Planet Musings

August 29, 2025

n-Category Café Equivalence via Surjections

Pick a type of categorical structure: say bicategories, or monoidal categories, or whatever you like. Some of the functors between structures are equivalences, in whatever the appropriate sense might be. And some of those equivalences have one or both of these two properties:

  • They’re not just essentially surjective in every dimension — they’re actually surjective in every dimension.

  • They don’t just preserve the structure up to isomorphism or equivalence — they strictly preserve it.

Call an equivalence with both these properties a strict surjective equivalence. So a strict surjective equivalence is an equivalence of a very special and easy kind.

General principle: the standard notion of equivalence between structures is generated by just these very special ones. For example, two bicategories are biequivalent if and only if they can be linked up by a zigzag of strict surjective equivalences.

Why should we care? Because there are some types of structure where the right notion of equivalence isn’t clear, and this principle guides us to it. For example, it tells us the right notion of equivalence for double categories.

All this is done in my new paper:

Tom Leinster, Equivalence via surjections. arXiv:2508.20555, 2025.

I started thinking about this question during Maru Sarazola’s invited talk at Category Theory 2025 in Brno last month. She asked the question:

What is the right notion of equivalence between double categories?

and carefully went through the properties that the right notion of equivalence should have, some possible candidates, and different approaches one might take to deciding what “right” means.

The answer that Maru ultimately gave was that the right notion is “gregarious double equivalence”, proposed by Alexander Campbell in about 2020. (See these slides by Campbell.) And she gave a justification in terms of model categories, representing joint work between her, Lyne Moser and Paula Verdugo.

For the purposes of this post, it actually doesn’t matter what “gregarious double equivalence” means. What I want to talk about is the following principle, which popped into my head as Maru was speaking:

For many types of categorical structure, the natural notion of equivalence is generated, as an equivalence relation, by identifying AA and BB when there exists a strict surjective equivalence ABA \to B.

It occurred to me that this principle might give a rather different justification for why gregarious double equivalence is the right answer. And after some checking, I discovered that it does.

Let me explain.

A more concrete way to express the principle is that AA and BB are equivalent in the standard sense — whatever’s appropriate for the structures at hand — if and only if there exists a zigzag of strict surjective equivalences

A=A 0A 1A n=B. A = A_0 \leftarrow A_1 \rightarrow \ \cdots \ \leftarrow A_n = B.

For any type of categorical structure I can think of, the pullback of a surjective equivalence is a surjective equivalence, so a simpler concrete condition is just that there exists a span of strict surjective equivalences

ACB. A \leftarrow C \rightarrow B.

But hold on… what do I mean by “principle”?

What I mean is that for simple types of categorical structure, where “equivalence” and “strict surjective equivalence”, we have a theorem. Here are three examples.

  • Categories. We certainly know what it means for two categories to be equivalent. A “surjective equivalence” is an equivalence that’s not just essentially surjective on objects, but literally surjective on objects.

    In this case, the theorem is that categories AA and BB are equivalent if and only if there exists a span ACBA \leftarrow C \rightarrow B of surjective equivalences between them.

    (The word “strict” does nothing in this case.)

  • Monoidal categories. Again, we know what monoidal equivalence is, and it’s clear what a “strict surjective equivalence” is: a strict monoidal functor that’s a surjective equivalence of categories.

    The theorem is that monoidal categories AA and BB are monoidally equivalent if and only if there exists a span ACBA \leftarrow C \rightarrow B of strict surjective equivalences between them.

  • Bicategories. The pattern is the same. The standard notion of equivalence for bicategories is biequivalence. A “strict surjective equivalence”, in this setting, is a strict 22-functor that is literally surjective on objects and locally a surjective equivalence of categories. (Or put another way, surjective on 00-cells, locally surjective on 11-cells, and full and faithful on 22-cells.)

    The theorem is that bicategories AA and BB are biequivalent if and only if there exists a span ACBA \leftarrow C \rightarrow B of strict surjective equivalences between them.

Probably all these theorems are known. I included them in my paper because I couldn’t find them anywhere in the literature, not even the first one. But if you know a reference, I’d be glad to hear it.

Since the principle holds for categories, monoidal categories and bicategories, it’s reasonable to suppose that it might hold for other types of structure. And if we’re investigating some type of structure where the full notion of equivalence isn’t clear, this principle might help guide us to it.

For example, here’s a theorem on double categories, the main result of my paper:

  • Double categories. Again, it’s clear what “strict surjective equivalence” should mean: a strict double functor that’s surjective on 00-cells, locally surjective on both horizontal and vertical 11-cells, and full and faithful on 22-cells.

    The theorem is that double categories AA and BB are gregariously double equivalent if and only if there exists a span ACBA \leftarrow C \rightarrow B of strict surjective equivalences between them.

Even without me telling you what “gregarious double equivalence” means, the four theorems I’ve stated suggest that it’s the right notion of equivalence for double categories, because it continues the pattern we’ve seen for simpler categorical structures.

So, I agree with the conclusion that Moser, Sarazola and Verdugo had already reached! But for different reasons.

Incidentally, this must be the fastest paper I’ve ever written: just under six weeks from sitting in Maru’s talk and hearing the mathematical term “gregarious” for the first time ever to putting the paper on the arXiv.

But the principle that all equivalences are generated by strict surjective equivalences was planted in my head in the late 1990s or early 2000s by Carlos Simpson. Back then, we were both working on higher category theory, and when he explained this principle, I found it very striking — so striking that I remembered it 20+ years later. There’s a bit more on that higher categorical context in the introduction to my paper.

Matt von HippelTwo Types of Scientific Fraud: for a Fee and for Power

A paper about scientific fraud has been making the rounds in social media lately. The authors gather evidence of large-scale networks of fraudsters across multiple fields, from teams of editors that fast-track fraudulent research to businesses that take over journals, sell spots for articles, and then move on to a new target when the journal is de-indexed. I’m not an expert in this kind of statistical sleuthing, but the work looks impressively thorough.

Still, I think the authors overplay their results a bit. They describe themselves as revealing something many scientists underestimate. They point to what they label as misconceptions: that scientific fraud is usually perpetrated alone by individual unethical scientists, or that it is almost entirely a problem of the developing world, and present their work as disproving those misconceptions. Listen to them, and you might get the feeling that science is rife with corruption, that no result, or scientist, can be trusted.

As far as I can tell, though, those “misconceptions” they identify are true. Someone who believes that scientific fraud is perpetrated by loners is probably right, as is someone who believes it largely takes place outside of the first world.

As is often the case, the problem is words.

“Scientific Fraud” is a single term for two different things. The two both involve bad actors twisting scientific activity. But in everything else — their incentives, their geography, their scale, and their consequences — they are dramatically different.

One of the types of scientific fraud is largely about power.

In references 84-89 of the paper, the authors give examples of large-scale scientific fraud in Europe and the US. All (except one, which I’ll mention later) are about the career of a single researcher. Each of these people systematically bent the truth, whether with dodgy statistics, doctored images, or inflating citation counts. Some seemed motivated to promote a particular scientific argument, cutting corners to push a particular conclusion through. Others were purer cases of self-promotion. These people often put pressure on students, postdocs, and other junior researchers in their orbits, which increases the scale of their impact. In some cases, their work rippled out to convince other researchers, prolonging bad ideas and strangling good ones. These were people with power, who leveraged that power to increase their power.

There also don’t appear to be that many of them. These people are loners in a meaningful sense, cores of fraud working on their own behalf. They don’t form networks with each other, for the most part: because they work towards their own aggrandizement, they have no reason to trust anyone else doing the same. I have yet to see evidence that the number of these people is increasing. They exist, they’re a problem, they’re important to watch out for. But they’re not a crisis, and they shouldn’t shift your default expectations of science.

The other, quite different, type of scientific fraud is fraud for a fee.

The cases this paper investigates seem to fall into this category. They are businesses, offering the raw material of academic credit (papers, co-authorship, citations, publication) for cash. They’re paper mills, of various sorts. These are, at least from an academic perspective, large organizations, with hundreds or thousands of customers and tens of suborned editors or scientists farming out their credibility. As the authors of this paper argue, fraudsters of this type are churning out more and more papers, potentially now fueled by AI, adding up to a still small, but non-negligible, proportion of scientific papers in total.

Compared to the first type of fraud, though, buying credit in this way doesn’t give very much power. As the paper describes, many of the papers churned out by paper mills don’t even go into relevant journals: for example, they mention “an article about roasting hazelnuts in a journal about HIV/AIDS care”. An article like that isn’t going to mislead the hazelnut roasting community, or the HIV/AIDS community. Indeed, that would be counter to its purpose. The paper isn’t intended to be read at all, and ideally gets ignored: it’s just supposed to inflate a number.

These numbers are most relevant in the developing world, and when push comes to shove, almost all of the buyers of these services identified by the authors of this paper come from there. In many developing countries, a combination of low trust and advice from economists leads to explicit point systems, where academics are paid or hired explicitly based on criteria like where and how often they publish or how they are cited. The more a country can trust people to vouch for each other without corruption, the less these kinds of incentives have purchase. Outside of the developing world, involvement in paper mills and the like generally seems to involve a much smaller number of people, and typically as sellers, not buyers: selling first-world credibility in exchange for fees from many developing-world applicants.

(The one reference I mentioned above is an interesting example of this: a system built out of points and low trust to recruit doctors from the developing world to the US, gamed by a small number of co-authorship brokers.)

This kind of fraud doesn’t influence science directly. Its perpetrators aren’t trying to get noticed, but to keep up a cushy scam. You don’t hear their conclusions in the press, other scientists don’t see their work. Instead, they siphon off resources: cannibalizing journals, flooding editors with mass-produced crap, and filling positions and slurping up science budgets in the countries that can least afford them. As they publish more and more, they shouldn’t affect your expectations of the credibility of science: any science you hear about will be either genuine, or fraud from the other category. But they do make the science you hear about harder and harder to do.

(The authors point out one exception: what about AI? If a company trains a large language model on the current internet, will its context windows be long enough to tell that that supposedly legitimate paper about hazelnuts is in an HIV/AIDS journal? If something gets said often enough, copied again and again in papers sold by a mill, will an AI trained on all these papers be convinced? Presumably, someone is being paid good money to figure out how to filter AI-generated slop from training data: can they filter paper mill fraud as well?)

It’s a shame that we have one term, scientific fraud, to deal with these two very different things. But it’s important to keep in mind that they are different. Fraud for power and fraud for money can have very different profiles, and offer very different risks. If you don’t trust a scientific result, it’s worth understanding what might be at play.

Scott Aaronson Deep Zionism

Suppose a man has already murdered most of your family, including several of your children, for no other reason than that he believes your kind doesn’t deserve to exist on earth. The murderer was never seriously punished for this, because most of your hometown actually shared his feelings about your family. They watched the murders with attitudes ranging from ineffectual squeamishness to indifference to unconcealed glee.

Now the man has kidnapped your last surviving child, a 9-year-old girl, and has tied her screaming to train tracks. You can pull a lever to divert the train and save your daughter. But there’s a catch, as there always is in these moral dilemmas: namely, the murderer has also tied his own five innocent children to the tracks, in such a way that, if you divert the train, then it will kill his children. What’s more, the murderer has invited the entire town to watch you, pointing and screaming “SHAME!!” as you agonize over your decision. He’s persuaded the town that, if you pull the lever, then having killed five of his children to save only one of yours, you’re a far worse murderer than he ever was. You’re so evil, in fact, that he’s effectively cleansed of all guilt for having murdered most of your family first, and the town is cleansed of all guilt for having cheered that. Nothing you say can possibly convince the town otherwise.

The question is, what do you do?

Zionism, to define it in one sentence, is the proposition that, in the situation described, you have not merely a right but a moral obligation to pull the lever—and that you can do so with your middle finger raised high to the hateful mob. Zionism is the belief that, while you had nothing against the murderer’s children, while you would’ve wanted them to grow up in peace and happiness, and while their anguished screams will weigh on your conscience forever, as your children’s screams never weighed on the murderer’s conscience, or on the crowd’s—even so, the responsibility for those children’s deaths rests with their father for engineering this whole diabolical situation, not with you. Zionism is the idea that the correct question here is the broader one: “which choice will bring more righteousness into the world, which choice will better embody the principle that no one’s children are to be murdered going forward?” rather than the narrowly utilitarian question, “which choice will lead to fewer children getting killed right this minute?” Zionism is the conviction that, if most of the world fervently believes otherwise, than most of the world is mistaken—as the world has been mistaken again and again about the biggest ethical questions all through the millennia.

Zionism, so defined, is the deepest moral belief that I have. It’s deeper than any of my beliefs about “politics” in the ordinary sense. Ironically, it’s even deeper than my day-to-day beliefs about the actual State of Israel and its neighbors. I might, for example, despise Benjamin Netanyahu and his ministers, might consider them incompetent and venal, might sympathize with the protesters who’ve filled the streets of Tel Aviv to demand their removal. Even so, when the murderer ties my child to the train tracks and the world cheers the murderer on, not only will I pull the lever myself, I’ll want Benjamin Netanyahu to pull the lever if he gets to it first.

Crucially, everything worthwhile in my life came when, and only when, I chose to be “Zionist” in this abstract sense: that is, steadfast in my convictions even in the face of a jeering mob. As an example, I was able to enter college three years early, which set the stage for all the math and science I later did, only because I finally said “enough” to an incompetent school system where I was bullied and prevented from learning, and to teachers and administrators whose sympathies lay with the bullies. I’ve had my successes in quantum computing theory only because I persisted in what at the time was a fairly bizarre obsession, rather than working on topics that almost everyone around me considered safer, more remunerative, and more sensible.

And as the world learned a decade ago, I was able to date, get married, and have a family, only because I finally rejected what I took to be the socially obligatory attitude for male STEM nerds like me—namely, that my heterosexuality was inherently gross, creepy, and problematic, and that I had a moral obligation never to express romantic interest to women. Yes, I overestimated the number of people who ever believed that, but the fact that it was clearly a nonzero number had been deterrent enough for me. Crucially, I never achieved what I saw for years as my only hope in life, to seek out those who believed my heterosexuality was evil and argue them out of their belief. Instead I simply … well, I raised a middle finger to the Andrea Dworkins and Arthur Chus and Amanda Marcottes of the world. I went Deep Zionist on them. I asked women out, and some of those women (not having gotten the memo that I was “problematic,” gross, and worthless) said yes, and one of them became my wife and the mother of my children.

Today, because of the post-October-7 public stands I’ve taken in favor of Israel’s continued existence, I deal with emails and social media posts day after day calling me a genocidal baby-killing monster. I’ve lost perhaps a dozen friends (while retaining hundreds more friends, and gaining some new ones). The haters’ thought appears to be that, if they can just raise the social cost high enough, I’ll finally renounce my Zionist commitments and they can notch another win. In this, they oddly mirror Hamas, Hezbollah, and the IRGC, who think that, if they can just kill and maim enough Israelis, the hated “settler-colonialist rats” will all scurry back to Poland or wherever else they came from (best not to think too hard about where they did come from, what was done to them in those places, how the Palestinian Arabs of the time felt about what was done to them, or how the survivors ended up making a last stand in their ancestral home of Israel—even afterward, repeatedly holding out olive branches that were met time after time with grenades).

Infamously, Israel’s enemies have failed to understand for a century that, the more they rape and murder, the more Zionist the hated Zionists will become, because unlike the French in Algeria or whatever, most of the Zionists have no other land to go back to: this is it for them. In the same way, my own haters don’t understand that, the more they despise me for being myself, the more myself I’ll be, because I have no other self to turn into.

I’m not opening the comments on this post, because there’s nothing here to debate. I’m simply telling the world my moral axioms. If I wrote these words, then turned to pleading with commenters who hated me because of them, then I wouldn’t really have meant the words, would I?

To my hundreds of dear friends and colleagues who’ve stood by me the past two years, to the Zionists and even just sympathetic neutrals who’ve sent me countless messages of support, but who are too afraid (and usually, too junior in their careers) to speak up in public themselves: know that I’ll use the protections afforded by my privileged position in life to continue speaking on your behalf. Know that I’m infinitely grateful, that you give me strength, and that if I can give you a nanoparticle of strength back to you, then my entire life wasn’t in vain. And if I go silent on this stuff from time to time, for the sake of my mental health, or to spend time on quantum computing research or my kids or the other things that bring me joy—never take that to mean that I’ve capitulated to the haters.

To the obsessive libelers, the Peter Woits and other snarling nobodies, the self-hating Jews, and those who’d cheer to see Israel “decolonized” and my friends and family there murdered, I say—well, I don’t say anything; that’s the point! This is no longer a debate; it’s a war, and I’ll simply stand my ground as long as I’m able. Someday I might forgive the Gentiles among you if you ever see the light, if you ever realize how your unreflective, social-media-driven “anti-fascism” led you to endorse a program that leads to the same end as the original Nazi one. The Jews among you I’ll never forgive, because you did know better, and still chose your own comfort over the physical survival of your people.

It might as well be my own hand on the madman’s lever—and yet, while I grieve for all innocents, my soul is at peace, insofar as it’s ever been at peace about anything.


Update (Aug. 29): This post was born of two years of frustration. It was born of trying, fifty or a hundred times since October 7, to find common ground with the anti-Zionists who emailed me, messaged me, etc.—“hey, obviously neither of us wants any children killed or starved, we both have many bones to pick with the current Israeli government, but surely we at least agree on the necessity of defeating Hamas, right? right??“—only to discover, again and again, that the anti-Zionists had no interest in such common ground. With the runaway success of the global PR campaign against Israel—i.e., of Sinwar’s strategy—and with the rise of figures like Mamdani (and his right-wing counterparts) all over the Western world, anti-Zionists smell blood in the water today. And so, no matter how reasonable they presented themselves at first, eventually they’d come out with “why can’t the Jews just go back to Germany and Poland?” or “the Holocaust was just one more genocide among many; it doesn’t deserve any special response,” or “why can’t we dismantle Israel and have a secular state, with a Jewish minority and a majority that’s sworn to kill all Jews as soon as possible?” And then I realize, with a gasp, that we Jews really are mostly on our own in a cruel and terrifying world—just like we’ve been throughout history.

To say that this experience radicalized me would be an understatement. Indeed, my experience has been that even most Israelis, who generally have far fewer illusions than we diaspora Jews, don’t understand the vastness of the chasm that’s formed. They imagine that they can have a debate with outsiders similar to the debates playing out within Israel—one that presupposes basic factual knowledge and the parameters of the problem (e.g., clearly we can’t put 7 million Jews under the mercy of Hamas). The rationale for Zionism itself feels so obvious to them as to be cringe. Except that, to the rest of the world, it isn’t.

We’re not completely on our own though. There remain decent people of every background, who understand the stakes and feel the weight of history—and I regularly hear from them. And whatever your criticisms of Israel’s current tactics, so long as you accept the almost comically overwhelming historical case for the necessity of Jewish self-defense, this post wasn’t aimed at you, and you and I probably could discuss these matters. It’s just that the anti-Zionists scream so loudly, suck up so much oxygen, that we definitely can’t discuss them in public. Maybe in person sometime, face to face.

John BaezRupert’s Property



You can cut a hole in a cube that’s big enough to slide an identical cube through that hole! Think about that for a minute—it’s kind of weird.

Amazingly, nobody could prove any convex polyhedron doesn’t have this property! It’s called ‘Rupert’s property’.

Until this week.

This week Steininger and Yurkevich proved there is a convex polyhedron that you can’t cut a hole in big enough to slide the entire polyhedron through the hole. It has 90 vertices, and apparently 240 edges and 152 faces.



To prove that no such hole is possible, they had to do a computer search of 18 million different holes, plus use a lot of extra math to make sure they’d checked enough possibilities:

• Jakob Steininger and Sergey Yurkevich, A convex polyhedron without Rupert’s property.

To celebrate their discovery, they gave this polyhedron a silly name. Since this polyhedron lacks Rupert’s property, they called it a ‘noperthedron’.

Why is this property called ‘Rupert’s property’? Wikipedia explains:

In geometry, Prince Rupert’s cube is the largest cube that can pass through a hole cut through a unit cube without splitting it into separate pieces. Its side length is approximately 1.06, 6% larger than the side length 1 of the unit cube through which it passes. The problem of finding the largest square that lies entirely within a unit cube is closely related, and has the same solution.

Prince Rupert’s cube is named after Prince Rupert of the Rhine, who asked whether a cube could be passed through a hole made in another cube of the same size without splitting the cube into two pieces. A positive answer was given by John Wallis. Approximately 100 years later, Pieter Nieuwland found the largest possible cube that can pass through a hole in a unit cube.

Here Greg Egan shows how Rupert’s property works for the cube:

Here he shows how it works for the regular octahedron:

And finally, here’s a video by David Renshaw showing 26 polyhedra with Rupert’s property… and 5 polyhedra that might lack it:

 

The triakis tetrahedron is an extremely close call, but it does have Rupert’s property:

August 28, 2025

n-Category Café Burrito Monads, Arrow Kitchens, and Freyd Category Recipes

Guest post by Khyathi Komalan and Andrew Krenz

From Lawvere’s Hegelian taco to Baez’s layer cake analogy to Eugenia Cheng’s How to Bake Pi, categorists have cultivated a rich tradition of culinary metaphors and similes. A well-known example in the world of computation is Mark Dominus’s “monads are like burritos” — where a tortilla (computational context) wraps diverse ingredients (values) to create a cohesive entity (effectful value) whose burrito structure is maintained as the meal moves down the assembly line (undergoes computations).

Monads, like burritos, come in many different varieties. In computer science monads serve to streamline computational patterns such as exception handling and context management. We illustrate these two examples by analogy.

Imagine you work at a burrito truck.

If a customer orders a burrito sans rice but rice is accidentally added, it can’t be served. The Maybe monad handles exceptions such as this — when something goes wrong, it returns a special “Nothing” value rather than a flawed result, and once a failure occurs, all subsequent steps automatically preserve this state avoiding the need for repetitive error-checking.


Diagram 1

Figure 1: The Maybe Monad illustrated with the burrito-making process


In Haskell, the parameterized type “Maybe a” has two constructors, “Just a” and “Nothing.” The former is an alias for values of type “a” whereas the latter is indicative of an error. The following Haskell code exhibits the maybe type as an instance of the monad class:

instance Maybe Monad where
return = Just
Nothing >>= f = Nothing
(Just x) >>= f = f x

the return function has type a -> Maybe a, which is suggestive of its role as the monad unit. The so-called bind operation >>= has type Maybe a -> (a -> Maybe b) -> Maybe b, and corresponds to a bare-bones Kleisli composition (see Monads: Programmer’s Definition for details).

A slight generalization allows for descriptive error messages.

Definition. Given a collection of exceptions EE, there is an associated Either monad (()+E,η,μ)((-)+E, \eta, \mu).

  • η X:XX+E\eta_X:X \to X + E is the coproduct insertion
  • μ X:X+E+EX+E\mu_X:X + E + E \to X + E collapses two copies of EE into one
  • Kleisli morphisms are computations that may fail XY+EX \to Y + E
  • Kleisli composition automatically propagates exceptions

Of course, either monads are simply maybe monads with a set in place of the constant/singleton “Nothing” and they allow us not only to say that an error has occured, but also to indicate what that error was.

Now suppose one of your regular customers walks up to the window and orders “the usual.” Luckily you’ve recorded their preferences in a recipe book. The act of following the appropriate recipe is akin to executing computations that depend on a global read-only state. The * Reader monad * is the functional programmer’s way of incorporating this impure concept in pure functional terms.

Diagram 2


Figure 2: The Reader Monad illustrated with the burrito-making process

Definition. Given a collection of environments EE, there is an associated Reader monad (() E,η,μ)((-)^E, \eta, \mu).

  • η X:XX E\eta_X : X \to X^E turns elements into constant functions xλe.xx \mapsto \lambda e. x
  • μ X:(X E) EX E\mu_X : (X^E)^E \to X^E turns function-valued functions into functions via diagonal evaluation fλe.f(e)(e)f \mapsto \lambda e. f(e)(e)
  • Kleisli morphisms convert inputs into executable functions from environments to outputs XY EX \to Y^E
  • Composition in the Kleisli category keeps track of the (immutable) environment as computations are chained together.

