths out of them — unless the steps are made exactly one wavelength deep, and then the lens becomes something else: a diffractive element whose colours run backwards, and which can cancel a glass lens's colour with a twentieth of its power.
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The delay a flat lens has no room for
A glass lens is thick in the middle for a reason that is easy to miss. To focus light of every colour at one point, a lens must do more than bend each colour by the right amount: it must make every part of a light wave arrive at the focus at the same moment, and the light passing the edge has further to go. The glass in the middle is what holds the central light back to wait for it. A lens made flat — a kinoform, a metasurface a micrometre thick — has nowhere to keep that delay. The geometry of the focus sets how much delay is needed, the thickness sets how much is available, and between them they cap how large an achromatic flat lens can be: tens of micrometres, not centimetres.