Total internal reflection — the series
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The angle past which light cannot leave
Snell's law asks for the sine of an angle greater than one, and no such angle exists. What happens instead is a perfect mirror made out of nothing but a change of speed.
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The reflection that happens where the glass is not
Total internal reflection sends back every photon, which is why it is called total. It does not send them back from where they arrived — the beam re-emerges displaced along the surface, by a fraction of a wavelength, and a displacement is only possible if the light spent time on the far side of a boundary it never crossed.
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The angle at which total reflection stops being total
Coat the back face of a glass prism with fifty nanometres of gold and total internal reflection still returns almost all the light — except at one angle, where the reflection of one polarisation falls nearly to zero. The light has gone into an electron wave bound to the far surface of the gold, and because that wave's angle depends on whatever touches the gold, the missing reflection has become one of the most sensitive balances in biochemistry.
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The corner that sends light home
Three mirrors at right angles send light straight back the way it came, from any direction they can see, because each one reverses one component of its direction. Made from solid glass, a corner reflects by total internal reflection and needs no silver — which is why the reflectors left on the Moon are bare glass — but each of its six sectors then returns a different polarisation, and the returned spot loses three-quarters of its peak.
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The window a diamond is cut inside
A well-cut diamond sends back out of its top most of the light that falls on it, and it does so without a single silvered surface. Light entering the top is totally reflected at one sloping face of the pavilion below, again at the opposite face, and then has to leave through the top — where it must not be totally reflected. Each of those three is a condition on one angle, and together they leave a window a dozen degrees wide inside which a stone looks bright and outside which it looks glassy. The window is wide for diamond and nearly closed for glass, which is why a cutter's skill cannot make glass sparkle.
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The mirror that lights a tenth of a micrometre
Total internal reflection sends back every photon, and it leaves behind a field in the medium beyond that dies away within a fraction of a wavelength. Put a living cell on a coverslip and reflect a laser inside the glass, and that field lights only the hundred nanometres of the cell pressed against the glass: the membrane, and the proteins moving in it. Nothing else glows. The same field works in reverse. A molecule close to the glass sends part of its own light into angles no ray from the water could reach, and how much it sends there says how close it is.
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The drop that cannot hold the light it lets in
Light inside water meeting the surface at more than 48.6° is totally reflected, and every raindrop is made of water. Yet no ray of sunlight that enters a raindrop is ever totally reflected inside it. A sphere's geometry forbids it: a ray refracted on the way in meets the inside of the surface at its refraction angle, and keeps meeting it at that same angle every time it bounces, and that angle is always smaller than the critical one. The light leaks out a little at every bounce, which is why there are rainbows at all. Light born inside the drop is another matter, and a sphere can keep it for ever.
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The roof that splits a binocular's image
A slim, straight binocular turns its image upright with a roof — two glass faces meeting at a right angle, which reflect every ray twice by total internal reflection and lose no light at all. They lose sharpness instead. Total reflection shifts the phases of the two polarisations of light by different amounts, and the half of the beam on one side of the roof's edge meets the two faces in the opposite order from the other half. The halves leave in different polarisations, interfere only partly at the focus, and every star becomes a slightly doubled smudge — unless a coating a fraction of a micrometre thick makes the glass behave like a mirror.
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The windscreen that feels the rain
Behind the rear-view mirror of most modern cars a small box decides when the wipers should run, and it does so without looking at the rain. It shines infrared light into the windscreen at forty-five degrees, steep enough to be trapped inside the glass by total internal reflection, and counts how much comes back out of the far end of the glass a few centimetres away. A raindrop on the outside changes the medium the glass is touching from air to water, and water's critical angle against glass is sixty-one degrees, not forty-one: at forty-five the light is no longer trapped, and nearly all of it leaves into the drop. The sensor measures the area the rain is touching, and the rain rate from how fast that area grows.