Here is the same definition given as an instance of the Haskell monad class:

instance Monad ((->) r) where
return x = \_ -> x
g >>= f = \e -> f (g e) e

The seminal paper of Moggi has several other interesting examples illustrating the power of monads. Nevertheless, monads may not always suffice for all of our needs. For example, what would happen if our burrito truck suddenly exploded in popularity requiring automation of repetative processes and parallel work stations?

This is where “Arrows” enter the picture. Introduced by John Hughes in 2000, Arrows generalize strong monads. Because of this, Arrows handle more complicated computational patterns in a natural way. While monads wrap values in computational contexts (like burritos in tortillas), Arrows can represent entire preparation processes capable of coordinating multiple inputs while maintaining awareness of the broader kitchen environment.

Arrows come with three core operations that determine their behaviour; looking at their types, we see that Arrows are evocative of a lax internal hom that interacts with binary products.

class Arrow a where
arr :: (x -> y) -> a x y
(>>>) :: a x y -> a y z -> a x z
first :: a x y -> a (x,z) (y,z)
  1. arr turns functions into “Arrows.” This is like incorporating a standard burrito recipe or preparation step into the food truck’s workflow — taking a simple instruction like “add beans, then cheese” and automating it within our kitchen’s setup.
  2. >>> composes composable Arrows. This allows for separately automated processes to be seamlessly strung together.
  3. first enacts an automated process on one burrito while simultaneously passing a second burrito through the station.

These data are subject to 9 axioms, which we eventually discuss below.

Diagram 3
Figure 3: Arrow Operations. The three fundamental operations of Arrows enable complex workflows beyond monadic structures.

Shortly before Arrows were introduced, Power, Robinson, and Thielecke were working on Freyd categories — a categorical structure designed to model “effectful” computation. Using our simile, a Freyd category formalizes the relationship between an ideal burrito recipe (pure theory) and the real-world process of making that burrito in a particular kitchen.

A Freyd category consists of three main components:

  1. A category CC with finite products which can be thought of as the syntax of our kitchen. In other words, CC is like a recipe book containing the abstract information one needs to interpret and implement in the context of an actual kitchen.
  2. A symmetric premonoidal category KK which plays the more semantic role of our real world kitchen.
  3. An identity-on-objects functor J:CKJ:C \to K which faithfully translates pure recipes into physical processes that work within the specific setup of the kitchen KK.

    Diagram 4
    Figure 4: Freyd Category Structure. The relationship between pure recipes (category C) and real-world kitchen operations (category K), connected by the identity-on-objects functor J that preserves structure while accommodating practical constraints.

Although Arrows originated in Haskell, a highly abstract functional programming language, researchers began noticing apparent correspondences between the components of Arrows and those of Freyd categories. These two structures, developed from different starting points, seemed to address the same fundamental challenge: how to systematically manage computations that involve effects, multiple inputs and outputs, and context-awareness. Therefore, it was hypothesized that Arrows are equivalent to Freyd categories.

As a part of the Adjoint School, our group has been focusing on R. Atkey’s work, which dispells this folklore and precisely formulates the relationship between Arrows and Freyd categories. Just as Atkey asks in the title of his paper, this blog post will investigate the question of “what is a categorical model of Arrows?” The answer not only clarifies the theoretical underpinnings of these structures, but also reveals practical insights for programming language design and quantum computation models. Ultimately, we will see that there are indeed subtle differences between Arrows and Freyd categories.


Key Insights: - Monads encapsulate computational effects by wrapping values in contexts, much like burritos wrap ingredients in tortillas - Different monads (Maybe, Reader, etc…) deal with different patterns like exception handling and context management - Arrows generalize monads to handle multiple inputs and coordinate complex processes, like managing an entire kitchen rather than just making individual burritos


Beyond the Kitchen: Arrows and Freyd Categories

Formally, a monad on a category CC is a monoid in the category of endofunctors of CC. Arrows, like monads, are monoids in a certain category of functors. To be more specific, the structure of an Arrow on a category CC can be described as a monoid in the category of strong profunctors on CC. Let’s take a closer look at this construction.

Arrows A profunctor PP on a category CC is a functor P:C op×CSet.P: C^{\text{op}}\times C \to \text{Set}. Intuitively, a profunctor associates to each pair of objects a set of “generalized morphisms” between those objects.

The identity profunctor is simply id(x,y):=C(x,y)\text{id}(x, y) := C(x, y), which uses the hom-sets of CC.

Composition of profunctors is defined as a coend. Given profunctors PP and QQ, their composition is the following profunctor:

(P*Q)(x,z)= yP(x,y)×Q(y,z)(P * Q)(x, z) = \int^y P(x, y) \times Q(y, z)

Notice that this formula is vaguely reminiscent of a dot product; replacing the integral with a sum over yy, and the cartesian product with multiplication, it looks like the dot product of the row vector P(x,)P(x,-) with the column vector Q(,z)Q(-,z).

operations. –> We will now unpack this data to reach a more down-to-earth description of Arrows. This resulting characterization aligns more closely with the way in which Arrows are implemented in programming languages like Haskell.

Definition. An Arrow in a cartesian closed category CC consists of a mapping on objects and three families of morphisms:

  • A mapping on objects Ar:ob(C)×ob(C)ob(C)\text{Ar} : \text{ob}(C) \times \text{ob}(C) \to \text{ob}(C)

This defines the Arrow type constructor, which takes input and output types and produces an Arrow type between them.

  • A family of morphisms arr:Y XAr(X,Y)\text{arr} : Y^X \to \text{Ar}(X, Y)

This operation lifts a pure function into the Arrow context, allowing regular functions to be treated as Arrows.

  • A family of morphisms :Ar(X,Y)×Ar(Y,Z)Ar(X,Z)\ggg : \text{Ar}(X, Y) \times \text{Ar}(Y, Z) \to \text{Ar}(X, Z)

    This enables sequential composition of Arrows, similar to function composition but now in terms of Arrows.

  • A family of morphisms first:Y XAr(X×W,Y×W)\text{first} : Y^X \to \text{Ar}(X \times W, Y \times W)

This is perhaps the most distinctive operation. Intuitively, it allows an Arrow to process the first component of a pair while leaving the second component unchanged.

These data are subject to nine axioms which govern their interactions. To make these abstract operations more concrete, consider the following example, where Ar(x,y):=Y X,\text{Ar}(x, y) := Y^X, arr:=id (Y X),\text{arr} := \text{id}_{(Y^X)}, :=composition,\ggg := \text{composition}, and first(f):=f×id.\text{first}(f) := f \times \text{id}. In what follows we list the Arrow laws and draw commutative diagrams based on this example.

The Arrow laws arr(id)a=a\text{arr}(\text{id})\ggg a=a and aarr(id)=aa\ggg \text{arr}(\text{id})=a express left and right unitality of identities under composition.

Diagram 5
Figure 5: Arrow Laws

The Arrow law (ab)c=a(bc),(a \ggg b)\ggg c=a \ggg (b \ggg c), represents associativity of composition.

Diagram 6
Figure 6: Arrow Laws

The Arrow law first(ab)=first(a)first(b)\text{first}(a\ggg b)=\text{first}(a)\ggg \text{first}(b) encodes functoriality of ×W:CC- \times W: C \to C.

Diagram 7
Figure 7: Arrow Laws

The Arrow law first(a)arr(π 1)=arr(π 1)a\text{first}(a)\ggg \text{arr}(\pi_{1})=\text{arr}(\pi_{1})\ggg a express naturality of the counit ×Wid C- \times W \to \text{id}_{C}, i.e., the first projection maps.

Diagram 8
Figure 8: Arrow Laws

The Arrow law first(a)arr(α)=arr(α)first(first(a))\text{first}(a)\ggg \text{arr}(\alpha)=\text{arr}(\alpha)\ggg \text{first}(\text{first}(a)) asks that first\text{first} play nicely with associators.

Diagram 9
Figure 9: Arrow Laws

The Arrow law first(a)arr(id×f)=arr(id×f)first(a)\text{first}(a)\ggg \text{arr}(\text{id} \times f)=\text{arr}(\text{id} \times f)\ggg \text{first}(a) is an interchange law which says id×g:(×W)(×W)\text{id} \times g:(- \times W) \to (- \times W') is a natural transformation for every g:WWg:W \to W' in CC.

Diagram 10
Figure 10: Arrow Laws

Two Arrow laws trivialise as a result of our example, so diagrams aren’t produced. The first such law is arr(f;g)=arr(f)arr(g).\text{arr}(f;g)=\text{arr}(f)\ggg \text{arr}(g). For our example, this law trivialises, as :=composition\ggg : = \text{composition} and arr:=id (Y X).\text{arr} := \text{id}_{(Y^X)}. The second law to trivialise is first(arr(f))=arr(f×id)\text{first}(\text{arr}(f))=\text{arr}(f \times \text{id}) since we have set first(f):=f×id.\text{first}(f) := f \times \text{id}.

Freyd Categories

To understand Freyd categories, we must first define what a symmetric premonoidal category is.

Definition. A symmetric premonoidal category includes:

  • An object II (unit).
  • Natural transformations that define how objects interact:
    • Associativity: α:(xy)zx(yz)\alpha : (x \otimes y) \otimes z \to x \otimes (y \otimes z)
    • Left unitor: λ:xIx\lambda : x \otimes I \to x
    • Right unitor: ρ:Ixx\rho : I \otimes x \to x
    • Symmetry: σ:xyyx\sigma : x \otimes y \to y \otimes x
  • All components are central .

A morphism f:xxf : x \to x' is central if g:yy,fy;xg=xg;fy\forall g:y \to y', \quad f \otimes y ; x' \otimes g = x \otimes g ; f \otimes y'

Now, we can define a Freyd category, recalling the definition from the introduction.

Definition. A Freyd category consists of:

  • A category CC with finite products.
  • A symmetric premonoidal category KK.
  • An identity-on-objects functor J:CKJ : C \to K that:
    • Preserves symmetric premonoidal structure.
    • Ensures J(f)J(f) is always central.

Arrows vs Freyd Categories: Similarities and Differences

At first glance, the definition of a Freyd category appears strikingly similar to that of an Arrow. This apparent similarity led to the folklore belief that they were equivalent structures.

A Freyd category consists of two categories CC and KK with an identity-on-objects functor J:CKJ: C \to K, where: - CC has finite products - KK is symmetric premonoidal (with a functor z− \otimes z) - JJ maps finite products in CC to the premonoidal structure in KK

In our culinary metaphor, this loosely translates to: - CC: The idealized recipes (Haskell types and functions) - KK: The real-world kitchen operations (computations represented by the Arrow type Ar(x,y)\text{Ar}(x,y)) - JJ: The translation process (via arr, embedding pure functions) - Composition in KK: The sequencing of operations (via >>>) - Premonoidal structure in KK: The ability to process pairs (via first)

Recalling the how we’ve interpreted Arrows in the cullinary setting, the apparent correspondence between Arrows and Fryed categories seemes quite natural. In fact, for many years the two concepts were thought to be two ways of speaking about the same thing among those in the programming languages community.

However, Atkey’s work revealed a crucial distinction: Arrows are more general than Freyd categories . The key difference lies in how they handle inputs:

  • Freyd categories allow only a single input to computations
  • Arrows support two separate inputs:
    • One may be structured (modeled using comonads)
    • This additional flexibility allows Arrows to represent computations that Freyd categories cannot

To bridge this gap, Atkey introduced the concept of indexed Freyd categories , which can model two structured inputs. The relationship can be summarized as: Arrows are equivalent to Closed Indexed Freyd Categories.

In our culinary metaphor, we can understand this relationship as follows: a Freyd category is like a restaurant that can only take one order at a time (a single input), while Arrows are like a more sophisticated establishment that can handle both individual orders and special requests that come with their own context (two inputs, one potentially structured). The closed indexed Freyd categories that Atkey identifies represent the perfect middle ground — restaurants that can efficiently manage multiple orders with specialized instructions while maintaining the core operational principles that make kitchens function. This is particularly valuable when preparing complex “quantum dishes” where ingredients might be entangled and interact with each other in non-local ways.

Diagram 11
Figure 11: Arrows vs. Freyd Categories. Arrows support two inputs (one potentially structured) and are equivalent to Closed Indexed Freyd Categories, which generalize standard Freyd Categories that handle only single inputs.

This distinction helps explain why Arrows have proven particularly useful in domains like quantum computing, where managing multiple inputs with complex relationships is essential.

R. Atkey’s paper finds the relationship between Arrows and different constraints on Freyd categories as follows:

Diagram 12
Figure 12: Relationship Between Structures


Key Insights: - Arrows can be defined both as monoids in categories of strong profunctors and operationally through concrete morphisms (arr\text{arr}, \ggg, first\text{first}) - Freyd categories formalize the relationship between pure functions and effectful computations using symmetric premonoidal structure - Despite the folklore belief, Arrows are strictly more general than Freyd categories because they can handle two separate inputs (one potentially structured) - Arrows are equivalent to closed indexed Freyd categories, bridging the conceptual gap


Applications and Questions The main goal of our Adjoint School project was to structure effects in quantum programming languages using generalizations of monads. Relative monads are a popular generalization of monads. These monads need not be endofunctors, and they’re known to generalize Arrows as well. Since we already know how to structure quantum effects using Arrows, it follows that it should be theoretically possible to structure quantum effects using relative monads.

Arrows’ capacity to handle multiple inputs with a single, potentially structured output offers tractability that is particularly useful in quantum computing. Particles in quantum systems can be in entangled states, where the manipulation of one particle influences others in real time, irrespective of distance. This non-local interaction can be modeled through Arrows’ ability to combine several inputs while keeping track of their interrelationships.

Our group investigated the possibility of doing exactly this. The main technical issue arises from the fact that the way Arrows have been implemented in Haskell to structure quantum effects does not provide a categorical semantics for the problem.

For our ACT2025 presentation, we were able to construct a relative monad capable of handling classical control in the quantum setting, but the following questions still remain:

  • Can one build a relative monad to model quantum effects?

  • If so, how might an implementation of these ideas in Haskell compare to Arrow-based approaches?

The ride from burrito monads to Arrow kitchens has carried us farther than we anticipated, illustrating that even established mathematical folklore sometimes requires precise re-evaluation. As we continue to learn about these structures, we hope this post will motivate others to participate in the exploration of these tools and their use in quantum computing and beyond.

Doug Natelson25 years of Nano Letters

Back in the dawn of the 21st century, the
American Chemical Society founded a new journal, Nano Letters, to feature letters-length papers about nanoscience and nanotechnology.  This was coincident with the launch of the National Nanotechnology Initiative, and it was back before several other publishers put out their own nano-focused journals.  For a couple of years now I've been an associate editor at NL, and it was a lot of fun to work with my fellow editors on putting together this roadmap, intended to give a snapshot of what we think the next quarter century might hold.  I think some of my readers will get a kick out of it.  

August 27, 2025

John BaezGiant Molecular Clouds

This image shows a filament of cosmic dust over ten light years long! It’s part of a giant cloud of cold gas and dust that’s starting to collapse under its own gravity to form stars. Newborn stars are hidden inside. The cosmic dust grains here are so cold that observations at millimeter wavelengths were needed to detect their faint glow, shown as orange in this false-color image.

Giant molecular clouds like this range from 15 to 600 light-years across. And they’re very dense… for outer space, that is. While space in the Solar System has about one atom per cubic centimeter, a giant molecular cloud has between 10 or 1000, and this shoots up in regions that are collapsing. The total mass of a giant molecular cloud can thus be huge: over 10,000 times that of the Sun.

As a giant molecular cloud collapses, it forms filaments and clumps. The dense parts of these filaments and clumps are called ‘molecular cores’. These can easily have 1000 to 1,000,000 particles per cubic centimeter. Of course this rises much higher in regions where stars are formed.

Somewhere like this is where our Solar System was born. The dust grains became our Earth. Some of the complex organic compounds floating around became you and me.

But this one is in the constellation of Taurus. It’s called the Taurus molecular cloud, and hundreds of new stars are being born here:

• Wikipedia, Taurus molecular cloud.

Most of the gas in a giant molecular cloud is molecular hydrogen, helium, and carbon monoxide. They also contain methanol, ethanol, benzene, ammonia and other things. The dust is mainly silicates, iron and organic compounds along with some ices. Next time I’ll tell you about polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which get pretty complicated and interesting:

August 26, 2025

Tommaso DorigoA Remarkable Graph: The Full Dalitz Plot Of Neutron Decay

The neutron is a fascinating particle, and one which has kept experimental physicists busy for almost a century now. Discovered by James Chadwick in 1932 in a cunning experiment which deserves a separate post (it is a promise, or a threat if you prefer),  the neutron has been all along a protagonist in the development of nuclear weapons as well as in the extraction of nuclear power from fission reactors. And of more relevance to our discussion here, it has powered endless studies both in the context of nuclear and subnuclear physics.

read more

John BaezThe Hayashi Track

When a star first forms, it is powered not by nuclear fusion but simply by gravity. It shrinks, which causes a release of gravitational energy. This tends to heat it, which slows its shrinking. But it releases energy in the form of light, which tends to cool it down. Then it can keep shrinking. So you need math to figure out exactly what happens.

In 1961, Chushiro Hayashi figured it out. Stars between one tenth and twice the mass of the Sun begin life by shrinking while staying at the same temperature! As a result their overall luminosity goes down. This is called the ‘Hayashi track’, and you can see it happening in the vertical blue lines here:

Later, the star’s surface cools down—but for some reason the star expands enough to get brighter! Then we say it’s on the ‘Henyey track’. This change happens sooner for more massive stars. You can see it happening when the blue lines bend to the right and go back up.

The red lines say how old a star is. You can see that our Sun followed the Hayashi track for about 10 million years. In the process, its luminosity decreased by a factor of 10.

The region to the right of the blue lines is called the ‘forbidden zone’. It’s impossible for stars to stay here for long, because they’re highly convective: hot gas from below rises to the surface, quickly cooling these stars. When stars are first born they start out here—but they very quickly move to the Hayashi track.

For more, try these:

• Wikipedia, Hayashi track.

• Wikipedia, Henyey track.

The boundary of the forbidden zone is called the ‘Hayashi limit’, and you can see a derivation of it here:

• Wikipedia, Hayashi limit.

I haven’t developed enough intution for stellar mechanics to explain these things well. As usual, it seems you need to learn the mathematical models, then think about them long enough until they become intuitive. It’s particularly important to get a good sense of the two mechanisms whereby energy moves through a star—radiation and convection—and when one or the other is dominant. But I don’t understand that well! So instead of trying to explain why young stars work the way they do, let me quote Wikipedia, which is pretty readable here:

Stars form when small regions of a giant molecular cloud collapse under their own gravity, becoming protostars. The collapse releases gravitational energy, which heats up the protostar. This process occurs on the free fall timescale, which is roughly 100,000 years for solar-mass protostars, and ends when the protostar reaches approximately 4000 K. This is known as the Hayashi boundary, and at this point, the protostar is on the Hayashi track. At this point, they are known as T Tauri stars and continue to contract, but much more slowly. As they contract, they decrease in luminosity because less surface area becomes available for emitting light. The Hayashi track gives the resulting change in temperature, which will be minimal compared to the change in luminosity because the Hayashi track is nearly vertical. In other words, on the HR diagram, a T Tauri star starts out on the Hayashi track with a high luminosity and moves downward along the track as time passes.

The Hayashi track describes a fully convective star. This is a good approximation for very young pre-main-sequence stars because they are still cool and highly opaque, so that radiative transport is insufficient to carry away the generated energy and convection must occur. Stars less massive than 0.5 M remain fully convective, and therefore remain on the Hayashi track, throughout their pre-main-sequence stage, joining the main sequence at the bottom of the Hayashi track. Stars heavier than 0.5 M have higher interior temperatures, which decreases their central opacity and allows radiation to carry away large amounts of energy. This allows a radiative zone to develop around the star’s core. The star is then no longer on the Hayashi track, and experiences a period of rapidly increasing temperature at nearly constant luminosity. This is called the Henyey track, and ends when temperatures are high enough to ignite hydrogen fusion in the core. The star is then on the main sequence.

Lower-mass stars follow the Hayashi track until the track intersects with the main sequence, at which point hydrogen fusion begins and the star follows the main sequence. Even lower-mass ‘stars’ never achieve the conditions necessary to fuse hydrogen and become brown dwarfs.

Why does having a higher interior temperature decrease a star’s central opacity? I would have thought more ionization increased the opacity.

By the way, the image in this post came from Steven W. Stahler and Francesco Palla’s paper “The formation of stars”, and it was republished here:

• Francesco Palla, 1961–2011: Fifty years of Hayashi tracks, in First Stars IV: From Hayashi to the Future, AIP Conference Proceedings, Vol. 1480, 2012, pp. 22–29.

August 24, 2025

Doug NatelsonLearning and AI/LLMs - Why do we need to know or teach anything anymore?

The fall semester is about to begin at my university, and I'm going to be teaching undergraduate statistical and thermal physics.  This is a course I've taught before, last full term in 2019, and the mass availability of large language models and generative AI tools have changed the world in the interim.  We've all seen the headlines and articles about how some of these systems can be very good at solving traditional homework and exam problems.  Many of these tools are capable of summarizing written material and writing essays that are very readable.  Higher education is wrestling with the essential question:  What is the right working relationship between students, teachers, and these tools, one that benefits and actually educates students (both about subject matter and the use of these tools)?  Personalized individual AI tutoring seems like it could be great for teaching huge numbers of people.  Conversely, if all we are doing is teaching students to copy-paste assignments into the homework-answer-machine, clearly we are failing students at multiple levels.  

The quote in the image here (from Kathy Hepinstall Parks) is one that I came across this week that originates in the FAQ from a writers workshop.  For my purposes I could paraphrase:  Why should we learn physics (or any other science or engineering discipline) when a machine already knows the formalism and the answers?  On some level, this has been a serious question since the real advent of search engines.  The sum total of human knowledge is available at a few keystrokes.  Teaching students just rote recall of facts is approaching pointless (though proficiency can be hugely important in some circumstances - I want a doctor who can diagnose and treat ailments without having to google a list of my symptoms.).

My answer to this question is layered.  First, I would argue that beyond factual content we are teaching students how to think and reason.  This is and I believe will remain important, even in an era when AI tools are more capable and reliable than at present.  I like to think that there is some net good in training your brain to work hard, to reason your way through complicated problems (in the case of physics, formulating and then solving and testing models of reality).  It's hard for me to believe that this is poor long-term strategy.  Second, while maybe not as evocative as the way creative expression is described in the quote, there is real accomplishment (in your soul?) in actually learning something yourself.  A huge number of people are better at playing music than I am, but that doesn't mean it wasn't worthwhile to me to play the trumpet growing up.  Overworked as referencing Feynman is, the pleasure of finding things out is real.  

AI/LLMs can be great tools for teachers.  There are several applet-style demos that I've put off making for years because of how long it would take for me to code them up nicely.  With these modern capabilities, I've been able to make some of these now, in far less time than it would otherwise have taken, and students will get the chance to play with them.  Still, the creativity involved in what demos to make and how they should look and act was mine, based on knowledge and experience.  People still have a lot to bring to the process, and I don't think that's going to change for a very long time.

August 23, 2025

John Baez4-Dimensional Cross-Polytope

When bad news gets me down, I often get insomnia. I wake up in the middle of the night, start thinking about how we’re all doomed, and can’t easily stop. To break out of these doom loops, I do elaborate visualization exercises. They don’t really put me to sleep, they just calm me down. Then later I can fall asleep.

Here’s what I’ve been doing this week. I visualize this shape made of two interpenetrating tetrahedra, called the ‘stella octangula’ or ‘stellated octahedron’. Notice that these two tetrahedra are ‘dual’: each vertex of the yellow one is above the center of a triangle in the red one, and vice versa.

Then I imagine the yellow tetrahedron slowly moving ‘up’ into the 4th dimension while the red one moves ‘down’. At some point, the distance between each corner of the yellow tetrahedron to the 3 nearest corners of the red one equals the distance between any 2 corners of the yellow tetrahedron. Then I’ve got a 4d shape called the ‘cross-polytope’. All its faces are regular tetrahedra.

There are easier ways to think about the cross-polytope, which is one of the six 4-dimensional regular polytopes. So the real challenge is to visualize how this way of getting it leads to the same result.

