Science and the Modern World grew out of Whitehead's Lowell Lectures of 1925. Its aim is not to report scientific discoveries but to study how the rise of modern science, over three centuries, shaped the whole mentality of the West. He argues that the dominant view of the world in any age governs its science, its art, its ethics, and its religion together, and that since the seventeenth century the cosmology drawn from science has been crowding out the older points of view.
He locates the origin of modern science not in a single theory but in a temper of mind: a passionate interest in joining general principles to what he calls irreducible and stubborn facts. Behind this he finds an instinctive faith in an order of nature, the conviction that every event can be traced to a definite, intelligible order. This faith, he suggests, was nourished by the medieval insistence on the rationality of God, and it remains the silent assumption on which science still depends.
The decisive move came in the seventeenth century, the century of genius, when science settled on a picture of nature as matter spread through space, in itself senseless, valueless, and purposeless, simply running through fixed routines. Whitehead names this scheme scientific materialism. He grants that it was enormously successful and clear, but warns that its clarity comes from confining attention to a narrow set of abstractions. The deep error, repeated across philosophy and science, is to mistake these abstractions for concrete fact, a slip he calls the fallacy of misplaced concreteness.
He reads the Romantic poets as a protest against exactly this. Wordsworth and Shelley, he argues, were not being merely sentimental; they were insisting that the important facts of nature, its life, its value, its felt quality, slip through the scientific net. If matter is genuinely senseless and colourless, then the scent of the rose and the song of the bird must be credited to the human mind alone, and nature becomes, in his phrase, a dull affair. Whitehead takes the poets' protest seriously as evidence that the reigning abstractions had left something essential out.
In the later chapters he turns from history to his own proposal. Drawing on relativity and the quantum theory, he sketches a doctrine of organism, or organic mechanism, in which the basic realities are events that take their character from the larger whole they belong to, so that even physics becomes the study of organisms. This frame lets him bring value, endurance, and mind back into nature rather than treating them as illusions. On the same ground he reconsiders abstraction, God, and the relation of religion and science, arguing that their apparent conflicts are not disasters but openings, each clash a chance to deepen both.