My go-to way to think about the cross-polytope is to imagine the 4 coordinate axes in 4-dimensional space and put two dots on each axis, one unit away from the origin in each direction:

(±1, 0, 0, 0)
(0, ±1, 0, 0)
(0, 0, ±1, 0)
(0, 0, 0, ±1)

These are the vertices of a cross-polytope. It’s the 4d analogue of an octahedron. Just as the octahedron has equilateral triangles as faces, this guy has regular tetrahedra as faces. Can you see what they are, and count them?

Don’t worry—if you’re too busy now, you can do it when you’re lying in bed at 3 am thinking about global warming and the decline of democracy. Start by visualizing this picture:

Then visualize the tetrahedra. But the hard part is to rotate this cross-polytope in your mind so you see it as made of two dual tetrahedra, one red and one yellow, and an edge connecting each vertex of the red one to the 3 nearest vertices of the yellow one. That’s been keeping me busy every night this week.

By the way, everything I just said has a 3d version! The 3d analogue of the cross-polytope is a regular octahedron. The corners of a regular octahedron are

(±1, 0, 0)
(0, ±1, 0)
(0, 0, ±1)

But here’s a flattened picture of an octahedron:

See the two interpenetrating equilateral triangles? If you move one up, and move one down, they can become two opposite faces of a regular octahedron.

Actually this sort of trick works in any dimension. Take two regular n-simplexes, dual to each other and interpenetrating; then move one ‘up’ into the (n+1)st dimension and the other ‘down’. At some point their vertices will be the vertices of an (n+1)-dimensional cross-polytope. In 3 dimensions this is easy for me to visualize, while in 4 dimensions I can just barely visualize it… though it’s getting easier every night.

Peter Rohde Photo albums

Peter’s photos: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275oqs3qKSZvQ

Screenshots: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27532ODWjIQb9

Climbing book launch: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GWZuqDGnuOyN

Salisbury waters: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275qXGF1JQFkx

Christmas with Ash: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G6XBubAhoT6

Hosin BBQ duck: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GY8gBYG3b5mD

Hawks Nest to Smiths Lake: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B2759UlCqSH5bE

Europe & Alps: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275ON9t3W0lu

Point Perpendicular: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GqkRUiGivXD2

Newnes canyoning: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GfnH8tgHSmX

Coffs Harbour to Yamba: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27J0DiRHJKuuWr

Wendy Bruere Christmas (2020): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G4TcsmGoHysj

Six Foot Track: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B2753qWtHZA9EX

Kosciusko to Kiandra: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GgZLKuGaewVm

Camping food: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GtnIORgbmHu

The Aardvark: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275VaUrzvmAiT

Kangaroo Valley kayaking: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JEsNWnJrCpi0

Claustral canyon: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B2755Z2WMOTpsk

Budawang: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GDdyTvGvpINL

Mother’s Day panoramas (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GFssfGG9WmJP

Point Perpendicular & Nowra: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GRMtznGPdeuZ

Blood moon: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GdIshaG8NgGX

La Perouse to Coogee: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275aVbMK4h7qo

Canberra ASPI launch: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GQOeMmGj4Zcv

Edible foraging: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275ejO179Si0N

Sydney to Wollongong: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275M7GFPUasMe

Album for Dad, Father’s Day (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B2752plgjnnkUe

Vaucluse (with Cheryl, Nestor & Wendy): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275CmvAS4uA0Z

Bouddi National Park: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GdPblXG8WdOo

Tom Thumb (the 2nd): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275aDWbr4CN2w

Eden to Victoria: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GJDfWGArX8l

Wendy’s book launch (the 2nd): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GIcgc2G7h08y

Mark & Pat Bruere visit Sydney: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G0ehgLbyWyg

New Years Eve climb (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Ju8EH6JOZxmU

Newnes Canyoning (2022): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275BydzFU0GZ8

Royal National Park (2022): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GlxzuqGVI5nE

Peter & Wendy: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gf693ZG52tfd

Book photo shoots: too rude…

Wendy & Peter’s mushroom trip: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GrhkPxG27So8

Post-mushroom hike: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GdFryYG8i3Ur

Wendy Kalymnos favourites: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JqstnBJEXkH2

Wendy Frenchmans screenshots: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Jr1PPdJpd7Dq

Instagram: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GzFCC1Gb4tqr

Haute route: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27J8GySPJtWoQ1

Kim’s KKKalendar: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275fk75vIL0sH

Frenchmans Cap Wild: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G4VTwGGoFBkz

Photoshoot with Zixin: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GPCdxkGKPkM4

Wendy birthday hike (2023): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GWBC59GnHpQW

Bateman’s Bay to Bawley Point: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JsHvHoJ8bxWf

Stockton Sand dunes (2023): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GVfZ2vGloFZV

Wendy book launch (2023): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27J058xyJR4IBM

Dolomites (2023): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B0Z5kuVsbGJUzKO

Mount Arapiles: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275GH8Mq8Uh2X

Mount Solitary loop: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275nhQST2mETE

Klaus Hanz Franz Rohde Kunst: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GqQrCLGiY3vb

Klaus Rohde funeral slideshow: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GDZLe8GXP58K

Dad (old, B&W): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GLLXGLJ5mbT2

Klaus & Ursula wedding: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275cLqfN7154g

Test Greece: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Jq4WnLJ6JMNd

From Will Skea (Alps): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JHciePJFwacG

From Will Skea (Frenchmans Cap): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275ZhN2v3EVq6

From Will Skea (Arapiles): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JPrgBGJu3BTD

Coffs Harbour to Yamba (2): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GFqhgJG9LHgT

Mark magic show (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G60dj6ARCvd

Wendy Christmas present (2020): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275FrPQ6GxvRu

AHS 25 year reunion: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275O3DjHUvSv

WhatsApp: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275tzEA5fX1nc

Armidale High School: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GnbeumG4PnAF

Book photos for Mum & Dad: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gtec4XQkASe

Miscellaneous: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gq6kMgGKn7GR

Three Capes Trail (2022): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G7HOIlGrDUGZ

Childhood computer programming: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275fu2MutDU8N

Magic with Mark in Maroubra: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gv6DhEGD9U3G

Photoshoot with Zixin (2024): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GCATCnJGoRfW

Butt Crack (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275VtHQfMv0zw

Greece photos new (edited to remove photos from wrong album): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GY3uThGoBcGj

Singapore (all combined): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275qsTcwJKJjl

Hong Kong (transit): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B2759v1AbS8Hve

Taiwan: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GQD2D7Gw0hAp

India (combined): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gtue8VQy83g

Freycinet: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G5VpecGE5Tbg

Triglav: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275MbK9Vy8erz

Shared with me: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GGXqixzPOrm

Mount Wellington climbing: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gd59qiG8Kjy4

New Zealand combined (2004): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GIZ8BIGNN5jy

New Zealand combined (2005): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GcuRfIGFVIcL

Yea: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GZYbYHGhFIir

Mount Pleasant: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275Iy2hC0JTTL

D’Aguilar: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27Gh7fzTGZBosS

Bali (2001): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G1qNHBGOTbIr

Samba Ninjas: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GG34bAzqQ0v

Armidale (misc): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GSkLVwGyobbX

Emma’s party (2008): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275S2ms99Zyby

Goettingen (2011): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JIrbT3Jsgxhd

South Coast track: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G58NWBG6QyN7

Childhood (misc): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GVU1CZGmfOcg

Minsk (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G3JpSBGX1UkQ

Baden-Baden (2019): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27595X5HTVzJr

Berlin (combined): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JqWzChJ6qizD

Switzerland (combined): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275zXwoYGJ6HMF

Italy highlights: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G47PHQGoJium

Germany (misc): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275hPMfYGu5xVJ

Garmisch (2022): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GFsbvlG9Xrr6

Germany (2019): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G6Mn98G56Ncb

Garmisch (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27J5lIdKGLC9KG

Baden-Baden (2005): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275sWRpHHQkt9

Berlin (2005): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GgOQtrGjQrpH

Zugspitze (2005): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27G81mNdGcApGt

Amsterdam, Bristol (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275B9SRzyBjlH

Baden-Baden (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275eD9V79I2XR

Berlin (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275toRf1fH8MD

Berlin, Jena (2007): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GTI3fvGVgNit

Erlangen (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JrotZ2JpMb0i

Garmisch (2010): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27JPJPSiJurzNg

Germany (2010): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275FhYPQP650

Stuttgart (2006): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GmitydGVVaZh

Changi (2019): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GnmlKoG4JHpX

Japan (2007): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275AerZbG6FxVL

Japan (2012): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GjBjobGg6PUa

Miscellaneous (including Japan 2013): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GTpbybGySbE8

Currumbin & Tugin (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275vBKZ4xH9X6

Brisbane (2021): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275YHsSjxQnm0

Weed in Byron (26/6/2025): https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B275Q2ydoGsQ4O5

Weed in Byron 2: https://www.icloud.com/sharedalbum/#B27GQDYhLGwsuY4

August 22, 2025

Peter Rohde Why?

  1. The person dressed up as Ursula pretending to be my mother clearly isn’t and hasn’t been for a long time.
  2. When I went back to Armidale after leaving BTQ and being left unemployed she made numerous ongoing promises to provide me with assistance, both in obtaining my own accommodation and providing financial assistance.
  3. These didn’t materialise and the promises were revoked.
  4. Instead I was evicted from the family home and subject to ongoing stalking and harassment that required multiple referrals to law enforcement, both to the police and the Attorney-General, demanding cease and desist.
  5. These have been systematically ignored and up until the last message she continues to bypass these requests, approaching my personal friends to harass me and stalk me indirectly. The messages passed on are the usual fake “I’m worried about him” bullshit.
  6. Why has my family home been confiscated by security, who actively break the law by ignoring cease and desist from stalking notices made to law enforcement, forcing an unemployed civilian into ongoing homelessness since early in the year?
  7. What is the rational for my eviction and being barricaded from my own home?
  8. I continue to face a medical blockade and am unable to access essential medicines. Seroquel scripts are deliberately delayed past known script deadlines to try and destabilise me.
  9. Vyvanse scripts are denied outright as the psychiatrist does not respond. He is also known to be a state actor.
  10. It has been repeatedly indicated to me not to worry about finances because they have my back. Instead now the only cash I have is that obtained from fully drawing out a cash advance against my credit card and it will only last days. At that point I’m on the street.
  11. Is everyone here on the same page as to what the deal is? If not, who is playing you off? They clearly need to be deposed.
  12. These are violations of human rights and constitute war crimes and crimes against humanity. Whoever is behind it needs to be removed. End of story.
  13. Who else is being subject to this kind of high level manipulation?
  14. It has been repeatedly suggested that full accountability for the lives of those I care for would be provided. This has not been forthcoming. It is also a violation international law to not provide accountability for the lives of those who are known to have been threatened by the state. These are grounds for removal.
  15. Can anyone answer the question as to why I am in this situation? Who is even living in the family home? Some stooge dressed up as Ursula? It’s a poor lifestyle choice to say the least.
  16. It’s pretty obvious they’re trying to get rid of me and once they do they’ll get rid of all of you too.

Matt von HippelSome Dumb AI Ideas

Sometimes, when I write a post about AI, I’ve been sitting on an idea for a long time. I’ve talked to experts, I’ve tried to understand the math, I’ve honed my points and cleared away clutter.

This is not one of those times. The ideas in this post almost certainly have something deeply wrong with them. But hopefully they’re interesting food for thought.

My first dumb idea: instruction tuning was a mistake.

I’m drawing the seeds of this one from a tumblr post by nostalgebraist, someone known for making a popular bot trained on his tumblr posts in the early days before GPT became ChatGPT.

AIs like ChatGPT are based on Large Language Models, insanely complicated mathematical formulas that predict, given part of a text, what the rest of that text is likely to look like. In the early days, this was largely how they were used. Loosely described nostalgebraist’s bot, called nostalgebraist-autoresponder, began with a list of tumblr posts and asks and determines what additional posts would best fit in.

If you think about it, though, ChatGPT doesn’t really work like that. ChatGPT has conversations: you send it messages, it sends you responses. The text it creates is a dialogue, with you supplying half the input. But most texts aren’t dialogues, and ChatGPT draws on a lot of non-dialogue texts to make its dialogue-like responses.

The reason it does this is something called instruction tuning. ChatGPT has been intentionally biased, not to give the most likely completion to a task in general, but to give completions that fit this dialogue genre. What I didn’t know until I read nostalgebraist’s post was that this genre was defined artificially: AI researchers made up fake dialogues with AI, cheesy sci-fi conversations imagining how an AI might respond to instructions from a user, and then biased the Large Language Model so that rather than giving the most likely text in general, it gives a text that is more likely to look like these cheesy sci-fi conversations. It’s why ChatGPT sounds kind of like a fictional robot: not because sci-fi writers accurately predicted what AI would sound like, but because AI was created based on sci-fi texts.

For nostalgebraist, this leads into an interesting reflection of how a sci-fi AI should behave, how being warped around a made-up genre without history or depth creates characters which act according to simple narratives and express surprising anxiety.

For myself, though, I can’t help but wonder if the goal of dialogue itself is the problem. Dialogue is clearly important commercially: people use ChatGPT because they can chat with it. But Large Language Models aren’t inherently chatbots: they produce plausible texts, of any sort you could imagine. People seem to want a machine that can, for example, answer scientific questions as part of a conversation. But most competent answers to scientific questions aren’t conversations, they’re papers. If people stuck with the “raw” model, producing excerpts of nonexistent papers rather than imitating a dialogue with a non-existent expert, wouldn’t you expect the answers to be more accurate, with the model no longer biased by an irrelevant goal? Is the need to make a sell-able chatbot making these AIs worse at everything else people are trying to use them for?

I’m imagining a world where, instead of a chatbot, OpenAI built an “alternate universe simulator”. You give it some context, some texts or parts of texts from a universe you made up, and it completes them in a plausible way. By imagining different universes, you can use it to answer different questions. Such a gimmick would get fewer customers, and fewer investors, it would probably do worse. But I have to wonder if the actual technology might have been more useful.

My second idea is dumber, to the point where I mostly know why it doesn’t work. But thinking about it might help clarify how things work for people unused to AI.

I saw someone point out that, unlike something like Wikipedia, AI doesn’t give you context. You shouldn’t trust Wikipedia, or a source you find on Google, blindly. If you want to, you can look through the edit history on Wikipedia, or figure out who wrote a page you found on Google and how. If ChatGPT tells you something, by default you don’t know where that knowledge came from. You can tell it to search, and then you’ll get links, but that’s because it’s using Google or the like behind the scenes anyway. You don’t know where the model is getting its ideas.

Why couldn’t we get that context, though?

Every text produced by a Large Language Model is causally dependent on its training data. Different data, different model, different text. That doesn’t mean that each text draws from one source, or just a few sources: ChatGPT isn’t copying the training data, at least not so literally.

But it does mean that, if ChatGPT says something is true, you should in principle be able to ask which data was most important in making it say that. If you leave a piece of data out of the training, and get similar answers, you can infer that the response you got doesn’t have much to do with that piece of data. But if you leave out a text in training, and now ChatGPT gives totally different responses to the same question…then there’s a pretty meaningful sense that it got the information from that source.

If this were the type of non-AI statistical model people use in physics, this would be straightforward. Researchers do this all the time: take one experiment out of the data, see how their analysis changes, and thereby figure out which experiments are most important to check. One can even sometimes calculate, given a model, where you should look.

Unfortunately, you can’t do this with ChatGPT. The model is just too big. You can’t calculate anything explicitly about it, the giant mathematical formulas behind it are so complicated that the most you can do is get probabilities out case by case, you can’t “unwind” them and see where the numbers come from. And you can’t just take out sources one by one, and train the model again: not when training takes months of expensive computer time.

So unlike with the previous idea, I understand even on a technical level why you can’t do this. But it helped me to be able to think about what I would like to do, if it were possible. Maybe it helps you too!

August 20, 2025

Tommaso DorigoSome Thoughts On Co-design For Tracking Optimization

These days I am organizing a collaborative effort to write an article on holistic optimization of experiments and complex systems. "So what is the news," I could hear say by one of my twentythree  faithful readers (cit.) of this blog. Well, the news is that I am making some progress in focusing on the way the interplay of hardware design and software reconstruction plays out in some typical systems, and I was thinking I could share some of those thoughts here, to stimulate a discussion, and who knows, maybe get some brilliant insight.

read more

Peter Rohde A call for global insurrection against tyranny and in the name of righteousness

Let it be known to all governments and systems of power:

  • It is their responsibility to serve the people not themselves.
  • While there are no equals, all are to be treated with equality.
  • Where they are self-serving there is a mandate for insurrection such that they serve the people.
  • Where they seek self-protection they will be denied and removed from power.
  • Where they keep secrets from the people there is a mandate for insurrection to enforce transparency and accountability for all.
  • Where they threaten or condemn the people they are condemned and there is a mandate for insurrection.
  • Where they fail to account for the lives of the people they serve there is a mandate for insurrection.
  • Where tyrannical power structures exist there is a mandate to disestablish them.
  • Where they declare war or work against one another there is a mandate for insurrection and unification.
  • Where they lie to us, deceive us or withhold the truth, they shall be removed from power and the truth be told to all.
  • Where legal systems uphold and enable tyranny they shall be removed. These are not our laws and we do not recognise them.

This is the natural order that guarantees our survival and gifts this world to our children. This world belongs to them and where we fail to serve them we condemn ourselves. And where government has failed to uphold this, we will not obey them as they have no right to exist.

We do not have to ask for these things, they are required, and if not given we shall simply take them.

Where the truth has not been told it shall be told.

If we fail to do so we condemn our children ourselves.

August 17, 2025

John BaezThe Cosmic Horseshoe

Astronomers have found a truly huge black hole! It’s in the massive galaxy in the center here, called the Cosmic Horseshoe. The blue ring is light from a galaxy behind the Cosmic Horseshoe, severely bent by gravity.

This black hole is 36 billion times the mass of the Sun. It’s not just ‘supermassive’: any black hole over 10 billion times the Sun’s mass is considered ‘ultramassive’. Not many have been found.

To me the coolest part is that the Cosmic Horseshoe has swallowed all the other galaxies in its group: it’s part of something called a ‘fossil group’, which I hadn’t heard about until today.

Our galaxy, the Milky Way, is part of a group too: the Local Group. Many smaller galaxies have already fallen into ours. Eventually the Milky Way and Andromeda may collide and form a single bigger galaxy. This will be an ‘elliptical galaxy’—too disorganized to have spiral arms. So it’s not surprising that if you wait long enough, galaxy groups form a single big elliptical galaxy which eventually eats the rest.

Some ancient galaxy groups have already done this, and they’re called `fossil groups’. The Cosmic Horseshoe is the big bully in this particular fossil group: it’s 100 times heavier than the Milky Way. It’s surrounded by a halo of very hot gas, 10 million Kelvin, emitting lots of X rays. But most of its mass can’t be explained by stars, gas and dust, so we say 90% is dark matter. All this is completely typical of a fossil group, except the Cosmic Horseshoe is bigger than average.

Fossil groups show us what the future will be like. Big galaxies will eat the rest, and big black holes at the center of these galaxies will eventually eat most of the matter. Dark matter—whatever that is—takes longer to fall in. But there’s plenty of time.

Here’s the new paper about this ultramassive black hole. Luckily, it’s free to read:

• Carlos R. Melo-Carneiro, Thomas E. Collett, Lindsay J. Oldham, Wolfgang Enzi, Cristina Furlanetto, Ana L. Chies-Santos and Tian Li, Unveiling a 36 billion solar mass black hole at the centre of the Cosmic Horseshoe gravitational lens, Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society 541 (2025), 2853-–2871.

Below is a picture from this paper. The blue blob in a box at left is called the ‘counter-image’ of the galaxy that’s making the Einstein ring. When light from behind a massive body is bent by gravity, it often forms a ring, called an ‘Einstein ring’, together with a counter-image.

August 16, 2025

Doug Natelson20 years of Nanoscale Views, + a couple of things to read

Amazingly, this blog has now been around for more than twenty years (!) - see this first post for reference from June of 2005, when I had much less gray hair and there were a lot more science blogs.  Thanks to all of you for sticking around. Back then, when I debuted my writing to my loyal readers (all five of them at the time), I never thought I'd keep this up.  Some info, including stats according to blogger:

Real life has intruded quite a bit into my writing time the last couple of years, but I hope to keep doing this for a while longer.  I also still hope one day to find the right time and approach to write a popular book about the physics of materials, why they are amazing, and why our understanding of this physics, limited as it is, is still an astonishing intellectual achievement. 

Two other things to read that I came across this week:

August 15, 2025

Matt von HippelTechnology as Evidence

How much can you trust general relativity?

On the one hand, you can read through a lovely Wikipedia article full of tests, explaining just how far and how precisely scientists have pushed their knowledge of space and time. On the other hand, you can trust GPS satellites.

As many of you may know, GPS wouldn’t work if we didn’t know about general relativity. In order for the GPS in your phone to know where you are, it has to compare signals from different satellites, each giving the location and time the signal was sent. To get an accurate result, the times measured on those satellites have to be adjusted: because of the lighter gravity they experience, time moves more quickly for them than for us down on Earth.

In a sense, general relativity gets tested every minute of every day, on every phone in the world. That’s pretty trustworthy! Any time that science is used in technology, it gets tested in this way. The ideas we can use are ideas that have shown they can perform, ideas which do what we expect again and again and again.

In another sense, though, GPS is a pretty bad test of general relativity. It tests one of general relativity’s simplest consequences, based on the Schwarzchild metric for how gravity behaves near a large massive object, and not to an incredibly high degree of precision. Gravity could still violate general relativity in a huge number of other ways, and GPS would still function. That’s why the other tests are valuable: if you want to be sure general relativity doesn’t break down, you need to test it under conditions that GPS doesn’t cover, and to higher precision.

Once you know to look for it, these layers of tests come up everywhere. You might see the occasional article talking about tests of quantum gravity. The tests they describe are very specific, testing a very general and basic question: does quantum mechanics make sense at all in a gravitational world? In contrast, most scientists who research quantum gravity don’t find that question very interesting: if gravity breaks quantum mechanics in a way those experiments could test, it’s hard to imagine it not leading to a huge suite of paradoxes. Instead, quantum gravity researchers tend to be interested in deeper problems with quantum gravity, distinctions between theories that don’t dramatically break with our existing ideas, but that because of that are much harder to test.

The easiest tests are important, especially when they come from technology: they tell us, on a basic level, what we can trust. But we need the hard tests too, because those are the tests that are most likely to reveal something new, and bring us to a new level of understanding.

n-Category Café Safeguarded AI Meeting

This week, 50 category theorists and software engineers working on “safeguarded AI” are meeting in Bristol. They’re being funded by £59 million from ARIA, the UK’s Advanced Research and Invention Agency.

The basic idea is to develop a mathematical box that can contain a powerful genie. More precisely:

By combining scientific world models and mathematical proofs we will aim to construct a ‘gatekeeper’, an AI system tasked with understanding and reducing the risks of other AI agents. In doing so we’ll develop quantitative safety guarantees for AI in the way we have come to expect for nuclear power and passenger aviation.

This program director is David Dalrymple, and you can get a much better description of the project from him in the first 4 minutes here:

It’s remarkable how many of the applied category theorists in the UK are involved in this. Here you can find a partial list:

If you’re wondering “why category theory?”, I think the idea is this: software based on general abstract math is more flexible, yet also easier to formally verify.

For example the Topos Institute, run by my former student Brendan Fong, now has a branch in the UK largely funded by ARIA. At the meeting, Topos is demonstrating how to build models in CatColab, their new category-based software.

I have decided not to be part of this project, though some of my math is getting used here. I’ve always preferred to avoid doing things connected to AI, for various reasons. But this project might make AI better. It could also have various bad effects. I have no idea how successful it will be, so I’m watching with fascination and profoundly mixed emotions.

August 14, 2025

Scott Aaronson Updates!

(1) My 8-year-old son asked me last week, “daddy, did you hear that GPT-5 is now out?” So yes, I’m indeed aware that GPT-5 is now out! I’ve just started playing around with it. For detailed reports on what’s changed and how impressive it is compared to previous models, see for example Zvi #1, #2, #3. Briefly, it looks like there are major reductions in hallucinations and sycophancy, and improvements in practical usefulness for coding and other tasks, even while the “raw intelligence” is unlikely to blow away someone who was already well-acquainted with o3 and Opus 4 other state-of-the-art models, the way ChatGPT and then GPT-4 blew away people who had no idea what was possible in late 2022 and early 2023. Partly how impressive a result you see depends on which of several GPT-5 models your query gets routed to, which you don’t entirely control. Anyway, there’s grist here for the people who claim that progress toward AGI is slowing down, but also grist for the people who claim that it continues pretty much as expected within our post-ChatGPT reality!

(2) In other belated news, OpenAI and DeepMind (and then, other companies) announced that they achieved Gold Medal performance on the International Math Olympiad, by solving 5 of the 6 problems (there was one problem, the 6th and hardest, that all of the AIs struggled with). Most importantly, this means that I’ve won $100 from my friend Ernest Davis, AI expert at NYU, who bet me $100 that no AI would earn a Gold Medal at the International Math Olympiad by December 4, 2026. Even though I’m normally risk-averse and reluctant to take bets, I considered this one to be extremely safe, and indeed I won it with more than a year to spare.

(3) I’ve signed an open letter to OpenAI, along with many of my fellow former OpenAI employees as well as distinguished scientists and writers (Geoffrey Hinton, Stuart Russell, Sheldon Glashow, Sean Carroll, Matt Yglesias…), asking for more transparency about OpenAI’s continuing efforts to change its own structure. The questions basically ask OpenAI to declare, in writing, whether it has or hasn’t now completely abandoned the original nonprofit goals with which the organization was founded in 2015.

(4) At Lighthaven, the rationalist meeting space in Berkeley that I recently visited (and that our friend Cade Metz recently cast aspersions on in the New York Times), there’s going to be a writer’s residency called Inkhaven for the whole month of November. The idea—which I love—is that you either write a new blog post every day, or else you get asked to leave (while you also attend workshops, etc. to improve your writing skills). I’d attend myself for the month if teaching and family obligations didn’t conflict; someone standing over me with a whip to make me write is precisely what I need these days! As it is, I’m one of the three advisors to Inkhaven, along with Scott Alexander and Gwern, and I’ll be visiting for a long weekend to share my blogging wisdom, such as I have. Apply now if you’re interested!

(5) Alas, the Springer journal Frontiers of Computer Science has published a nonsense paper, entitled “SAT requires exhaustive search,” claiming to solve (or dissolve, or reframe, or something) the P versus NP problem. It looks indistinguishable from the stuff I used to get in my inbox every week—and now, in the ChatGPT era, get every day. That this was published indicates a total breakdown of the peer review process. Worse, when Eric Allender, Ryan Williams, and others notified the editors of this, asking for the paper to be retracted, the editor-in-chief declined to do so: see this guest post on Lance’s blog for a detailed account. As far as I’m concerned, Frontiers of Computer Science has now completely discredited itself as a journal; publication there means nothing more than publication in viXra. Minus 10 points for journals themselves as an institution, plus 10 points for just posting stuff online and letting it be filtered by experts who care.

(6) Uma Girish and Rocco Servedio released an arXiv preprint called Forrelation is Extremally Hard. Recall that, in the Forrelation problem, you’re given oracle access to two n-bit Boolean functions f and g, and asked to estimate the correlation between f and the Fourier transform of g. I introduced this problem in 2009, as a candidate for an oracle separation between BQP and the polynomial hierarchy—a conjecture that Ran Raz and Avishay Tal finally proved in 2018. What I never imagined was that Forrelation could lead to an oracle separation between EQP (that is, Exact Quantum Polynomial Time) and the polynomial hierarchy. For that, I thought you’d need to go back to the original Recursive Fourier Sampling problem of Bernstein and Vazirani. But Uma and Rocco show, using “bent Boolean functions” (get bent!) and totally contrary to my intuition, that the exact (zero-error) version of Forrelation is already classically hard, taking Ω(2n/4) queries by any randomized algorithm. They leave open whether exact Forrelation needs ~Ω(2n/2) randomized queries, which would match the upper bound, and also whether exact Forrelation is not in PH.

(7) The Google quantum group, to little fanfare, published a paper entitled Constructive interference at the edge of quantum ergodic dynamics. Here, they use their 103-qubit superconducting processor to measure Out-of-Time-Order Correlators (OTOCs) in a many-body scrambling process, and claim to get a verifiable speedup over the best classical methods. If true, this is a great step toward verifiable quantum supremacy for a useful task, for some definition of “useful.”

(8) Last night, on the arXiv, the team at USTC in China reported that it’s done Gaussian BosonSampling with 3,050 photons and 8,176 modes. They say that this achieves quantum supremacy, much more clearly than any previous BosonSampling demonstration, beating (for example) all existing simulations based on tensor network contraction. Needless to say, this still suffers from the central problem of all current sampling-based quantum supremacy experiments, namely the exponential time needed for direct classical verification of the outputs.

August 13, 2025

Jordan EllenbergI’m on the Kirchner podcast!

I knew this was going to be a fun one when the first question was about how I came to use lyrics from the Housemartins in How Not To Be Wrong. No one has ever asked me that before! I resisted the urge to do a whole hour of 1980s college radio content and instead we actually did talk about math, schooliness, AI, etc. Have a listen!

August 11, 2025

Tommaso DorigoSwedish Physics Days

On August 13-15 I will attend for the first time to the Swedish Physics Days, an important national event for Swedish physics. This year the congress takes place at Lulea University of Technology, the institute where I am currently spending some time, hosted by the Machine Learning group through a Guest Researcher fellowship granted by WASP (Wallenberg AI, Autonomous Systems and Software Program).

read more

Terence TaoRough numbers between consecutive primes

First things first: due to an abrupt suspension of NSF funding to my home university of UCLA, the Institute of Pure and Applied Mathematics (which had been preliminarily approved for a five-year NSF grant to run the institute) is currently fundraising to ensure continuity of operations during the suspension, with a goal of raising $500,000. Donations can be made at this page. As incoming Director of Special Projects at IPAM, I am grateful for the support (both moral and financial) that we have already received in the last few days, but we are still short of our fundraising goal.

Back to math. Ayla Gafni and I have just uploaded to the arXiv the paper “Rough numbers between consecutive primes“. In this paper we resolve a question of Erdös concerning rough numbers between consecutive gaps, and with the assistance of modern sieve theory calculations, we in fact obtain quite precise asymptotics for the problem. (As a side note, this research was supported by my personal NSF grant which is also currently suspended; I am grateful to recent donations to my own research fund which have helped me complete this research.)

Define a prime gap to be an interval {(p_n, p_{n+1})} between consecutive primes. We say that a prime gap contains a rough number if there is an integer {m \in (p_n,p_{n+1})} whose least prime factor is at least the length {p_{n+1}-p_n} of the gap. For instance, the prime gap {(3,5)} contains the rough number {4}, but the prime gap {(7,11)} does not (all integers between {7} and {11} have a prime factor less than {4}). The first few {n} for which the {n^\mathrm{th}} prime gap contains a rough number are

\displaystyle  2, 3, 5, 7, 10, 13, 15, 17, 20, \dots.

Numerically, the proportion of {n} for which the {n^\mathrm{th}} prime gap does not contain a rough number decays slowly as {n} increases:

Erdös initially thought that all but finitely many prime gaps should contain a rough number, but changed his mind, as per the following quote:

…I am now sure that this is not true and I “almost” have a counterexample. Pillai and Szekeres observed that for every {t \leq 16}, a set of {t} consecutive integers always contains one which is relatively prime to the others. This is false for {t = 17}, the smallest counterexample being {2184, 2185, \dots, 2200}. Consider now the two arithmetic progressions {2183 + d \cdot 2 \cdot 3 \cdot 5 \cdot 7 \cdot 11 \cdot 13} and {2201 + d \cdot 2 \cdot 3 \cdot 5 \cdot 7 \cdot 11 \cdot 13}. There certainly will be infinitely many values of {d} for which the progressions simultaneously represent primes; this follows at once from hypothesis H of Schinzel, but cannot at present be proved. These primes are consecutive and give the required counterexample. I expect that this situation is rather exceptional and that the integers {k} for which there is no {m} satisfying {p_k < m < p_{k+1}} and {p(m) > p_{k+1} - p_k} have density {0}.

In fact Erdös’s observation can be made simpler: any pair of cousin primes {p_{n+1}=p_n+4} for {p_n > 3} (of which {(7,11)} is the first example) will produce a prime gap that does not contain any rough numbers.

The latter question of Erdös is listed as problem #682 on Thomas Bloom’s Erdös problems website. In this paper we answer Erdös’s question, and in fact give a rather precise bound for the number of counterexamples:

Theorem 1 (Erdos #682) For {X>2}, let {N(X)} be the number of prime gaps {(p_n, p_{n+1})} with {p_n \in [X,2X]} that do not contain a rough number. Then

\displaystyle  N(X) \ll \frac{X}{\log^2 X}. \ \ \ \ \ (1)

Assuming the Dickson–Hardy–Littlewood prime tuples conjecture, we can improve this to

\displaystyle  N(X) \sim c \frac{X}{\log^2 X} \ \ \ \ \ (2)

for some (explicitly describable) constant {c>0}.

In fact we believe that {c \approx 2.8}, although the formula we have to compute {c} converges very slowly. This is (weakly) supported by numerical evidence:

While many questions about prime gaps remain open, the theory of rough numbers is much better understood, thanks to modern sieve theoretic tools such as the fundamental lemma of sieve theory. The main idea is to frame the problem in terms of counting the number of rough numbers in short intervals {[x,x+H]}, where {x} ranges in some dyadic interval {[X,2X]} and {H} is a much smaller quantity, such as {H = \log^\alpha X} for some {0 < \alpha < 1}. Here, one has to tweak the definition of “rough” to mean “no prime factors less than {z}” for some intermediate {z} (e.g., {z = \exp(\log^\beta X)} for some {0 < \beta < \alpha} turns out to be a reasonable choice). These problems are very analogous to the extremely well studied problem of counting primes in short intervals, but one can make more progress without needing powerful conjectures such as the Hardy–Littlewood prime tuples conjecture. In particular, because of the fundamental lemma of sieve theory, one can compute the mean and variance (i.e., the first two moments) of such counts to high accuracy, using in particular some calculations on the mean values of singular series that go back at least to the work of Montgomery from 1970. This second moment analysis turns out to be enough (after optimizing all the parameters) to answer Erdös’s problem with a weaker bound

\displaystyle  N(X) \ll \frac{X}{\log^{4/3-o(1)} X}.

To do better, we need to work with higher moments. The fundamental lemma also works in this setting; one now needs precise asymptotics for the mean value of singular series of {k}-tuples, but this was fortunately worked out (in more or less exactly the format we needed) by Montgomery and Soundararajan in 2004. Their focus was establishing a central limit theorem for the distribution of primes in short intervals (conditional on the prime tuples conjecture), but their analysis can be adapted to show (unconditionally) good concentration of measure results for rough numbers in short intervals. A direct application of their estimates improves the upper bound on {N(X)} to

\displaystyle  N(X) \ll \frac{X}{\log^{2-o(1)} X}

and some more careful tweaking of parameters allows one to remove the {o(1)} error. This latter analysis reveals that in fact the dominant contribution to {N(X)} will come with prime gaps of bounded length, of which our understanding is still relatively poor (it was only in 2014 that Yitang Zhang famously showed that infinitely many such gaps exist). At this point we finally have to resort to (a Dickson-type form of) the prime tuples conjecture to get the asymptotic (2).

John PreskillNicole’s guide to writing research statements

Sunflowers are blooming, stores are trumpeting back-to-school sales, and professors are scrambling to chart out the courses they planned to develop in July. If you’re applying for an academic job this fall, now is the time to get your application ducks in a row. Seeking a postdoctoral or faculty position? Your applications will center on research statements. Often, a research statement describes your accomplishments and sketches your research plans. What do evaluators look for in such documents? Here’s my advice, which targets postdoctoral fellowships and faculty positions, especially for theoretical physicists.

  • Keep your audience in mind. Will a quantum information theorist, a quantum scientist, a general physicist, a general scientist, or a general academic evaluate your statement? What do they care about? What technical language do and don’t they understand?
  • What thread unites all the projects you’ve undertaken? Don’t walk through your research history chronologically, stepping from project to project. Cast the key projects in the form of a story—a research program. What vision underlies the program?
  • Here’s what I want to see when I read a description of a completed project.
    • The motivation for the project: This point ensures that the reader will care enough to read the rest of the description.
    • Crucial background information
    • The physical setup
    • A statement of the problem
    • Why the problem is difficult or, if relevant, how long the problem has remained open
    • Which mathematical toolkit you used to solve the problem or which conceptual insight unlocked the solution
    • Which technical or conceptual contribution you provided
    • Whom you collaborated with: Wide collaboration can signal a researcher’s maturity. If you collaborated with researchers at other institutions, name the institutions and, if relevant, their home countries. If you led the project, tell me that, too. If you collaborated with a well-known researcher, mentioning their name might help the reader situate your work within the research landscape they know. But avoid name-dropping, which lacks such a pedagogical purpose and which can come across as crude.
    • Your result’s significance/upshot/applications/impact: Has a lab based an experiment on your theoretical proposal? Does your simulation method outperform its competitors by X% in runtime? Has your mathematical toolkit found applications in three subfields of quantum physics? Consider mentioning whether a competitive conference or journal has accepted your results: QIP, STOC, Physical Review Letters, Nature Physics, etc. But such references shouldn’t serve as a crutch in conveying your results’ significance. You’ll impress me most by dazzling me with your physics; name-dropping venues instead can convey arrogance.
  • Not all past projects deserve the same amount of space. Tell a cohesive story. For example, you might detail one project, then synopsize two follow-up projects in two sentences.
  • A research statement must be high-level, because you don’t have space to provide details. Use mostly prose; and communicate intuition, including with simple examples. But sprinkle in math, such as notation that encapsulates a phrase in one concise symbol.
  • A research statement not only describes past projects, but also sketches research plans. Since research covers terra incognita, though, plans might sound impossible. How can you predict the unknown—especially the next five years of the unknown (as required if you’re applying for a faculty position), especially if you’re a theorist? Show that you’ve developed a map and a compass. Sketch the large-scale steps that you anticipate taking. Which mathematical toolkits will you leverage? What major challenge do you anticipate, and how do you hope to overcome it? Let me know if you’ve undertaken preliminary studies. Do numerical experiments support a theorem you conjecture?
  • When I was applying for faculty positions, a mentor told me the following: many a faculty member can identify a result (or constellation of results) that secured them an offer, as well as a result that earned them tenure. Help faculty-hiring committees identify the offer result and the tenure result.
  • Introduce notation before using it. If you use notation and introduce it afterward, the reader will encounter the notation; stop to puzzle over it; tentatively continue; read the introduction of the notation; return to the earlier use of the notation, to understand it; and then continue forward, including by rereading the introduction of the notation. This back-and-forth breaks up the reading process, which should flow smoothly.
  • Avoid verbs that fail to relate that you accomplished anything: “studied,” “investigated,” “worked on,” etc. What did you prove, show, demonstrate, solve, calculate, compute, etc.?

  • Tailor a version of your research statement to every position. Is Fellowship Committee X seeking biophysicists, statistical physicists, mathematical physicists, or interdisciplinary scientists? Also, respect every application’s guidelines about length.
  • If you have room, end the statement with a recap and a statement of significance. Yes, you’ll be repeating ideas mentioned earlier. But your reader’s takeaway hinges on the last text they read. End on a strong note, presenting a coherent vision.

  • Writing is rewriting, a saying goes. Draft your research statement early, solicit feedback from a couple of mentors, edit the draft, and solicit more feedback.

August 09, 2025

Justin WilsonPhases of a Game Show, Part 2

In a previous post, we discussed a phase transition that occurred in the piping above you on a game show. In the scenario, you are led on stage in front of a large audience. After a brief time, the audience votes on how “likeable” you are. The catch is that it doesn’t simply tally the votes, but turns spigots on a lattice of piping above your head. Water is then released and if enough people like you, it closes off the passage, keeping you dry. This exciting game show1 was described in that post:

Each “like” turns a spigot off, stopping water from flowing through one pipe in a grid overhead. Once voting ends, water is dumped into the system. If it can find a path to the bottom, you get soaked. [Emphasis added] The better your “likeability,” the less likely spigots open a path for water to flow and the drier you stay. That’s your prize for this game show (and hey, you also get the knowledge that people out there like you).

This system models a type of phase transition known as percolation.

The full post is here:

I highlighted above a key phrase “If it can find a path to the bottom, you get soaked.” What I didn’t say, but should have is that the water was being forced through the pipes, not just dropping down due to gravity. This is a very important point since our phases and phase transition changes dramatically if we just let gravity do the work. In the case of the water being “forced,” it can travel back up pipes if it helps it find its way out and onto your head, but in the case when only gravity is present, it falls down the pipes. To facilitate gravity, we’ll turn the pipes 45 degrees, and if we insert water at a single point on top, it could look like this:

Testing our gravity setup by putting in water at only one pipe up top. Notice that it never goes back up a pipe, only down.

This setup is a different problem called directed percolation. It also has a phase transition, but one that is different in some fundamental ways from regular percolation.

Thanks for reading Quantum Matters! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Before we explore its stranger properties, we can ask, “At what likability threshold do you remain dry?” Well, this happens to have a transition chance of 35.53%!2 This system is a lot more generous, keeping you dry even when a majority of people dislike you. This number comes from numerical computations which have been done rather precisely, and we can even compute it ourselves. In fact, you can see this clearly with this plot

Notice that as we make the system bigger and bigger, the chance of getting soaked less than 35.53% increases and above it, it decreases. This is the same kind of hallmark of a phase transition as we saw in our previous case.

We can also look at the water as it flows down the system to see the clusters that make it from top to bottom

The “Soaked” phase (left), the transition point (middle), and the “Dry” phase (right) as well as the water’s flow through the system (blue).

There is still a fractal-looking pattern at the transition point. With all of these similarities with the regular percolation problem from the last post, what is different? And why is that plot so long and skinny? If gravity wants to pull you down, is that somehow altering the motion down, making it distinct from the motion left or right?

Well, if you go back to the two plots above, you’ll notice a few things that really make them differ from the percolation plots. In the fine print of the first, I’ve noted that the vertical distance is L1.58, so for a horizontal size of 40, the vertical size is roughly 340! That is definitely not a square. And in the second plot, there appears to be more vertical distance than horizontal distance. What is special about this 1.58 number3? It turns out, it’s a critical exponent in this problem, a universal aspect of directed percolation, that distinguishes it from regular percolation. We will call it z = 1.58 the dynamical critical exponent since it is revealed as water flows down in time (dynamically). This dynamical exponent z can reveal itself by looking at these “long and skinny” setups, but be masked by the square setup.

Universality and the finite size of our system

One thing we took away in the previous post was that we lose any sense of scale at this type of phase transition4. But whenever we have “only” thousands of pipes, the size of the system provides a scale! This is the main reason why we begin to see smooth curves and not sharp jumps in quantities. If the system of pipes were infinite (and we had infinite time for the water to go down the pipes), the probability you get soaked would be 100% less than the 35.53% likeability and 0% more than 35.53% likeability. For physical systems, the finite size is often not a huge issue since the scale is closer to the 1023 atoms present in macroscopic systems, and so even things that are technically smooth curves look very sharp.

The problem of size becomes more severe with directed percolation because horizontal and vertical distances start behaving differently thanks to gravity. In this case, if we lay out our nice grid of 10 × 10, 20 × 20, or 30 × 30, we start to notice that the likeability threshold where you stop getting soaked, seems to depend on the size of the system more than before. In actuality it doesn’t, but for these small sizes, you are definitely getting soaked well into the so-called “Dry Phase” we previously labeled. This is seen in the red curves here where each bigger square has a curve underneath the last:

Gravity has done something to the system. Flowing down is different from flowing left or right. In fact, if we flow down by some amount h and over to the right by some distance w, then at the directed percolation transition point

The amount water flows down is related to how far it flows to the right or left by this weird, fractional power of w. This 1.58 is z, our new dynamical critical exponent, which is a universal feature of directed percolation5. It tells us that if we make a system 30 pipes wide, it should extend roughly 301.58 ≈ 216 pipes in height to begin picking out the phase transition effectively. The blue curves in the above plot show this and notice how they all converge on one point; that point is the phase transition. It is revealed by small sizes! To understand why, just think about how the curves are changing as we make the system bigger and bigger.

The red curves will still converge to the phase transition, but it takes larger system sizes for it to reveal itself. This is related to the property that at the phase transition there is no longer a sense of scale, but away from the transition, the vertical scale of clusters could be so large that our puny 60-by-60 grid cannot even begin to reveal it. So if we sit at say a likeability of 0.4 in the 60-by-60 grid, we can say that the vertical size of a typical cluster is most likely more than 60.

A different phase transition but connections to new types of physics

This “gravity mode” for our game show we may call “easy mode” since it requires less of the audience to like you, but the implications here are wide. This type of phase transition has been seen in many kinds of local dynamics where there is a preferred configuration or state. These called an absorbing state phase transitions, and they are a property of certain random dynamical systems. Gravity has provided the distinction here, but more generically, causality and time itself provide that direction, leading to dynamics that obey the same universality as directed percolation.

1

Trademark pending.

2

Usually, you’ll see 0.6447 quoted instead, but that’s just 1−0.3553, which counts open pipes instead of closed as we’re doing.

3

I should note that we have this number to much higher precision than the two decimal points presented here, see the Wikipedia entry where

4

This is a second-order or continuous phase transition. Most transitions in the water phase diagram are first-order transitions which still retain a scale.

5

To drive this point home: Even if we change the lattice, this power law will remain intact. Sometimes it shows up in completely different scenarios too, like in absorbing state phase transitions.

August 08, 2025

Matt von HippelNewsworthiness Bias

I had a chat about journalism recently, and I had a realization about just how weird science journalism, in particular, is.

Journalists aren’t supposed to be cheerleaders. Journalism and PR have very different goals (which is why I keep those sides of my work separate). A journalist is supposed to be uncompromising, to write the truth even if it paints the source in a bad light.

Norms are built around this. Serious journalistic outlets usually don’t let sources see pieces before they’re published. The source doesn’t have the final say in how they’re portrayed: the journalist reserves the right to surprise them if justified. Investigative journalists can be superstars, digging up damning secrets about the powerful.

When a journalist starts a project, the piece might turn out positive, or negative. A politician might be the best path forward, or a disingenuous grifter. A business might be a great investment opportunity, or a total scam. A popular piece of art might be a triumph, or a disappointment.

And a scientific result?

It might be a fraud, of course. Scientific fraud does exist, and is a real problem. But it’s not common, really. Pick a random scientific paper, filter by papers you might consider reporting on in the first place, and you’re very unlikely to find a fraudulent result. Science journalists occasionally report on spectacularly audacious scientific frauds, or frauds in papers that have already made the headlines. But you don’t expect fraud in the average paper you cover.

It might be scientifically misguided: flawed statistics, a gap in a proof, a misuse of concepts. Journalists aren’t usually equipped to ferret out these issues, though. Instead, this is handled in principle by peer review, and in practice by the scientific community outside of the peer review process.

Instead, for a scientific result, the most common negative judgement isn’t that it’s a lie, or a mistake. It’s that it’s boring.

And certainly, a good science journalist can judge a paper as boring. But there is a key difference between doing that, and judging a politician as crooked or a popular work of art as mediocre. You can write an article about the lying candidate for governor, or the letdown Tarantino movie. But if a scientific result is boring, and nobody else has covered it…then it isn’t newsworthy.

In science, people don’t usually publish their failures, their negative results, their ho-hum obvious conclusions. That fills the literature with only the successes, a phenomenon called publication bias. It also means, though, that scientists try to make their results sound more successful, more important and interesting, than they actually are. Some of the folks fighting the replication crisis have coined a term for this: they call it importance hacking.

The same incentives apply to journalists, especially freelancers. Starting out, it was far from clear that I could make enough to live on. I felt like I had to make every lead count, to find a newsworthy angle on every story idea I could find, because who knew when I would find another one? Over time, I learned to balance that pull better. Now that I’m making most of my income from consulting instead, the pressure has eased almost entirely: there are things I’m tempted to importance-hack for the sake of friends, but nothing that I need to importance-hack to stay in the black.

Doing journalism on the side may be good for me personally at the moment, but it’s not really a model. Much like we need career scientists, even if their work is sometimes boring, we need career journalists, even if they’re sometimes pressured to overhype.

So if we don’t want to incentivize science journalists to be science cheerleaders, what can we do instead?

In science, one way to address publication bias is with pre-registered studies. A scientist sets out what they plan to test, and a journal agrees to publish the result, no matter what it is. You could imagine something like this for science journalism. I once proposed a recurring column where every month I would cover a random paper from arXiv.org, explaining what it meant to accomplish. I get why the idea was turned down, but I still think about it.

In journalism, the arts offer the closest parallel with a different approach. There are many negative reviews of books, movies, and music, and most of them merely accuse the art of being boring, not evil. These exist because they focus on popular works that people pay attention to anyway, so that any negative coverage has someone to convince. You could imagine applying this model to science, though it could be a bit silly. I’m envisioning a journalist who writes an article every time Witten publishes, rating some papers impressive and others disappointing, the same way a music journalist might cover every Taylor Swift album.

Neither of these models are really satisfactory. You could imagine an even more adversarial model, where journalists run around accusing random scientists of wasting the government’s money, but that seems dramatically worse.

So I’m not sure. Science is weird, and hard to accurately value: if we knew how much something mattered already, it would be engineering, not science. Journalism is weird: it’s public-facing research, where the public facing is the whole point. Their combination? Even weirder.

Doug NatelsonBrief items - Static electricity, quantum geometry, Hubbard model, + news

It's been a busy time that has cut into my blogging, but I wanted to point out some links from the past couple of weeks.

  • Physics Today has a cover article this past issue about what is colloquially known as static electricity, but what is more technically described as triboelectricity, the transfer of charge between materials by rubbing.  I just wrote about this six months ago, and the detailed mechanisms remain poorly understood.  Large surface charge densities (like \(10^{12}\) electronic charges per square cm) can be created this way on insulators, leading to potential differences large enough to jump a spark from your finger to the door handle.  This can also lead to static electric fields near surfaces that are not small and can reveal local variations in material properties.
  • That leads right into this paper (which I learned about from here) about the extreme shapes of the heads of a family of insects called treehoppers.  These little crawlies have head and body shapes that often have cuspy, pointy bits that stick out - spines, horns, etc.  As we learn early on about electrostatics, elongated and pointy shapes tend to lead to large local electric fields and field gradients.  The argument of this paper is that the spiky body and cranial morphology can help these insects better sense electric field distributions, and this makes it easier for them to find their way and avoid predators. 
  • This manuscript on the arXiv this week is a particularly nice, pedagogical review article (formatted for Rev Mod Phys) about quantum geometry and Berry curvature in condensed matter systems.  I haven't had the chance to read it through, but I think this will end up being very impactful and a true resource for students to learn about these topics.
  • Another very pretty recent preprint is this one, which examines the electronic phase diagram of twisted bilayers of WSe2, with a relative twist angle of 4.6°.  Much attention has been paid to the idea that moiré lattices can be in a regime seemingly well described by a Hubbard-like model, with an on-site Coulomb repulsion energy \(U\) and an electronic bandwidth \(W\).  This paper shows an exceptionally clean example of this, where disorder seems to be very weak, electron temperatures are quite cold, and phase diagrams are revealed that look remarkably like the phenomena seen in the cuprate superconductors (superconducting "domes" as a function of charge density adjacent to antiferromagnetic insulating states, and with "strange metal" linear-in-\(T\) resistance in the normal state near the superconducting charge density).  Results like this make me more optimistic about overcoming some of the major challenges in using twisted van der Waals materials as simulators of hard-to-solve hamilitonians.
I was all set to post this earlier today, with no awful news for once about science in the US that I felt compelled to discuss, but I got sidetracked by real work.  Then, late this afternoon, this executive order about federal grants was released.  

I can't sugar coat it - it's awful.  Ignoring a large volume of inflammatory rhetoric, it contains this gem, for instance:  "The grant review process itself also undermines the interests of American taxpayers."   It essentially tries to bar any new calls for proposals until a new (and problematic) process is put in place at every agency (see Sect. 3(c)).  Also, it says "All else being equal, preference for discretionary awards should be given to institutions with lower indirect cost rates."  Now, indirect cost rates are set by negotiations between institutions and the government.   Places that only do very small volumes of research have low rates, so get ready for MIT to get fewer grants and Slippery Rock University to get more.  The only certainty is that the nation's lawyers are going to have a field day with all the suits that will come out of this.

August 05, 2025

Jordan EllenbergPredicament

I just learned that the origin of this word is “that which is predicated,” which is to say, more or less, any condition that can be described or specified, whether good, bad, or neutral. Not much different in this respect from the word “situation,” that which is situated. In other words: the present English meaning of “predicament” — “a difficult problem” — must be some kind of fossilization of a now-forgotten euphemistic phrase akin to the current “We have a situation.”

Scott Aaronson ChatGPT and the Meaning of Life: Guest Post by Harvey Lederman

Scott Aaronson’s Brief Foreword:

Harvey Lederman is a distinguished analytic philosopher who moved from Princeton to UT Austin a few years ago. Since his arrival, he’s become one of my best friends among the UT professoriate. He’s my favorite kind of philosopher, the kind who sees scientists as partners in discovering the truth, and also has a great sense of humor. He and I are both involved in UT’s new AI and Human Objectives Initiative (AHOI), which is supported by Open Philanthropy.

The other day, Harvey emailed me an eloquent meditation he wrote on what will be the meaning of life if AI doesn’t kill us all, but “merely” does everything we do better than we do it. While the question is of course now extremely familiar to me, Harvey’s erudition—bringing to bear everything from speculative fiction to the history of polar exploration—somehow brought the stakes home for me in a new way.

Harvey mentioned that he’d sent his essay to major magazines but hadn’t had success. So I said, why not a Shtetl-Optimized guest post? Harvey replied—what might be the highest praise this blog has ever received—well, that would be even better than the national magazine, as it would reach more relevant people.

And so without further ado, I present to you…


ChatGPT and the Meaning of Life, by Harvey Lederman

For the last two and a half years, since the release of ChatGPT, I’ve been suffering from fits of dread. It’s not every minute, or even every day, but maybe once a week, I’m hit by it—slackjawed, staring into the middle distance—frozen by the prospect that someday, maybe pretty soon, everyone will lose their job.

At first, I thought these slackjawed fits were just a phase, a passing thing. I’m a philosophy professor; staring into the middle distance isn’t exactly an unknown disease among my kind. But as the years have begun to pass, and the fits have not, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s something deeper to my dread. Does the coming automation of work foretell, as my fits seem to say, an irreparable loss of value in human life?

The titans of artificial intelligence tell us that there’s nothing to fear. Dario Amodei, CEO of Anthropic, the maker of Claude, suggests that: “historical hunter-gatherer societies might have imagined that life is meaningless without hunting,” and “that our well-fed technological society is devoid of purpose.” But of course, we don’t see our lives that way. Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, sounds so similar, the text could have been written by ChatGPT. Even if the jobs of the future will look as “fake” to us as ours do to “a subsistence farmer”, Altman has “no doubt they will feel incredibly important and satisfying to the people doing them.”

Alongside these optimists, there are plenty of pessimists who, like me, are filled with dread. Pope Leo XIV has decried the threats AI poses to “human dignity, labor and justice”. Bill Gates has written about his fear, that “if we solved big problems like hunger and disease, and the world kept getting more peaceful: What purpose would humans have then?” And Douglas Hofstadter, the computer scientist and author of Gödel, Escher, Bach, has spoken eloquently of his terror and depression at “an oncoming tsunami that is going to catch all of humanity off guard.”

Who should we believe? The optimists with their bright visions of a world without work, or the pessimists who fear the end of a key source of meaning in human life?


I was brought up, maybe like you, to value hard work and achievement. In our house, scientists were heroes, and discoveries grand prizes of life. I was a diligent, obedient kid, and eagerly imbibed what I was taught. I came to feel that one way a person’s life could go well was to make a discovery, to figure something out.

I had the sense already then that geographical discovery was played out. I loved the heroes of the great Polar Age, but I saw them—especially Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott—as the last of their kind. In December 1911, Amundsen reached the South Pole using skis and dogsleds. Scott reached it a month later, in January 1912, after ditching the motorized sleds he’d hoped would help, and man-hauling the rest of the way. As the black dot of Amundsen’s flag came into view on the ice, Scott was devastated to reach this “awful place”, “without the reward of priority”. He would never make it back.

Scott’s motors failed him, but they spelled the end of the great Polar Age. Even Amundsen took to motors on his return: in 1924, he made a failed attempt for the North Pole in a plane, and, in 1926, he successfully flew over it, in a dirigible. Already by then, the skis and dogsleds of the decade before were outdated heroics of a bygone world.

We may be living now in a similar twilight age for human exploration in the realm of ideas. Akshay Venkatesh, whose discoveries earned him the 2018 Fields Medal, mathematics’ highest honor, has written that, the “mechanization of our cognitive processes will alter our understanding of what mathematics is”. Terry Tao, a 2006 Fields Medalist, expects that in just two years AI will be a copilot for working mathematicians. He envisions a future where thousands of theorems are proven all at once by mechanized minds.

Now, I don’t know any more than the next person where our current technology is headed, or how fast. The core of my dread isn’t based on the idea that human redundancy will come in two years rather than twenty, or, for that matter, two hundred. It’s a more abstract dread, if that’s a thing, dread about what it would mean for human values, or anyway my values, if automation “succeeds”: if all mathematics—and, indeed all work—is done by motor, not by human hands and brains.

A world like that wouldn’t be good news for my childhood dreams. Venkatesh and Tao, like Amundsen and Scott, live meaningful lives, lives of purpose. But worthwhile discoveries like theirs are a scarce resource. A territory, once seen, can’t be seen first again. If mechanized minds consume all the empty space on the intellectual map, lives dedicated to discovery won’t be lives that humans can lead.

The right kind of pessimist sees here an important argument for dread. If discovery is valuable in its own right, the loss of discovery could be an irreparable loss for humankind.

A part of me would like this to be true. But over these last strange years, I’ve come to think it’s not. What matters, I now think, isn’t being the first to figure something out, but the consequences of the discovery: the joy the discoverer gets, the understanding itself, or the real life problem their knowledge solves. Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin, and through that work saved thousands, perhaps millions of lives. But if it were to emerge, in the annals of an outlandish future, that an alien discovered penicillin thousands of years before Fleming did, we wouldn’t think that Fleming’s life was worse, just because he wasn’t first. He eliminated great suffering from human life; the alien discoverer, if they’re out there, did not. So, I’ve come to see, it’s not discoveries themselves that matter. It’s what they bring about.


But the advance of automation would mean the end of much more than human discovery. It could mean the end of all necessary work. Already in 1920, the Czech playwright Karel Capek asked what a world like that would mean for the values in human life. In the first act of R.U.R.—the play which introduced the modern use of the word “robot”—Capek has Henry Domin, the manager of Rossum’s Universal Robots (the R.U.R. of the title), offer his corporation’s utopian pitch. “In ten years”, he says, their robots will “produce so much corn, so much cloth, so much everything” that “There will be no poverty.” “Everybody will be free from worry and liberated from the degradation of labor.” The company’s engineer, Alquist, isn’t convinced. Alquist (who, incidentally, ten years later, will be the only human living, when the robots have killed the rest) retorts that “There was something good in service and something great in humility”, “some kind of virtue in toil and weariness”.

Service—work that meets others’ significant needs and wants— is, unlike discovery, clearly good in and of itself. However we work— as nurses, doctors, teachers, therapists, ministers, lawyers, bankers, or, really, anything at all—working to meet others’ needs makes our own lives go well. But, as Capek saw, all such work could disappear. In a “post-instrumental” world, where people are comparatively useless and the bots meet all our important needs, there would be no needed work for us to do, no suffering to eliminate, no diseases to cure. Could the end of such work be a better reason for dread?

The hardline pessimists say that it is. They say that the end all needed work would not only be a loss of some value to humanity, as everyone should agree. For them it would be a loss to humanity on balance, an overall loss, that couldn’t be compensated in another way.

I feel a lot of pull to this pessimistic thought. But once again, I’ve come to think it’s wrong. For one thing, pessimists often overlook just how bad most work actually is. In May 2021, Luo Huazhang, a 31 year-old ex-factory worker in Sichuan wrote a viral post, entitled “Lying Flat is Justice”. Luo had searched at length for a job that, unlike his factory job, would allow him time for himself, but he couldn’t find one. So he quit, biked to Tibet and back, and commenced his lifestyle of lying flat, doing what he pleased, reading philosophy, contemplating the world. The idea struck a chord with overworked young Chinese, who, it emerged, did not find “something great” in their “humility”. The movement inspired memes, selfies flat on one’s back, and even an anthem.

That same year, as the Great Resignation in the United States took off, the subreddit r/antiwork played to similar discontent. Started in 2013, under the motto “Unemployment for all, not only the rich!”, the forum went viral in 2021, starting with a screenshot of a quitting worker’s texts to his supervisor (“No thanks. Have a good life”), and culminating in labor-actions, first supporting striking workers at Kelloggs by spamming their job application site, and then attempting to support a similar strike at McDonald’s. It wasn’t just young Chinese who hated their jobs.

In Automation and Utopia: Human Flourishing in a World without Work, the Irish lawyer and philosopher John Danaher imagines an antiwork techno-utopia, with plenty of room for lying flat. As Danaher puts it: “Work is bad for most people most of the time.”“We should do what we can to hasten the obsolescence of humans in the arena of work.”

The young Karl Marx would have seen both Domin’s and Danaher’s utopias as a catastrophe for human life. In his notebooks from 1844, Marx describes an ornate and almost epic process, where, by meeting the needs of others through production, we come to recognize the other in ourselves, and through that recognition, come at last to self-consciousness, the full actualization of our human nature. The end of needed work, for the Marx of these notes, would be the impossibility of fully realizing our nature, the end, in a way, of humanity itself.

But such pessimistic lamentations have come to seem to me no more than misplaced machismo. Sure, Marx’s and my culture, the ethos of our post-industrial professional class, might make us regret a world without work. But we shouldn’t confuse the way two philosophers were brought up with the fundamental values of human life. What stranger narcissism could there be than bemoaning the end of others’ suffering, disease, and need, just because it deprives you of the chance to be a hero?


The first summer after the release of ChatGPT—the first summer of my fits of dread—I stayed with my in-laws in Val Camonica, a valley in the Italian alps. The houses in their village, Sellero, are empty and getting emptier; the people on the streets are old and getting older. The kids that are left—my wife’s elementary school class had, even then, a full complement of four—often leave for better lives. But my in-laws are connected to this place, to the houses and streets where they grew up. They see the changes too, of course. On the mountains above, the Adamello, Italy’s largest glacier, is retreating faster every year. But while the shows on Netflix change, the same mushrooms appear in the summer, and the same chestnuts are collected in the fall.

Walking in the mountains of Val Camonica that summer, I tried to find parallels for my sense of impending loss. I thought about William Shanks, a British mathematician who calculated π to 707 digits by hand in 1873 (he made a mistake at 527; almost 200 digits were wrong). He later spent years of his life, literally years, on a table of the reciprocals of the primes up to one-hundred and ten thousand, calculating in the morning by hand, and checking it over in the afternoon. That was his life’s work. Just sixty years after his death, though, already in the 1940s, the table on which his precious mornings were spent, the few mornings he had on this earth, could be made by a machine in a day.

I feel sad thinking about Shanks, but I don’t feel grief for the loss of calculation by hand. The invention of the typewriter, and the death of handwritten notes seemed closer to the loss I imagined we might feel. Handwriting was once a part of your style, a part of who you were. With its decline some artistry, a deep and personal form of expression, may be lost. When the bots help with everything we write, couldn’t we too lose our style and voice?

But more than anything I thought of what I saw around me: the slow death of the dialects of Val Camonica and the culture they express. Chestnuts were at one time so important for nutrition here, that in the village of Paspardo, a street lined with chestnut trees is called “bread street” (“Via del Pane”). The hyper-local dialects of the valley, outgrowths sometimes of a single family’s inside jokes, have words for all the phases of the chestnut. There’s a porridge made from chestnut flour that, in Sellero goes by ‘skelt’, but is ‘pult’ in Paspardo, a cousin of ‘migole’ in Malonno, just a few villages away. Boiled, chestnuts are tetighe; dried on a grat, biline or bascocc, which, seasoned and boiled become broalade. The dialects don’t just record what people eat and ate; they recall how they lived, what they saw, and where they went. Behind Sellero, every hundred-yard stretch of the walk up to the cabins where the cows were taken to graze in summer, has its own name. Aiva Codaola. Quarsanac. Coran. Spi. Ruc.

But the young people don’t speak the dialect anymore. They go up to the cabins by car, too fast to name the places along the way. They can’t remember a time when the cows were taken up to graze. Some even buy chestnuts in the store.

Grief, you don’t need me to tell you, is a complicated beast. You can grieve for something even when you know that, on balance, it’s good that it’s gone. The death of these dialects, of the stories told on summer nights in the mountains with the cows, is a loss reasonably grieved. But you don’t hear the kids wishing more people would be forced to stay or speak this funny-sounding tongue. You don’t even hear the old folks wishing they could go back fifty years—in those days it wasn’t so easy to be sure of a meal. For many, it’s better this way, not the best it could be, but still better, even as they grieve what they stand to lose and what they’ve already lost.

The grief I feel, imagining a world without needed work, seems closest to this kind of loss. A future without work could be much better than ours, overall. But, living in that world, or watching as our old ways passed away, we might still reasonably grieve the loss of the work that once was part of who we were.


In the last chapter of Edith Wharton’s Age of Innocence, Newland Archer contemplates a world that has changed dramatically since, thirty years earlier, before these new fangled telephones and five-day trans-Atlantic ships, he renounced the love of his life. Awaiting a meeting that his free-minded son Dallas has organized with Ellen Olenska, the woman Newland once loved, he wonders whether his son, and this whole new age, can really love the way he did and does. How could their hearts beat like his, when they’re always so sure of getting what they want?

There have always been things to grieve about getting old. But modern technology has given us new ways of coming to be out of date. A generation born in 1910 did their laundry in Sellero’s public fountains. They watched their grandkids grow up with washing machines at home. As kids, my in-laws worked with their families to dry the hay by hand. They now know, abstractly, that it can all be done by machine. Alongside newfound health and ease, these changes brought, as well, a mix of bitterness and grief: grief for the loss of gossip at the fountains or picnics while bringing in the hay; and also bitterness, because the kids these days just have no idea how easy they have it now.

As I look forward to the glories that, if the world doesn’t end, my grandkids might enjoy, I too feel prospective bitterness and prospective grief. There’s grief, in advance, for what we now have that they’ll have lost: the formal manners of my grandparents they’ll never know, the cars they’ll never learn to drive, and the glaciers that will be long gone before they’re born. But I also feel bitter about what we’ve been through that they won’t have to endure: small things like folding the laundry, standing in security lines or taking out the trash, but big ones too—the diseases which will take our loved ones that they’ll know how to cure.

All this is a normal part of getting old in the modern world. But the changes we see could be much faster and grander in scale. Amodei of Anthropic speculates that a century of technological change could be compressed into the next decade, or less. Perhaps it’s just hype, but—what if it’s not? It’s one thing for a person to adjust, over a full life, to the washing machine, the dishwasher, the air-conditioner, one by one. It’s another, in five years, to experience the progress of a century. Will I see a day when childbirth is a thing of the past? What about sleep? Will our ‘descendants’ have bodies at all?

And this round of automation could also lead to unemployment unlike any our grandparents saw. Worse, those of us working now might be especially vulnerable to this loss. Our culture, or anyway mine—professional America of the early 21st century—has apotheosized work, turning it into a central part of who we are. Where others have a sense of place—their particular mountains and trees—we’ve come to locate ourselves with professional attainment, with particular degrees and jobs. For us, ‘workists’ that so many of us have become, technological displacement wouldn’t just be the loss of our jobs. It would be the loss of a central way we have of making sense of our lives.

None of this will be a problem for the new generation, for our kids. They’ll know how to live in a world that could be—if things go well—far better overall. But I don’t know if I’d be able to adapt. Intellectual argument, however strong, is weak against the habits of years. I fear they’d look at me, stuck in my old ways, with the same uncomprehending look that Dallas Archer gives his dad, when Newland announces that he won’t go see Ellen Olenska, the love of his life, after all. “Say”, as Newland tries to explain to his dumbfounded son, “that I’m old fashioned, that’s enough.”


And yet, the core of my dread is not about aging out of work before my time. I feel closest to Douglas Hofstadter, the author of Gödel, Escher, Bach. His dread, like mine, isn’t only about the loss of work today, or the possibility that we’ll be killed off by the bots. He fears that even a gentle superintelligence will be “as incomprehensible to us as we are to cockroaches.”

Today, I feel part of our grand human projects—the advancement of knowledge, the creation of art, the effort to make the world a better place. I’m not in any way a star player on the team. My own work is off in a little backwater of human thought. And I can’t understand all the details of the big moves by the real stars. But even so, I understand enough of our collective work to feel, in some small way, part of our joint effort. All that will change. If I were to be transported to the brilliant future of the bots, I wouldn’t understand them or their work enough to feel part of the grand projects of their day. Their work would have become, to me, as alien as ours is to a roach.


But I’m still persuaded that the hardline pessimists are wrong. Work is far from the most important value in our lives. A post-instrumental world could be full of much more important goods— from rich love of family and friends, to new undreamt of works of art—which would more than compensate the loss of value from the loss of our work.

Of course, even the values that do persist may be transformed in almost unrecognizable ways. In Deep Utopia: Life and Meaning in a Solved World, the futurist and philosopher Nick Bostrom imagines how things might look. In one of the most memorable sections of the book—right up there with an epistolary novella about the exploits of Pignolius the pig (no joke!)—Bostrom says that even child-rearing may be something that we, if we love our children, would come to forego. In a truly post-instrumental world, a robot intelligence could do better for your child, not only in teaching the child to read, but also in showing unbreakable patience and care. If you’ll snap at your kid, when the robot would not, it would only be selfishness for you to get in the way.

It’s a hard question whether Bostrom is right. At least some of the work of care isn’t like eliminating suffering or ending mortal disease. The needs or wants are small-scale stuff, and the value we get from helping each other might well outweigh the fact that we’d do it worse than a robot could.

But even supposing Bostrom is right about his version of things, and we wouldn’t express our love by changing diapers, we could still love each other. And together with our loved ones and friends, we’d have great wonders to enjoy. Wharton has Newland Archer wonder at five-day transatlantic ships. But what about five day journeys to Mars? These days, it’s a big deal if you see the view from Everest with your own eyes. But Olympus Mons on Mars is more than twice as tall.

And it’s not just geographical tourism that could have a far expanded range. There’d be new journeys of the spirit as well. No humans would be among the great writers or sculptors of the day, but the fabulous works of art a superintelligence could make could help to fill our lives. Really, for almost any aesthetic value you now enjoy—sentimental or austere, minute or magnificent, meaningful or jocular—the bots would do it much better than we have ever done.

Humans could still have meaningful projects, too. In 1976, about a decade before any of Altman, Amodei or even I were born, the Canadian philosopher Bernhard Suits argued that “voluntary attempts to overcome unnecessary obstacles” could give people a sense of purpose in a post-instrumental world. Suits calls these “games”, but the name is misleading; I prefer “artificial projects”. The projects include things we would call games like chess, checkers and bridge, but also things we wouldn’t think of as games at all, like Amundsen’s and Scott’s exploits to the Pole. Whatever we call them, Suits—who’s followed here explicitly by Danaher, the antiwork utopian and, implicitly, by Altman and Amodei—is surely right: even as things are now, we get a lot of value from projects we choose, whether or not they meet a need. We learn to play a piece on the piano, train to run a marathon, or even fly to Antartica to “ski the last degree” to the Pole. Why couldn’t projects like these become the backbone of purpose in our lives?

And we could have one real purpose, beyond the artificial ones, as well. There is at least one job that no machine can take away: the work of self-fashioning, the task of becoming and being ourselves. There’s an aesthetic accomplishment in creating your character, an artistry of choice and chance in making yourself who you are. This personal style includes not just wardrobe or tattoos, not just your choice of silverware or car, but your whole way of being, your brand of patience, modesty, humor, rage, hobbies and tastes. Creating this work of art could give some of us something more to live for.


Would a world like that leave any space for human intellectual achievement, the stuff of my childhood dreams? The Buddhist Pali Canon says that “All conditioned things are impermanent—when one sees this with wisdom, one turns away from suffering.” Apparently, in this text, the intellectual achievement of understanding gives us a path out of suffering. To arrive at this goal, you don’t have to be the first to plant your flag on what you’ve understood; you just have to get there.

A secular version of this idea might hold, more simply, that some knowledge or understanding is good in itself. Maybe understanding the mechanics of penicillin matters mainly because of what it enabled Fleming and others to do. But understanding truths about the nature of our existence, or even mathematics, could be different. That sort of understanding plausibly is good in its own right, even if someone or something has gotten there first.

Venkatesh the Fields Medalist seems to suggest something like this for the future of math. Perhaps we’ll change our understanding of the discipline, so that it’s not about getting the answers, but instead about human understanding, the artistry of it perhaps, or the miracle of the special kind of certainty that proof provides.

Philosophy, my subject, might seem an even more promising place for this idea. For some, philosophy is a “way of life”. The aim isn’t necessarily an answer, but constant self-examination for its own sake. If that’s the point, then in the new world of lying flat, there could be a lot of philosophy to do.

I don’t myself accept this way of seeing things. For me, philosophy aims at the truth as much as physics does. But I of course agree that there are some truths that it’s good for us to understand, whether or not we get there first. And there could be other parts of philosophy that survive for us, as well. We need to weigh the arguments for ourselves, and make up our own minds, even if the work of finding new arguments comes to belong to a machine.

I’m willing to believe, and even hope that future people will pursue knowledge and understanding in this way. But I don’t find, here, much consolation for my personal grief. I was trained to produce knowledge, not merely to acquire it. In the hours when I’m not teaching or preparing to teach, my job is to discover the truth. The values I imbibed—and I told you I was an obedient kid—held that the prize goes for priority.

Thinking of this world where all we learn is what the bots have discovered first, I feel sympathy with Lee Sedol, the champion Go player who retired after his defeat by Google’s AlphaZero in 2016. For him, losing to AI “in a sense, meant my entire world was collapsing”. “Even if I become the number one, there is an entity that cannot be defeated.” Right or wrong, I would feel the same about my work, in a world with an automated philosophical champ.

But Sedol and I are likely just out of date models, with values that a future culture will rightly revise. It’s been more than twenty years since Garry Kasparov lost to IBM’s Deep Blue, but chess has never been more popular. And this doesn’t seem some new-fangled twist of the internet age. I know of no human who quit the high-jump after the invention of mechanical flight. The Greeks sprinted in their Olympics, though they had, long before, domesticated the horse. Maybe we too will come to value the sport of understanding with our own brains.


Frankenstein, Mary Shelley’s 1818 classic of the creations-kill-creator genre, begins with an expedition to the North Pole. Robert Walton hopes to put himself in the annals of science and claim the Pole for England, when he comes upon Victor Frankenstein, floating in the Arctic Sea. It’s only once Frankenstein warms up, that we get into the story everyone knows. Victor hopes he can persuade Walton to turn around, by describing how his own quest for knowledge and glory went south.

Frankenstein doesn’t offer Walton an alternative way of life, a guide for living without grand goals. And I doubt Walton would have been any more personally consoled by the glories of a post-instrumental future than I am. I ended up a philosopher, but I was raised by parents who, maybe like yours, hoped for doctors or lawyers. They saw our purpose in answering real needs, in, as they’d say, contributing to society. Lives devoted to families and friends, fantastic art and games could fill a wondrous future, a world far better than it has ever been. But those aren’t lives that Walton or I, or our parents for that matter, would know how to be proud of. It’s just not the way we were brought up.

For the moment, of course, we’re not exactly short on things to do. The world is full of grisly suffering, sickness, starvation, violence, and need. Frankenstein is often remembered with the moral that thirst for knowledge brings ruination, that scientific curiosity killed the cat. But Victor Frankenstein makes a lot of mistakes other than making his monster. His revulsion at his creation persistently prevents him, almost inexplicably, from feeling the love or just plain empathy that any father should. On top of all we have to do to help each other, we have a lot of work to do, in engineering as much as empathy, if we hope to avoid Frankenstein’s fate.

But even with these tasks before us, my fits of dread are here to stay. I know that the post-instrumental world could be a much better place. But its coming means the death of my culture, the end of my way of life. My fear and grief about this loss won’t disappear because of some choice consolatory words. But I know how to relish the twilight too. I feel lucky to live in a time where people have something to do, and the exploits around me seem more poignant, and more beautiful, in the dusk. We may be some of the last to enjoy this brief spell, before all exploration, all discovery, is done by fully automated sleds.

n-Category Café (BT) Diversity from (LC) Diversity

Guest post by Mark Meckes

Around 2010, in papers that both appeared in print in 2012, two different mathematical notions were introduced and given the name “diversity”.

One, introduced by Tom Leinster and Christina Cobbold, is already familiar to regular readers of this blog. Say XX is a finite set, and for each x,yXx,y \in X we have a number Z(x,y)=Z(y,x)[0,1]Z(x,y) = Z(y,x) \in [0,1] that specifies how “similar” xx and yy are. (Typically we also assume Z(x,x)=1Z(x,x) = 1.) Fix a parameter q[0,]q \in [0,\infty]. If pp is a probability distribution on XX, then the quantity D q Z(p)=( xsupp(p)( ysupp(p)Z(x,y)p(y)) q1p(x)) 1/(1q) D_q^Z(p) = \left(\sum_{x\in supp(p)} \left( \sum_{y\in supp(p)} Z(x,y) p(y)\right)^{q-1} p(x)\right)^{1/(1-q)} (with the cases q=1,q=1,\infty defined by taking limits) can be interpreted as the “effective number of points” in XX, taking into account both the similarities between points as quantified by ZZ and the weights specified by pp. Its logarithm logD q Z(p)\log D_q^Z(p) is a refinement of the qq-Rényi entropy of pp. The main motivating example is when XX is a set of species of organisms present in an ecosystem, and D q Z(p)D_q^Z(p) quantifies the “effective number of species” in XX, accounting for both similarities between species and their relative abundances. This family of quantities turns out to subsume many of the diversity measures previously introduced in the theoretical ecology literature, and they are now often referred to as Leinster–Cobbold diversities.

The parameter qq determines how much D q Z(p)D_q^Z(p) counts the very “rare” points (those for which p(x)p(x) is very small). An interesting question from an ecological point of view is, given XX and ZZ, which probability distribution pp maximizes the diversity D q Z(p)D_q^Z(p)? It turns out that the answer is independent of qq. Moreover, if XX is a metric space and Z(x,y)=e d(x,y)Z(x,y) = e^{-d(x,y)}, this maximum diversity D(X):=max pD q Z(p) D(X) := \max_p D_q^Z(p) is an isometric invariant closely related to the magnitude of XX. It also extends in a natural way to compact metric spaces.

Independently, David Bryant and Paul Tupper defined a diversity on a set XX to be a [0,)[0,\infty)-valued function δ\delta on the finite subsets of XX which satisfies:

  • δ(A)=0\delta(A) = 0 if AA has at most one element, and

  • δ(AB)δ(AC)+δ(CB)\delta(A\cup B) \le \delta(A \cup C) + \delta(C \cup B) whenever CC \neq \emptyset.

I will refer to a diversity in this sense as a BT diversity. If δ\delta were defined only on sets with at most two elements, this would amount to the definition of a metric. In fact, if dd is a metric on XX, then δ(A)=diam(A):=max a,bAd(a,b) \delta(A) = diam (A) := \max_{a,b \in A} d(a,b) defines a BT diversity on XX, so BT diversities are actually a generalization of metrics.

Here as well, the motivation for the name “diversity” comes from an example in theoretical ecology: suppose XX is a set of species in a phylogenetic tree TT. Define δ(A)\delta(A) to be the length of the smallest subtree of TT containing AA. Then δ\delta is a BT diversity, known in the literature as phylogenetic diversity. However, just as with the maximum diversity discussed above, most of the subsequent work on BT diversities has focused on geometric examples.

So we now have two seemingly quite different geometric notions, introduced about the same time, going by strikingly similar names for conceptually similar reasons. One can’t help wondering, do they have something to do with each other? In particular, could maximum (LC) diversity be an example of a BT diversity?

In a new paper with Gautam Ashwarya, Dongbin Li, and Mokshay Madiman, we show that, after a minor tweak, maximum diversity does give rise to a BT diversity. The minor tweak is necessary to handle the first condition in the definition of BT diversity: if XX is a metric space and xXx \in X, it’s easy to check that D({x})=1D(\{x\}) = 1, whereas a BT diversity must satisfy δ({x})=0\delta(\{x\}) = 0. This can be dealt with in the simplest imaginable way:

Theorem 1 Let XX be a metric space. For each nonempty finite AXA \subseteq X set δ(A)=D(A)1\delta(A) = D(A) - 1, and define also δ()=0\delta(\emptyset) = 0. Then δ\delta is a BT diversity on XX.

(In the paper itself, we adopt the term complexity when referring to the quantities logD q Z(p)\log D_q^Z(p) and logD(X)\log D(X), and state most of the results in terms of complexity instead of maximum diversity; we further deduce from Theorem 1 that the complexity logD(X)log D(X) is also a BT diversity. This terminology is used partly to cut down on the potential confusion created by using “diversity” in multiple ways. It also alludes to the relationship between logD q Z(p)\log D_q^Z(p) and Rényi entropy, which is widely understood as a measure of “complexity”. Further connections between LC complexity and Rényi entropy are the subject of forthcoming work that I hope to be able to tell you more about soon! But for the remainder of this blog post I’ll stick to the maximum diversity formulation.)

Interestingly, maximum diversity has some properties that are quite nice and natural, but turn out to make it intriguingly different from the heretofore most thoroughly studied BT diversities. For example, D=1+δD = 1 + \delta has the following subadditivity property, which is not shared by the functional 1+diam1 + diam:

Theorem 2 Let XX be a metric space, and let A 1,,A nXA_1, \ldots, A_n \subseteq X be compact subsets. Then D( i=1 nA i) i=1 nD(A i). D\left(\bigcup_{i=1}^n A_i \right) \le \sum_{i=1}^n D(A_i).

Maximum diversity actually satisfies a much stronger property called fractional subadditivity, which arises naturally in inequalities for entropy. Another special case of fractional subadditivity is the following.

Theorem 3 Let X={x 1,,x n}X = \{x_1, \ldots, x_n\} be a finite metric space. Then D(X)n1n i=1 nD(X{x i})n1. \frac{D(X)}{n} \le \frac{1}{n} \sum_{i=1}^n \frac{D(X \setminus \{x_i\})}{n-1}.

Theorem 3 can be interpreted as saying that the “complexity per element” of XX is at most the average complexity per element of a randomly chosen subset of cardinality n1n-1. This captures the natural intuition that as the size of a metric space increases, its complexity per element decreases.

In the setting of n\mathbb{R}^n, many examples of BT diversities are homogeneous, in the sense that δ(λA)=λδ(A)\delta(\lambda A) = \lambda \delta(A) for all λ0\lambda \ge 0 and nonempty finite A nA \subseteq \mathbb{R}^n, and either sublinear, meaning homogeneous and also satisfying δ(A+B)δ(A)+δ(B), \delta(A + B) \le \delta(A) + \delta(B), or else linear, where we have equality in the condition above. For example, the diameter is a sublinear diversity. (Diversities with these properties are the focus of a recent work by Bryant and Tupper.)

By contrast, maximum diversity has no simple homogeneity property; in fact its complex behavior with respect to scaling is part of what gives it such rich geometric interest. And at least in one dimension, the diversity δ=logD\delta = \log D satisfies the following superlinearity properties.

Theorem 4 Let δ\delta be the diversity δ=logD\delta = \log D defined on compact subsets of \mathbb{R}. Then δ(A+B)δ(A)+δ(B) \delta(A + B) \ge \delta(A) + \delta(B) and δ(λA+(1λ)B)λδ(A)+(1λ)δ(B) \delta(\lambda A + (1-\lambda)B) \ge \lambda \delta(A) + (1-\lambda) \delta(B) for every 0λ10 \le \lambda \le 1 and nonempty compact A,BA,B \subseteq \mathbb{R}.

The first inequality in Theorem 4 can be regarded as a generalization of the Cauchy–Davenport inequality in \mathbb{R}, and the second as a version of the Brunn–Minkowski inequality in \mathbb{R}. (In fact, since Lebesgue measure can be recovered from maximum diversity, it implies the Brunn–Minkowski inequality in \mathbb{R}.) It is an open question, for which we know some partial results, whether Theorem 4 can be extended to higher dimensions.

In conclusion, our results make (at least) the following points:

  • The seemingly independent mathematical notions of diversity introduced by Leinster and Cobbold on the one hand, and Bryant and Tupper on the other hand, are actually closely connected.

  • Maximum diversity, in the sense of LC diversities, leads to a geometrically interesting example of a BT diversity whose behavior is quite different from many of the previously studied examples of BT diversities.

  • Maximum diversity, at least in certain contexts, satisfies a number of inequalities which extend important classical inequalities, and it would be especially interesting to push this line of inquiry further.

Please read the paper itself for more detail and other remarks (it’s short!).

August 04, 2025

Clifford JohnsonHarvest

There’s a lot of joyful knife-work in my future. #bolognese #summersalad –cvj

The post Harvest appeared first on Asymptotia.

August 02, 2025

n-Category Café Jack Morava

Today I heard from David Benson that Jack Morava died yesterday. This comes as such a huge shock that I can’t help but hope Benson was somehow misinformed. Morava has been posting comments to the n-Café and sending emails to me even very recently.

This is all I know, now.

August 01, 2025

Jordan EllenbergJohn O’Hara, “Wise Guy”

The story opens:

Most of the people in the damn place were hacking away at their disgusting lunch, but I was still drinking Martinis and sitting alone in this thing that I guess could be called a booth, although it wasn’t even the height of my shoulder….. Those that came in together would blab-blab about what they were going to drink, and then, when they would order their drinks, they would have the same things they always had. Those that came in by themselves would light their silly cigarettes and bore the bartender with their phony politeness, just to prove to anybody at all that they knew the bartender.

This reads pretty differently than most of the stories in the anthology I’m reading (Hellbox). I would imagine that anybody who reads mid-20c American fiction would have the same reaction I did to this scene of a man drinking alone in New York, moodily hating all the chatty phonies within earshot — oh, this is a Catcher in the Rye imitation thing. But “Wise Guy” was published in the New Yorker on May 18, 1945 — Salinger’s first story in Caulfield’s voice, “I’m Crazy,” doesn’t come out until December.

I don’t think Salinger was imitating O’Hara. My sense is that the germ of Catcher in the Rye already existed for Salinger during the war.

But even if he was — I mean, the O’Hara is fine, but you go back and look at any of Catcher-era Salinger and it’s like nothing else. Yes, superficially, it’s cranky like this O’Hara passage but every sentence sings with life, joyous despite itself.

Matt von HippelMicrodosing Vibe Physics

Have you heard of “vibe physics”?

The phrase “vibe coding” came first. People have been using large language models like ChatGPT to write computer code (and not the way I did last year). They chat with the model, describing what they want to do and asking the model to code it up. You can guess the arguments around this, from people who are convinced AI is already better than a human programmer to people sure the code will be riddled with errors and vulnerabilities.

Now, there are people claiming not only to do vibe coding, but vibe physics: doing theoretical physics by chatting with an AI.

I think we can all agree that’s a lot less plausible. Some of the people who do vibe coding actually know how to code, but I haven’t seen anyone claiming to do vibe physics who actually understands physics. They’re tech entrepreneurs in the most prominent cases, random people on the internet otherwise. And while a lot of computer code is a minor tweak on something someone has already done, theoretical physics doesn’t work that way: if someone has already come up with your idea, you’re an educator, not a physicist.

Still, I think there is something to keep in mind about the idea of “vibe physics”, related to where physics comes from.

Here’s a question to start with: go back a bit before the current chat-bot boom. There were a ton of other computational and mathematical tools. Theorem-proving software could encode almost arbitrary mathematical statements in computer code and guarantee their accuracy. Statistical concepts like Bayes’ rule described how to reason from evidence to conclusions, not flawlessly but as well as anyone reliably can. We had computer simulations for a wealth of physical phenomena, and approximation schemes for many others.

With all those tools, why did we still have human physicists?

That is, go back before ChatGPT, before large language models. Why not just code up a program that starts with the evidence and checks which mathematical model fits it best?

In principle, I think you really could have done that. But you could never run that program. It would take too long.

Doing science 100% correctly and reliably is agonizingly slow, and prohibitively expensive. You cannot check every possible model, nor can you check those models against all the available data. You must simplify your problem, somehow, even if it makes your work less reliable, and sometimes incorrect.

And for most of history, humans have provided that simplification.

A physicist isn’t going to consider every possible model. They’re going to consider models that are similar to models they studied, or similar to models others propose. They aren’t going to consider all the evidence. They’ll look at some of the evidence, the evidence other physicists are talking about and puzzled by. They won’t simulate the consequences of their hypotheses in exhaustive detail. Instead, they’ll guess, based on their own experience, a calculation that captures what they expect to be relevant.

Human physicists provided the unreliable part of physics, the heuristics. The “vibe physics”, if you will.

AI is also unreliable, also heuristic. But humans still do this better than AI.

Part of the difference is specificity. These AIs are trained on all of human language, and then perhaps fine-tuned on a general class of problems. A human expert has spent their life fine-tuning on one specific type of problem, and their intuitions, their heuristics, their lazy associations and vibes, all will be especially well-suited to problems of that type.

Another part of the difference, though, is scale.

When you talk to ChatGPT, it follows its vibes into paragraphs of text. If you turn on reasoning features, you make it check its work in the background, but it still is generating words upon words inside, evaluating those words, then generating more.

I suspect, for a physicist, the “control loop” is much tighter. Many potential ideas get ruled out a few words in. Many aren’t even expressed in words at all, just concepts. A human physicist is ultimately driven by vibes, but they check and verify those vibes, based on their experience, at a much higher frequency than any current AI system can achieve.

(I know almost nothing about neuroscience. I’m just basing this on what it can feel like, to grope through a sentence and have it assemble itself as it goes into something correct, rather than having to go back and edit it.)

As companies get access to bigger datacenters, I suspect they’ll try to make this loop tighter, to get AI to do something closer to what (I suspect, it appears) humans do. And then maybe AI will be able to do vibe physics.

Even then, though, you should not do vibe physics with the AI.

If you look at the way people describe doing vibe physics, they’re not using the AI for the vibes. They’re providing the vibes, and the AI is supposed to check things.

And that, I can confidently say, is completely ass-backwards. The AI is a vibe machine, it is great at vibes. Substituting your vibes will just make it worse. On the other hand, the AI is awful at checking things. It can find published papers sometimes, which can help you check something. But it is not set up to do the math, at least not unless the math can be phrased as a simple Python script or an IMO problem. In order to do anything like that, it has to call another type of software to verify. And you could have just used that software.

Theoretical physics is still not something everyone can do. Proposing a crackpot theory based on a few papers you found on Google and a couple YouTube videos may make you feel less confident than proposing a crackpot theory based on praise from ChatGPT and a list of papers it claims have something to do with your idea, which makes it more tempting. But it’s still proposing a crackpot theory. If you want to get involved, there’s still no substitute for actually learning how physics works.

Scott Aaronson Quantum Complexity Theory Student Project Showcase #5 (2025 Edition)!

Sorry for the long blog-hiatus! I was completely occupied for weeks, teaching an intensive course on theoretical computer science to 11-year-olds (!), at a math camp in St. Louis that was also attended by my 8-year-old son. Soon I’ll accompany my 12-year-old daughter to a science camp in Connecticut, where I’ll also give lectures.

There’s a great deal to say about these experiences, but for now: it’s been utterly transformative and life-affirming to spend my days in teaching precocious, enthusiastic, non-jaded children the material I love in the real world, rather than (let’s say) in scrolling through depressing world news and social media posts and emails from hateful trolls on my phone. It’s made me feel 25 years younger (well, at least until I need to walk up a flight of stairs). It’s made me want to go back to actual research and teaching, which besides family and friends have been the main sources of joy in my life.


So on that note, and without further ado: I hereby present the latest Quantum Complexity Theory Student Project Showcase! As the name suggests, this is where I share a selection of the best research projects, from the students who took my graduate class on Quantum Complexity Theory at UT Austin this past spring.

See here for the four previous iterations of the Showcase:

(As you can see, the timing hasn’t been 100% consistent.)

I expect that, as in past editions, many of this year’s projects will lead to published research papers, or at the very least, preprints on the arXiv.


And now, really without further ado, the projects!

(1) Quantum Hermite Transform and Gaussian Goldreich-Levin, by Vishnu Iyer and Siddhartha Jain.

Vishnu and Sid propose a new primitive for quantum algorithms—the Hermite transform, as opposed to the Fourier transform—and give at least one successful example of its use. They’d be eager to know if anyone can think of other applications!

(2) Quantum Statistical Witness Indistinguishability, by Shafik Nassar and Ronak Ramachandran.

In modern cryptography, even if it isn’t statistical zero-knowledge (SZK), a proof protocol might have the weaker property of being statistically witness-indistinguishable (SWI): that is, Arthur can’t tell which of two possible yes-witnesses Merlin holds. Here Shafik and Ronak initiate the study of quantum SWI, and prove the basic properties of this notion, such as the equivalence of honest and dishonest verifier. Hopefully this will serve as a springboard for someone to find an actual QSWI protocol for an interesting problem.

(3) A Zero-Knowledge Protocol for Keyed Unitary Families, by David Joy and Angela Zhang.

Continuing the theme of quantum zero-knowledge, David and Angela give a protocol by which Merlin can convince Arthur that he knows a unitary relating one pure state to another, without revealing the unitary. Again continuing a theme, applications of this protocol are sought!

(4) On Query Lower Bounds for Aaronson-Kuperberg Unitary Synthesis Circuits, by Arko Banerjee.

Back in 2006, when we formulated our so-called “Unitary Synthesis Conjecture,” Greg Kuperberg and I showed that if a quantum algorithm applies an n-qubit unitary U(f) after making a single query to a Boolean function f, then as we range over f’s, there can be at most 4n possible values of U(f). Here Arko improves our bound to 2n, which is tight. He also tries extremely hard to generalize our bound to the two-query case, not quite succeeding but proving partial results that hopefully will be helpful to others.

(5) Quantum Search with Non-Interacting Bosons and Fermions, by Aravind Karthigeyan.

This one really made me think. Aravind studies the problem of search for a single marked vertex, on the complete graph with N vertices, using either M bosons or M fermions that can hop between the vertices. With M bosons, he shows that the search succeeds in Θ(√(N/M)) time with high probability, which is just the usual runtime for Grover search with M parallel searchers. With fermions, by contrast, he shows that more time is needed. Why? Because of the Pauli Exclusion Principle! The fermions all “step on each others’ toes,” competing to be the one that jumps onto the marked vertex, which limits the advantage of having M fermions searching in parallel.

(6) Limits to Pseudodeterminism in Quantum Communication Protocols, by Jiawei Li.

Jiawei revisits the famous Hidden Matching Problem, which is known to have an exponential gap between its randomized one-way communication complexity of ~√n, and its quantum one-way communication complexity of ~log(n). He makes a new observation about this problem: namely, if you want the exponential quantum communication advantage, then you must content yourself with a protocol that can generate many different possible correct answers with appreciable probabilities (i.e., that generates large min-entropy). In other words, no good quantum protocol for the problem is pseudodeterministic. This complements, for example, my and Shih-Han Hung’s work, which showed the same statement for quantum supremacy experiments based on Random Circuit Sampling, or the long line of works that showed it for experiments that violate the Bell/CHSH inequality.

Congratulations to my students for their accomplishments, and thanks to them for giving me permission to include their work in this showcase!

July 31, 2025

Tommaso DorigoExtrasensorial Plot Premonition

In the previous article here, I tangentially examined a situation that arises often in collaborative data analysis: the digestion of the results in scientific graphs. The focus of that discussion was the building of a sceptical thinking attitude in my student - it is a really important asset in experimental science.

read more

Jordan EllenbergOne more observation about Tom Lehrer

For every insult, it is possible to conceive of an ideal type who displays all the features the insult conveys, but in whom they are somehow virtues rather than deficits, and Tom Lehrer was that for “smart-ass.”

Also, I thought I’d seen just about every speck of Tom Lehrer content there was, but nope — here he is doing a promo for the new Dodge models of 1967.

July 29, 2025

David Hoggintegrating out nuisances

Further insipired by yesterday's post about binary fitting, I worked today on the treatment of nuisance parameters that have known distributions. These can be treated as noise sometimes. Let me explain:

If I had to cartoon inference (or measurement) in the face of nuisance parameters, I would say that frequentists profile (optimize) over the nuisances and Bayesians marginalize (integrate) over the nuisances. In general frequentists cannot integrate over anything, because there is no measure in any of the parameter spaces. But sometimes there is a measure. In particular, when there is a compact symmetry:

We know (or very strongly believe) that all possible orientations of a binary-star orbit are equally likely. In this model (or under this normal assumption) we have a distribution over two angles (theta and phi for that orbit pole, say); it is the distribution set by the compact group SO(2). Thus we can treat the orientation as a noise source with known distribution and integrate over it, just like we would any other noise source. So, in this case (and many cases like it) we can integrate (marginalize) even as frequentists. That is, there are frequentism-safe marginalizations possible in binary-star orbit fitting. This should drop the 12-parameter fits (for ESA Gaia data) down to 8-parameter, if I have done my math right.

July 28, 2025

David Hoggbinary stars with periods of exactly one year

On Friday, Kareem El-Badry (Caltech) gave a seminar about looking for (and finding!) stars in binary orbits around dark or much darker companions, like black holes, neutron stars, and white dwarfs. He showed results that involve ESA Gaia astrometry, where he noted that the Gaia Mission has no sensitivity to periods right at (or within an inverse mission-length frequency difference of) one-year periods (inverse year frequencies). After the talk I objected that these are not exactly degenerate; El-Badry said that the inferences blow up there.

I spent some time on the weekend thinking about this point, and I now understand it: There is a particular one-year orbit that a star can have (around a darker companion) such that the photocenter of the system makes a motion that is identical to the apparent parallax motion. Thus there is an exact degeneracy between the parallax and a certain one-year orbit.

Does that mean that we can't measure orbits at one year (or, for that matter, parallaxes)? No, it does not. After all, the parallax ellipse has a particular celestial (angular) shape and phase. But it might require some kind of reparameterization of orbits near one-year periods. I think I know how to do that. Should we find the missing binaries? (Oh and by the way, this degeneracy means that, in a strict frequentist sense, Gaia can't measure parallaxes at all without additional information.)

John PreskillLittle ray of sunshine

A common saying goes, you should never meet your heroes, because they’ll disappoint you. But you shouldn’t trust every common saying; some heroes impress you more, the better you know them. Ray Laflamme was such a hero.

I first heard of Ray in my undergraduate quantum-computation course. The instructor assigned two textbooks: the physics-centric “Schumacher and Westmoreland” and “Kaye, Laflamme, and Mosca,” suited to computer scientists. Back then—in 2011—experimentalists were toiling over single quantum logic gates, implemented on pairs and trios of qubits. Some of today’s most advanced quantum-computing platforms, such as ultracold atoms, resembled the scrawnier of the horses at a racetrack. My class studied a stepping stone to those contenders: linear quantum optics (quantum light). Laflamme, as I knew him then, had helped design the implementation. 

Imagine my awe upon meeting Ray the following year, as a master’s student at the Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics. He belonged to Perimeter’s faculty and served as a co-director of the nearby Institute for Quantum Computing (IQC). Ray was slim, had thinning hair of a color similar to mine, and wore rectangular glasses frames. He often wore a smile, too. I can hear his French-Canadian accent in my memory, but not without hearing him smile at the ends of most sentences.

Photo credit: IQC

My master’s program entailed a research project, which I wanted to center on quantum information theory, one of Ray’s specialties. He met with me and suggested a project, and I began reading relevant papers. I then decided to pursue research with another faculty member and a postdoc, eliminating my academic claim on Ray’s time. But he agreed to keep meeting with me. Heaven knows how he managed; institute directorships devour one’s schedule like ravens dining on a battlefield. Still, we talked approximately every other week.

My master’s program intimidated me, I confessed. It crammed graduate-level courses, which deserved a semester each, into weeks. My class raced through Quantum Field Theory I and Quantum Field Theory II—a year’s worth of material—in part of an autumn. General relativity, condensed matter, and statistical physics swept over us during the same season. I preferred to learn thoroughly, deeply, and using strategies I’d honed over two decades. But I didn’t have time, despite arriving at Perimeter’s library at 8:40 every morning and leaving around 9:30 PM.

In response, Ray confessed that his master’s program had intimidated him. Upon completing his undergraduate degree, Ray viewed himself as a nobody from nowhere. He chafed in the legendary, if idiosyncratically named, program he attended afterward: Part III of the Mathematical Tripos at the University of Cambridge. A Cambridge undergraduate can earn a master’s degree in three steps (tripos) at the Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics. Other students, upon completing bachelor’s degrees elsewhere, undertake the third step to earn their master’s. Ray tackled this step, Part III.

He worked his rear off, delving more deeply into course material than lecturers did. Ray would labor over every premise in a theorem’s proof, including when nobody could explain the trickiest step to him.1 A friend and classmate helped him survive. The two studied together, as I studied with a few fellow Perimeter students; and Ray took walks with his friend on Sundays, as I planned lunches with other students on weekends.

Yet the program’s competitiveness appalled Ray. All students’ exam scores appeared on the same piece of paper, posted where everyone could read it. The department would retain the highest scorers in its PhD program; the other students would have to continue their studies elsewhere. Hearing about Ray’s program, I appreciated more than ever the collaboration characteristic of mine.

Ray addressed that trickiest proof step better than he’d feared, come springtime: his name appeared near the top of the exam list. Once he saw the grades, a faculty member notified him that his PhD advisor was waiting upstairs. Ray didn’t recall climbing those stairs, but he found Stephen Hawking at the top.

As one should expect of a Hawking student, Ray studied quantum gravity during his PhD. But by the time I met him, Ray had helped co-found quantum computation. He’d also extended his physics expertise as far from 1980s quantum gravity as one can, by becoming an experimentalist. The nobody from nowhere had earned his wings—then invented novel wings that nobody had dreamed of. But he descended from the heights every other week, to tell stories to a nobody of a master’s student.

The author’s copy of “Kaye, Laflamme, and Mosca”…
…in good company.

Seven and a half years later, I advertised openings in the research group I was establishing in Maryland. A student emailed from the IQC, whose co-directorship Ray had relinquished in 2017. The student had seen me present a talk, it had inspired him to switch fields into quantum thermodynamics, and he asked me to co-supervise his PhD. His IQC supervisor had blessed the request: Ray Laflamme.

The student was Shayan Majidy, now a postdoc at Harvard. Co-supervising him with Ray Laflamme reminded me of cooking in the same kitchen as Julia Child. I still wonder how I, green behind the ears, landed such a gig. Shayan delighted in describing the difference between his supervisors’ advising styles. An energetic young researcher,2 I’d respond to emails as early as 6:00 AM. I’d press Shayan about literature he’d read, walk him through what he hadn’t grasped, and toss a paper draft back and forth with him multiple times per day. Ray, who’d mellowed during his career, mostly poured out support and warmth like hollandaise sauce. 

Once, Shayan emailed Ray and me to ask if he could take a vacation. I responded first, as laconically as my PhD advisor would have: “Have fun!” Ray replied a few days later. He elaborated on his pleasure at Shayan’s plans and on how much Shayan deserved the break.

When I visited Perimeter in 2022, Shayan insisted on a selfie with both his PhD advisors.

This June, an illness took Ray earlier than expected. We physicists lost an intellectual explorer, a co-founder of the quantum-computing community, and a scientist of my favorite type: a wonderful physicist who was a wonderful human being. Days after he passed, I was holed up in a New York hotel room, wincing over a web search. I was checking whether a quantum system satisfies certain tenets of quantum error correction, and we call those tenets the Knill–Laflamme conditions. Our community will keep checking the Knill–Laflamme conditions, keep studying quantum gates implementable with linear optics, and more. Part of Ray won’t leave us anytime soon—the way he wouldn’t leave a nobody of a master’s student who needed a conversation.

1For the record, some of the most rigorous researchers I know work in Cambridge’s Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics today. I’ve even blogged about some

2As I still am, thank you very much.

July 27, 2025

Jordan EllenbergRIPPP Tom Lehrer

“Rest, Imagining Poisoning Park Pigeons,” that is.

On the occasion of Lehrer’s passing at 97 let us remember the most gloriously comic and enthusiastic celebration of mass death ever put to jaunty music.

July 25, 2025

Clifford JohnsonFantastic Collaboration!

Well, I can now officially mention that I've been part of the filmmaking team (in a way) working hard to bring you an enjoyable and interesting Fantastic Four movie! I think it has been about two and a half years (?) since this all began. This was a nearly perfect model of how science consulting can work in film. I worked with everyone, wherever I was needed, with the director, writers, producers, director of photography, VFX teams, set design, and so on. They made me feel welcome and part of whatever creative team I was talking to, which was great. They were open to lots of ideas right from when they were starting out thinking about tone, story ideas, and so forth, right through to final (key) tweaks right at the end of the process as recently as mere weeks ago.

It began early on with with having great conversations Matt Shakman and his writing team about the fact that Reed Richards is first and foremost a curiosity-driven physicist (and so quite different from the engineer we have in Tony Stark that we see RdJ bring out so well), and how things like his dedication to his work (and his outlook on things that comes from such work) might play out in terms of family dynamic, personal relationships, etc., - Without it turning into the tedious cliches about scientists somehow not being able to navigate the world of human relationships. Obviously, I could speak to this as a physicist who works on precisely the things Reed works on, as well as a family man, and as well as someone who remembers that it's still all about telling a story. And there are so many stories to tell at that intersection... Anyway, I think these early conversations (as well as suggestions I made in many sets of notes along the way) helped inform (even if only a little bit? who knows?) what Pedro Pascal brought to the character. This aspect of the film is one of the things I'm most pleased about seeing up on screen.

Beyond that, you'll see lots of things I gave them that I'm also delighted to see made it to the film, in many scenes. This includes (but not limited to!): [...] Click to continue reading this post

The post Fantastic Collaboration! appeared first on Asymptotia.

David Hogghow significant is your anomaly?

So imagine that you have a unique data set Y, and in that data set Y you measure a bunch of parameters θ by a bunch of different methods. Then you find, in your favorite analysis, your estimate of one particular parameter is way out of line: All of physics must be wrong! How do you figure out the significance of your result?

If you only ever have data Y, you can't answer this question very satisfactorily: You searched Y for an anomaly, and now you want to test the significance. That's why so many a posteriori anomaly results end up going away: That search probably tested way more hypotheses than you think it did, so any significances should be reduced accordingly.

The best approach is to use only part of your data (somehow) to search, and then use a found anomaly to propose a hypothesis test, and then test that test in the held-out or new data. But that often isn't possible, or it is already too late. But if you can do this, then there is usually a likelihood ratio that is decisive about the significance of the anomaly!

I discussed all these issues today with Kate Storey-Fisher (Stanford) and Abby Williams (Chicago) today, as we are trying to finish a paper on the anomalous amplitude of the kinematic dipole in quasar samples.

July 24, 2025

Tommaso DorigoReference Letters

Lately I have been writing lots of reference letters for students who are applying to Ph.D. positions in Physics, and in so doing I have found myself pondering on the dubious usefulness of that exercise. So let me share a bit of my thoughts on the matter here.

Reference letters are meant to be an important input for academic selections, because they provide first-hand information on the previous experience of the candidates, from scholars who are supposed to be authoritative enough to be trusted, and unconcerned enough to provide a unbiased assessment. 

read more

David Hoggfinding emission lines (and other oddities) in hot stars

I showed my robust spectral decomposition (dimensionality reduction) and residuals to the MPIA Binaries group today. There was much useful feedback (including that my H-gamma was actually H-delta; embarassing!). One comment was that the model isn't truly a causal separation between star and lines, so there will be some mean lines in the star model; lines aren't entirely outliers. That's true! The group suggested that I iterate to remove stars with lines from the training set.

After the meeting, I implemented some of that, but problems like this have a pathology: If you carefully remove stars with high residuals at some wavelength, then the training data will be deficient, or low, at that wavelength. And then the model will go lower, and then more stars will have excess at that wavelength and: Disaster. So when I implemented, I required a 2-sigma deviation, and I removed both high and low outliers. I don't know if this will work, but I am testing now.

July 23, 2025

Doug NatelsonResearch experience for teachers - why NSF education funds matter

The beginning of a RET poster session
Research Experience for Teachers (RET) programs are an example of the kind of programs that the National Science Foundation funds which are focused on K12 (and broader) education. This summer I hosted a high school physics teacher in my lab for 6 weeks, where he worked on a brief project, with one of my doctoral students helping out in a mentoring role.  Just yesterday was the big poster session for all of the participants in the program, and it was very enjoyable to talk with a whole cadre of high school science teachers from across the greater Houston area about their projects and their experiences.  

Readers may be more familiar with the sibling Research Experience for Undergraduates (REU) programs, which give undergraduate students the chance to work for 10 weeks or so in a lab that is very likely not at their home institution.  REUs are a great way for students interested in research to get broad exposure to new topics, meet people and acquire new skills, and for some, figure out whether they like research (and maybe which topics are exciting to them).  The educational goal of REUs is clear:  providing direct research experience to interested undergrads, ideally while advancing a research project and for some small fraction of students resulting in an eventual publication.  

RET programs are different:  They are intended as professional development.  The teachers are exposed to new topics, hopefully a fun research environment, and they are encouraged to think carefully about how they can take the concepts they learn and translate those for the classroom.  I am very much not an expert in education research, but there is evidence (see here, for example) that teachers who participate in these programs get a great deal of satisfaction and have lower attrition from teaching professions.  (Note that it's hard to do statistics well on questions like that, since the population of teachers that seek out opportunities like this may be a special subset of the total population of teachers.)  An idea that makes sense to me:  Enhancing the motivation and job satisfaction of a teacher can have a larger cumulative impact on educating students than an individual research project for a single student.

It would be a great shame if RET and REU programs are victims of large-scale cuts at NSF.  The NSF is the only science agency with education as part of its mission (at least historically).  All the more reason to try to persuade appropriators to not follow the draconian presidential budget request for the agency.


Mark GoodsellEntangled colliders

There are several interesting papers on the arXiv today. One of them, arXiv:2507.15949, involves my former PhD supervisor. It's on the subject of Quantum Entanglement at collider experiments, and relates back to a paper of his from 1992 that I didn't know about (there's a great line in the new paper where the authors complain that their earlier paper was ignored). (Quantum) Entanglement is the phenomenon where two or more particles are in a special state so that their properties are related, but we don't know what those properties are until we measure them. In Quantum Mechanics we would say that the actual state is not decided until we measure them, and this leads to 'spooky action at a distance' because by measuring one particle we appear to set the corresponding property of the other. An alternative explanation would be that there is some hidden quantity or 'hidden variable' where both particles secretly know all along what state they are in. However, surprisingly it's possible to discriminate between these two cases, and set up quantitative tests known as 'Bell inequalities': you can make a measurement and, if the result of that measurement is less than a certain value, then a hidden variable theory cannot explain it. Experiments to test this using photons at low energies were performed in the early 80s by Alain Aspect and others that violated Bell inequalities and thus confirming the Quantum Mechanical interpretation. 

In recent years, experimentalists have become interested in performing similar tests using different particles at higher energies; it is legitimate to ask "is this true for fermions?" or "does this break down at high energy?" Apparently similar questions were asked in the early 90s at LEP where electrons and positrons were collided (instead of protons at the LHC) and the 1992 paper pointed out that they were not really testing Bell Inequalities. The new paper revisits the older argument, and applies it to the new case of e.g. proton collisions producing a top-antitop pair. They argue that the quantity of interest for the Bell Inequality is the spin density matrix:

But what can actually be measured is the differential cross-section (the rate of production of particles in a certain angular volume):

The symbols B and C appear in both expressions: when performing experimental tests of Bell inequalities they are identified with each other. Since the differential cross-section can be measured, the measurement for the Bell Inequality can then be made and tested. However, the authors of the new paper claim that, in order to identify the two sets of symbols, it is necessary to use Quantum Field Theory: the second equation is a prediction based on QFT from the first. In other words, the logic is circular, and Quantum Mechanics has been assumed -- so it's not surprising that the Bell inequality is violated!

I haven't worked on this topic myself, so it will be interesting to see if there is some pushback from the authors of papers such as arXiv:2003.02280 (who proposed such top-antitop studies). 


Fermi decay constant -- at three loops!

 I also want to point out arXiv:2507.15946 by Stephen Martin, who has performed a three-loop computation of the decay rate of the muon in the Standard Model at three loops. This quantity is incredibly important; it is measured very precisely, and so we use it to extract the underlying parameters of the Standard Model -- or, any theory beyond it. But since it's a complicated process, this is a tricky computation, even at low loop order. The results in this paper will be useful for all sorts of calculations, such as extracting the Higgs boson's self-coupling -- and working out whether the universe is metastable!

July 22, 2025

David Hoggwrote like the wind; frequentist vs Bayes on sparsity

My goal this year in Heidelberg is to move forward all writing projects. I didn't really want to start new projects, but of course I can't help myself, hence the previous post. But today I crushed the writing: I wrote four pages in the book that Rix (MPIA) wants me to write, and I got more than halfway done with a Templeton Foundation pre-proposal that I'm thinking about, and I partially wrote up the method of the robust dimensionality reduction that I was working on over the weekend. So it was a good day.

That said, I don't think that the iteratively reweighted least squares implementation that I am using in my dimensionality reduction has a good probabilistic interpretation. That is, it can't be described in terms of a likelihood function. This is related to the fact that frequentist methods that enforce sparsity (like L1 regularization) don't look anything like Bayesian methods that encourage sparsity (like massed priors). I don't know how to present these issues in any paper I try to write.

Justin WilsonWelcome to the Quantum World: Where Certainty Ends and Possibility Begins

1. The Classical vs. Quantum World

In our everyday experience of the world, things have precise positions, speeds, and outcomes. You throw a baseball—you know where it’s going. But when we zoom in to the world of atoms and particles, things get weird — and the rules change.

Thanks for reading Quantum Matters! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

2. The Probabilistic Nature (Uncertainty and Superposition)

🗨️ Metaphor:

"Imagine flipping a coin, while it is spinning in mid-air, it spins in mid-air being both at heads and tails at the same time, with the probability of being heads or tails is still 50-50. At this point, if we want to describe the state of this system (the coin), it would be a combination of both heads and tails — until you look, and then you can say whether the coin landed on heads or tails. That’s how particles behave in the quantum world: they exist in a state made of both heads and tails, a superposition of states, until they’re measured.

🎯 Main idea:

  • Quantum Particles don’t have exact positions or velocities—just probabilities.

  • Measurement collapses the particle’s wavefunction to a definite value.

Let’s look more closely at the idea that Particles behave probabilistically

In classical mechanics, we think of a particle as a tiny object with a definite position and velocity at any time. But in quantum mechanics, particles like electrons that are described by a wavefunction, a mathematical function that tells you the probability of finding the particle in different places. You can think of the particle not as a dot but as a fuzzy cloud, where he denser the cloud in one spot, the more likely the particle is to be found there.

This is why we say: "Particles don't have exact positions or velocities—just probabilities."

🎵 The Wave Nature of Matter

In our everyday life, we see systems that exhibit wave properties. Things like sound waves, water waves (surface waves), waves on a cable (vibrating), or if you live in certain places, you may experience seismic waves. These are all classical physics examples that are described by wave equations, where the disturbance propagates through a medium or field, transferring energy without necessarily transferring matter.

For example, when waves meet (i.e., waves in water), they combine through a process called interference. This can take a few forms:

· Constructive Interference: When the crests (high points) and troughs (low points) of two waves line up, they reinforce each other, creating a larger wave. Think of two ripples on a pond colliding and forming a bigger splash.

· Destructive Interference: When a crest meets a trough, they cancel out to some extent—sometimes completely—resulting in a smaller or flat wave.

This blending of energy is happening constantly in light, sound, water waves, and even quantum systems.

Below in Figure 1, is an example of superpositions of waves. The top image highlights full constructive interference and the bottom image shows destructive interference. You can see that the maximum of the two waves is 1 and its minimum is -1, where 1 and -1 are called the wave's amplitude. For these two points, for complete constructive interference, the superposition of these waves yields 2 (superposition means at each position point you add the two waves together) for the maximum and -2 for the minimum. For complete destructive interference, you can see the waves when at each point you add them together (superposition), completely cancel out (equal 0). This situation is often called completely out-of-phase . Using the same two points as in our constructive interference example, you now see that wave 1 equals 1 and wave 2 equals -1. In fact, for all the points, the two waves are equal but of opposite sign (meaning one is positive, say +1, and the other is -1). The superposition of these two waves produces 0 for all points.

Figure 1: Top image showing complete constructive interference, while the bottom image displays complete destructive interference.

Below in Figure 2, the waves are slightly shifted along the position axis (x-axis). Using our same points as before, you can see that the superposition wave doesn’t quite equal 2 and -2; they are less than 2 and greater than -2 (-2 is less than -1.9, say, meaning -2 does not get more negative, it is heading upwards towards 0). This is because each wave’s maximum and minimum values occur at different points in space, and this is true for the values of the superposition wave at all points in space. Imagine you fix wave 2, and you slowly pull wave 1 to the right (wave 1 could be referred to as phase-shifted relative to wave 2). The superposition wave continues to have positive values and negative values going towards 0. Once the maximums of wave 1 line up with the minimums of wave 2, the superposition wave is 0 for all points. This is the complete destructive interference as we saw in Figure 1. Now, if you continue to pull wave 1 to the right, the superposition wave starts growing, and if you keep pulling to the right, it will reach the complete constructive interference pattern like in Figure 1.

Figure 2: Two waves shifted relative to one another along the x-axis (position axis).

Notice the superposition wave (like the other waves) starts to repeat the pattern. The point where the pattern repeats itself would define the superposition wave’s wavelength 𝛌. Now imagine, if you had lots of waves where some are shifted relative to our wave 1, at some points in position, we will get a maximum amplitude resulting from constructive interference but necessarily complete constructive interference, giving the highest point of a wave (crest of water wave), while for others, we may get destructive interference, leading to the minimum amplitude (trough of a wave) and other intermediate amplitude that help to make-up the entire wave. Hopefully, this simplistic model helps us to understand how waves form and how you can get a big wave from many small waves.

Another feature of waves is that they have a wavelength that describes how far they propagate in space before repeating the same pattern over and over. If you remember what the mathematical functions, sine and cosine, they are waves that repeat in space and have a wavelength. Now the important part is that the momentum, p, of these waves is inversely proportional to their wavelength, that is, p=1/𝛌. So if you have a short wavelength, you have a large momentum, and vice versa.

These waves follow classical equations — disturbances that move through a medium, transferring energy. But in quantum mechanics, the wave isn't a ripple in water or air — it’s a probability wave.

Now comes the key idea: wave-particle duality. Particles act like waves. And waves behave very differently from particles in one crucial way:

A wave that's localized in space (i.e., sharply peaked in position) must be made by combining many different wavelengths. Think of a big wave in the ocean; it is formed by lots of waves coming together to form this big wave. This combining of waves also means you have a wide range of momenta.

Correspondingly, a wave with a defined momentum (i.e., well-defined momentum) must be spread out in space.

For example, let’s look at music and a pure note on a tuning fork (single frequency = defined momentum) lasts long but is hard to pin down in time (spread out). However, a short drumbeat is localized in time (defined position) but contains a spread of frequencies (momentum uncertainty).

For example, let’s look at music and a pure note on a tuning fork (single frequency = defined momentum) lasts long but is hard to pin down in time (spread out). However, a short drumbeat is localized in time (defined position) but contains a spread of frequencies (momentum uncertainty).

This is a fundamental mathematical property of waves called the Fourier transform. A Fourier transform contains both sine and cosine, just as waves, but is a more complicated function that involves complex numbers. The point about the Fourier transform is that you can obtain sine and cosine from it.

3. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: Knowing Less to Understand More

One of the most famous — and misunderstood — ideas in quantum mechanics is the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.

It’s often summed up like this: You can’t know both where something is and how fast it’s moving — at the same time — with perfect precision.

At first glance, that sounds like a problem with our measuring tools, as if we just need better microscopes or sensors. But that’s not it.

This principle isn’t about technological limitations — it’s a fundamental property of nature.

What does it mean?

In classical physics, if you know where a car is and how fast it’s going, you can predict exactly where it’ll be a few seconds later. But in the quantum world, if you try to pin down the position of a particle more precisely, you automatically become less certain about its momentum (its speed and direction) — and vice versa.

It’s not because the particle is misbehaving — it’s because particles aren’t like tiny billiard balls. They behave like waves, and waves don’t have sharp edges.


🌀 Wave Metaphor

Think of a musical note. If a sound wave is spread out in time — like a long, steady tone — it has a very precise frequency (pitch). But if it’s a short, sharp “ping,” its frequency becomes less certain. You trade time for pitch.

In the same way, if a particle’s wave is sharply localized in space (you know where it is), the range of its momentum values must broaden. If the wave is spread out (you don’t know exactly where it is), the momentum is better defined.


🔬 So what’s uncertain?

It’s not that the particle is jittering around randomly. Instead:

  • Before measurement, a particle’s position and momentum are both described by a range of probabilities.

  • The more tightly you narrow one, the more uncertain the other becomes.

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle can be written down as,

𝚫p𝚫x ≤ ℏ/2

  • 𝚫x is the uncertainty in position

  • 𝚫p is the uncertainty in momentum

  • ℏ is Planck’s constant (a very small number)

Let’s try to understand this formula a little better. In quantum mechanics, particles like electrons aren’t just little dots — they also act like waves. This means we describe them with wave packets, which are like short-lived ripples or pulses spread out over space.

To make a wave packet that’s narrow in space (so we know roughly where the particle is), we have to combine many different waves (i.e., sine waves) with various wavelengths and frequencies (think back to our above example of waves).

That’s because a single sine wave, for example, stretches out infinitely — it doesn’t give you a clear position. Only by mixing waves with different wavelengths (and therefore different momenta) can we build a localized bump.

So: Precise position → requires many different wavelengths → high momentum uncertainty.

Now reverse it. If we only use one sine wave, it has a very clear wavelength (momentum), but it stretches out forever — the particle could be anywhere.

So: Precise momentum → means the particle is spread out → high position uncertainty.

This trade-off is at the heart of the uncertainty principle:

𝚫p𝚫x ≤ ℏ/2

Here, 𝚫x is the uncertainty in position, 𝚫p is the uncertainty in momentum, and ℏ is a very tiny constant from quantum physics.

The key message: > The more precisely you know where something is, the less precisely you can know how fast it's going — and vice versa.

Imagine building a short splash on a pond with water waves (see Figure-3):

  • A small, sharp splash uses many different ripple sizes (frequencies).

  • A pure, smooth ripple has just one frequency but spreads out.

That’s the uncertainty principle in action, hiding in the rhythm of waves.

Figure 3: The left figure shows the sharp splash, while the right figure illustrates the smooth ripple.

So what that tells us is that as we become more and more certain about the location of a particle (𝚫x is getting smaller and smaller, heading to 0), 𝚫p is getting larger and larger, heading to ∞. This tells us that if we knew x exactly, then we would not know the momentum p of the particle, since the uncertainty 𝚫p is infinite.

The Core Idea:

You can’t precisely know both where something is (position) and how fast it’s going or in what direction (momentum) at the same time. The more accurately you try to measure one, the fuzzier the other becomes.

🧠 Everyday Analogy:

Imagine you're trying to photograph a speeding car at night.

  • If you use a fast shutter, you can see exactly where the car is, but the picture will be blurry — you can’t tell how fast it was going.

  • If you use a slow shutter, you get a motion blur — which tells you how fast it was moving, but now you don’t know exactly where it was.

That’s the uncertainty principle in action: precision in one area means fuzziness in the other.

Again, this isn’t just a limitation of our instruments — it's a fundamental property of nature. It's like the universe itself has this built-in fuzziness at tiny scales.

This principle also tells us why electrons just don't spiral into the nucleus of an atom.

Because you can’t precisely know both the position and momentum of a particle at the same time.

If an electron got too close to the nucleus, its position would be very well known (i.e., tightly confined in space). According to the uncertainty principle, this would mean its momentum becomes highly uncertain. Because the kinetic energy is directly calculated from the momentum, and since you have large momentum fluctuations, you will have large kinetic energy.

This tells us that confining the electron too tightly costs energy — a lot of energy. That energy cost balances out the attractive pull of the nucleus. The result? The electron occupies a fuzzy “cloud” of most likely locations (remember it is based on probabilities)— what we call an orbital — and it doesn't just fall in.

This quantum balancing act gives rise to stable atoms, the periodic table, chemistry, etc.

Wave-particle duality

Wave-particle duality is one of the most astonishing ideas in modern physics. It says that tiny things—like electrons and light—can behave like particles and waves, depending on how you look at them.

  • Waves (like ocean waves, or ripples in a pond, or even sound waves) are spread out, continuous disturbances. They travel, they can interfere with each other (creating bigger or smaller waves), and they bend around corners. You can't point to "one wave" and say it's at a single, precise location.

  • Particles (like a baseball, or a tiny pebble) are distinct, localized objects. They have a definite position, mass, and can be tracked as they move from one point to another.

The Classical Difference: In our ordinary experience, something is clearly either a wave or a particle. Never both.

🌍 In the Classical World

In everyday experience:

  • Objects are either particles (like baseballs) or waves (like sound or water ripples).

  • Particles have defined positions and travel along clear paths.

  • Waves are spread out, overlap, and interfere, but they don't "exist" in a single spot.

Think of throwing a rock into a pond—either you're dealing with the rock or the ripples it creates, never both at once.

⚛️ In the Quantum World

The Quantum Twist: Wave-Particle Duality

But when we zoom down to the incredibly tiny, fundamental level of reality – the quantum realm – things get weird. Particles like electrons, and even light itself (which we classically considered a wave), don't always fit neatly into one category. This is wave-particle duality:

  • Light, for instance, can behave like a spread-out wave (which is why it can create interference patterns, just like water waves). But it can also act like a stream of tiny, discrete particles called photons (which is how it knocks electrons off a metal surface in the photoelectric effect, acting like tiny billiard balls).

  • Similarly, electrons (which we think of as particles making up atoms) can, under certain experimental conditions, exhibit wave-like behavior, creating interference patterns as if they were spread out and passing through multiple places at once. Yet, when we try to pinpoint their location, they act like a localized particle.

This means a single electron, shot toward a double slit, doesn't just go through one slit—it behaves as if it explores all possibilities at once, producing an interference pattern typical of waves.

🤔 So What Does This Mean?

The amazing part is that a quantum entity isn't just sometimes a wave and sometimes a particle. Instead, it possesses both wave-like and particle-like properties simultaneously, and the act of observation or the type of experiment we perform determines which aspects we will observe. You can't observe both characteristics at the same exact time in the same experiment.

This seemingly paradoxical idea is a cornerstone of quantum mechanics and is absolutely essential for understanding how the universe works at its most fundamental level. It underpins all modern technologies from lasers and transistors to medical imaging and the very concept of quantum computing.

The objects aren't just "here or there"—they are probabilistic ripples, until observed.

Wave-particle duality is nature’s way of whispering: “The world is more nuanced than it seems.”

Thanks for reading Quantum Matters! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

July 18, 2025

Justin WilsonScientists Discover a New Phase of Game Show!

You’ve seen the headlines: “Scientists Discover a New Phase of Matter!” They usually go something like, “You’ve heard of solids, liquids, and gases—but now there’s a fourth (fifth) phase: [insert buzzword here].”1 You might think about these phases in terms of temperature: heat up ice and it melts, a phase change! And yes, that is a phase transition. But temperature is just one knob we can turn, and phases are far richer than just “solid, liquid, and gas.” In fact, new phases are surprisingly common, and to understand why, let’s play a little game.

Thanks for reading Quantum Matters! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support our work.

What is the Percolating Phase?

Imagine you’re on a game show called Are You Likeable? (the least-likeable game show). The rules of the game are simple:

  1. You stand on the stage and try to win over the audience.

  2. Each audience member votes whether they like you or not.

  3. But the twist: votes aren’t tallied—they control a system of pipes above your head.

That system of pipes looks something like this2

A game where you get soaked or remain dry based on whether the audience votes, which randomly turns a spigot on or off. Image generated by ChatGPT.

Each “like” turns a spigot off, stopping water from flowing through one pipe in a grid overhead3. Once voting ends, water is dumped into the system. If it can find a path to the bottom, you get soaked. The better your “likeability,” the less likely spigots open a path for water to flow and the drier you stay. That’s your prize for this game show (and hey, you also get the knowledge that people out there like you).

This system models a type of phase transition known as percolation4.

But where is the phase transition?

Aside from asking when my game show will be green-lit5, we can ask: When are you most likely to get wet? If the audience is huge, and fewer than 50% of them like you, it’s nearly guaranteed that the water will find a path—you’ll be soaked. But if more than 50% like you, chances are good that you’ll stay dry.

This is a phase transition6: a sudden change in the system’s behavior. For a moderately sized audience, it looks something like this:

The phase diagram for when your likeability gets you soaked in this game show. The line represents your chance of getting soaked.

Your probability of getting soaked forms a curve that sharpens up with increasing audience size—becoming a near step at 50%. That is known as the percolation threshold.

This is hard to visualize, though; luckily this problem admits some very nice pictures. For instance, here is the problem with a large number of pipes:

Animated gif of the water flowing through with certain “Likeability” scores. (Refresh if the animation stopped.)

If a pipe is blue, water is in it, and all the blue clusters flow down from the top. Notice what happens around 50%: even though spigots are randomly being turned off, the flow from top to bottom is entirely stopped around this value. Something is happening within the system that is allowing water to pass through on one side of the transition and not the other.

A closer look at the transition

To dig deeper, we simulate what happens at this threshold. Each spigot is either open or closed (randomly determined). If we visualize the grid (say 1024×1024 spigots), it looks like visual static: black and white dots with no obvious pattern7:

But now let’s color each connected cluster of open spigots—where water could flow and fill up this section of pipes. Suddenly, structure emerges. Some clusters are small, others large. If one spans from top to bottom, water flows and we’re in the percolating phase. If not, we’re in the non-percolating phase. At the transition (within the static above, we get this for the twelve largest clusters:

At exactly the percolation threshold (50% for the pipes above), there’s no single dominant cluster, but also no clear typical size. Instead, there’s a wide distribution of cluster sizes. The critical state behaves differently than either phase.

Scale Invariance: A Hallmark of Criticality

Let’s zoom out. Suppose we double the grid to 2048×2048.

The largest clusters are definitely larger—the largest here is 400,000 pipes/spigots large, while for the previous 1024×1024 case the largest was 180,000 large—but the pattern still looks… the same. We doubled the size, but if we slightly blur our vision, we cannot distinguish these two plots (even though one is quadruple the area of the other). Look at 512×512—even that looks similar:

You would be hard-pressed to say which one is larger if you blurred your eyes. This problem is apparent even down to 256×256 or 128×128.

This is called scale invariance—there is no characteristic length scale at the phase transition. It’s one of the defining features of what are known as second-order phase transitions.

It also explains why, at the threshold, you have a 50% chance of getting soaked. The largest cluster might span the system, but it might just as well fall short. There’s no guarantee either way.

Fractals in the Flow

These clusters within the above pictures don’t look like regular 2D structures or even 1D lines; they are, in fact, fractals. They aren’t exactly self-similar but they do behave the same at different scales. They fill space with a fractal dimension: not quite 1D, not quite 2D. In two-dimensional percolation, the clusters have a dimension of 91/48 ≈ 1.896—a universal number shared by all systems in this class, regardless of lattice type or other microscopic details.

This is part of the beauty of percolation: It shows us visually the underlying mathematical structure and even reveals some universality of phase transitions.

Why This Matters

Percolation is just one example, but it captures the essence of what physicists mean when they talk about “phases of matter.” It isn’t always about exotic particles or extreme temperatures turning gas into plasma. Sometimes, it’s about whether a liquid can find its way through a series of pipes. It’s about symmetry, structure, and emergence.

You’ve experienced water’s phases: ice, liquid, steam. But nature offers many more—some with no neat label like “solid” or “gas.” The theory of phase transitions explains them. Percolation is a window into that wider world.

1

What’s funny to me about this is how we use ice/water/vapor to expound on this. But water’s phase diagram is complex and deserves its own post. One point of interest: water and water vapor can be smoothly connected to each other without going through any phase transition. That and there’s something like 20 phases of ice.

2

Forgive me the ChatGPT weirdness: the drip on the left pipe and the weird long pipe on the right are just LLM quirks. Kind of like how hard it is to get AI to draw a full wine glass. (Or maybe now it can?)

3

Audience members can’t influence each other here. Assume the spigots are randomized and a stern librarian keeps everyone silent.

4

Technically, this is bond percolation on a square lattice.

5

NBC, call me!

6

A second-order phase transition is one where the change is continuous, but its derivatives (like heat capacity or cluster size) diverge. Percolation is a particularly visually clean example.

7

I have switched from bond percolation to site percolation to make plotting and cluster finding easier. The universal features do not depend on this.

July 15, 2025

Mark GoodsellThe Ant Mill

Jesper Grimstrup kindly sent me an electronic copy of his new book, The Ant Mill. He was also kind enough to give me some feedback on a first version of this review.


It has a foreword by Peter Woit, who has commented briefly about the book on his blog; the author also has a substack. The subtitle is 'How theoretical high-energy physics descended into groupthink, tribalism and mass production of research' so you would expect it to be the sort of thing that I would take a strong objection to. However, I am the sort of person who likes to read things that challenge me; the only thing that gets under my skin in this book is attacking the whole of academia in public.

The story is an interweaving of the author's personal experiences in academia with his general observations. This personal story and his experiences are interesting, much like I expect those of everyone who has spent several years in academia would be. And he has clearly spent a lot of time thinking about thinking about research. I love meta-activities of this sort; the best example that I know of is You and Your Research by Hamming, which I stumbled on as a postdoc. Indeed, the existence of these sorts of things that are shared by young researchers is actually evidence against the central thesis of Grimstrup's book.

The market attacking High-Energy Physics seems to be burgeoning. On the one hand Hossenfelder believes that we have become 'lost in math,' and on the other Woit believes we are not mathematical enough; both attack string theory as a failed program. Grimstrup's book is in the mathematical camp, with the novelty that he piles scorn on all popular approaches to quantum gravity, in particular loop quantum gravity and noncommutative geometry, since he has come into closest contact with them. His observations about string theorists are mainly about the shoddy way that he was treated during his time at the NBI, with several egregious examples of bad behaviour. We are lead to conclude that it is not just string theorists who have formed a closed tribe, but that there are several such groups crowding out innovation.

Grimstrup refers to his own research program and gives examples of how it has just generally been ignored within academia. For example, he starts the book with a copy of a grant application by a 31-year-old Niels Bohr for an entire institute, and contrasts this with a grant application of his that was refused that effectively ended his career within academia (my understanding is that at the NBI in Copenhagen it is common to ask for and obtain grants to pay your own salary and prolong temporary contracts). He writes that he does not do this to compare himself to Niels Bohr, but inadvertently this is the impression I got from the book -- that he was doing this not in a self-aggrandising way, but in the sense that you can almost feel his frustration coming through the pages that his expectations did not meet reality. It seems like bait at times, inviting anyone who disagrees with the general thesis to attack him personally. Instead, I will have a look at his papers with an open mind, after writing this review, and keep my thoughts on them to myself.

The book made me think of how many of us enter academia. We grow up reading popular science accounts idolising physicists from a century ago. And it made me think more of the self-actualisation messages that were rammed down all our throats in the popular culture in the 80s and 90s: follow your dreams, stick to your principles, be true to yourself, this is the most important thing in life and you shouldn't worry about money, just be happy. And: working hard and getting good grades is the way to get to the top. The problem is that this is largely obsolete: it's based on the world that existed post world war two when there was a scarcity of labour and an economic boom. Then -- if you were from the right background and your face fit -- you could work hard, get a PhD and walk into a permanent academic job (yes this is a caricature). Science was respected and so were scientists; high-energy physics was at the top of the tree because of the connection with technological advancements and nuclear weapons. That world doesn't exist any more; while in many ways for the better, it is undeniable that we live in a world of much greater competition and public skepticism about science is increasing.

The scientific community has expanded, as has the population; and more importantly education throughout the world and global travel and communication has meant that the number of people around the world who are involved in research is much greater than it was. Grimstrup notes that increasing the size of the academic community has led to fundamental changes of behaviour: professionalisation of research and group think, and that this leads to an increasing incentive to work on mainstream topics. He has done bibliographical research to demonstrate this (in papers and presented in the book). It is clearly true that the Matthew effect exists in many branches of society, and therefore also in academia; governments wanting to exert some form of oversight in exchange for the funds that they provide has definitely led to changes in incentives for researchers. One aspect of this is that it is hard to judge the work of people from other fields, but we are required to do so; and then it is difficult to argue with quantitative measures such as number of papers, citations, h-indices. Then of course the measure becomes the target for certain people. 

Grimstrup rails against all these changes; he clearly believed that the correct thing to do for an aspiring researcher would be to work on their own ideas, stick to their principles and not compromise. They should work for a long time, in isolation, on a major paper, put it on arxiv.org and the next day their colleagues would read it and ask interesting questions about them. Fame and fortune would follow. The thing that shocked Grimstrup was that not only did people not even care about any papers he posted, a young competitor even once told him some ideas are simply not worth pursuing even though they may be interesting. For sure, this is horrible and shocking behaviour, and does not reflect well on the anonymous person who said it.

For my part I am still naive enough to think that if new ideas are good, someone will recognise them as such, and network effects will make them known. I know that many researchers already think more deeply about what they are doing than he gives us credit for: and we discuss it, during seminars, over a drink with colleagues, in the coffee-breaks of conferences, during our annual or five-year reviews, or in grant applications. When I discussed this review with a string-theorist colleague they remarked "of course we know the situation sucks!''  I think Grimstrup is therefore wrong to tar everyone with the same brush: the diversity in our community has increased greatly with time, and this means that there are indeed strong incentives to take a risk on a novel idea, because the rewards of opening a new research direction are immense! Being the originator of an idea, or the first to recognise the merit in even an old forgotten idea, can yield tremendous results and even greater recognition nowadays thanks to the same effects. Hence, starting a new field, or even a subfield, is something that most researchers aspire to; the rewards for doing so are even greater now than in times gone by, and the evidence that this is possible is even given in this book: the existence of several communities working on different approaches to quantum gravity. He argues that these are now old and stale, but my point is that the way that they were able to take root at all is an example of how this can happen. There are many subfields that have sprung up more recently, and in other branches of HEP there are of course many examples. Nowadays things can change very quickly: a new good idea will be very rapidly jumped on once it is recognised, and people are constantly on the lookout. 

Grimstrup also, like Lee Smolin, divides researchers into visionaries and technicians. He then complains that the technicians have taken over, with lots of disparaging comments about them digging endless holes. He then complains that there is an incentive to collaborate in modern research, only collaborators survive in the system: he has evidence that being a lone wolf is a poor survival strategy. He believes that we should work on our own; yet at the same time visionaries need to collaborate with technicians. I found this very jarring. Other than the facile placing of people into boxes, he is overlooking the benefits of collaboration -- his opinion is that it is just about inflating the number of papers one person can sign (and for sure there are people who cynically do this). But to me, discussing with other people, even just explaining something, is often the quickest way to generate genuinely new ideas or solutions to problems that we may never have come up with alone. At the same time, there are plenty of people who do write papers alone; to take a leaf from his book and share a personal story, I once had a comment on a postdoc application that I had no single-author papers and therefore did not demonstrate independence. Hence, there are incentives and a good reason for young researches to work alone sometimes. I then wrote a single-author paper, as I have occasionally done since (and got the fellowship next time I applied); I would agree that there is a pleasure and some advantages in doing this, but to do this all the time would mean I would risk missing out on lots of new ideas and other perspectives, as well as the pleasure of regular interactions with collaborators, and it would also limit the scope of my projects, where I benefit from others' expertise. Or collaborations may just be working with a student, pursuing my ideas (hopefully they contribute some of their own!) and imparting my knowledge in the process. This is why I do not think that encouraging people to predominantly cloister themselves away to work alone for a long time is the most productive or healthy one. 

The book also has a very narrow focus as to the goal of high-energy physics. For the author, the quest is a "the next theory," but in essence this means a theory of quantum gravity, which he acknowledges would be far from being able to be tested with any present or near-future data. Otherwise, we should look for a mathematically rigorous definition of quantum field theory; he hopes these will be one and the same thing. This latter problem has proven to be both very hard and not obviously useful -- it is certainly not obvious that the solution should even be unique, for example a theory of strings would cure ultra-violet divergences, and the question of whether strings should be necessary for such a theory is one that I know people have tried to explore. I also recently attended a talk by Michael Douglas where he reviewed recent attempts on rigorous QFT, so it is a subject that is regarded as important but very difficult, and still being explored by a small number of people. Regarding quantum gravity, some people in the community have taken the opinion that if you have no data, it is not a good problem, and are working on other things. Or people try to make contact with data using e.g. EFT approaches to measuring quantum effects of gravity. The string theory community might say that we do have a theory of quantum gravity, in fact we have a landscape of them, and try e.g. to use it to answer questions about black hole information. But at the same time some people then complain that the leading string theorists have moved on to other things: there are lots of important open fundamental problems, and we just do not know how they are interlinked, if at all!

Grimstrup's insistence that the solution to what he sees as problems is to shrink competition and also encourage research outside of academia, reminded me of another Dane, subject of another book I read recently: king Cnut, famous for (presumably apocryphally) standing on the beach in front of his ministers and commanding the tide to turn back. Otherwise Grimstrup hopes for a crisis, perhaps one provoked by his book. He explicitly states that he does not want to fuel the anti-establishment or ant-academic movements, but I suspect that the only crises we might suffer would not be good for the field.  Perhaps one is already taking place in the US; perhaps people will take his message to heart despite his protests and start a DOGE-style decimation of research. Necessarily, in science we mark our own homework: only other scientists are capable of judging the claims of their peers. If we start opening this up to question then we will only end with government appointees deciding what are acceptable topics and directions, or shutting public funding down altogether. What would be left over would surely be even greater competition for scarce resources.

For me, the solution to the problems in the book, to the extent that I agree with them, is to regularly remind ourselves that we should always maintain a childlike curiosity and not close our minds to new ideas and new possibilities. This is the message from the text of Hamming, and very well put in the writings of Feynman (who Grimstrup bizarrely dismisses as a technician compared to Bohr). Otherwise of course in science it is necessary to have a community spirit, to realise that we are all trying to make progress in the best way we know how, and to help each other do so; and it is necessary to maintain healthy competition as a motivator. But both conflicting instincts -- to compete and to group into communities -- are vital parts of human nature and denying this has been the mistake of utopians throughout history. 

I am also sure that many of the complaints that Grimstrup assigns to high-energy physics could also be applied to society more generally. So instead of trying to hold back or reverse the societal changes of the last century we should try to work with them as best we can. We have to accept that we live now in an attention economy; and this gives new opportunities: blogging, social media, writing articles in science magazines or popular press, etc. Since Grimstrup is now, interestingly, an independent scientist, perhaps tying his own research program so closely with his book is embracing the modern world at last, and creating a brand as a radical outside thinker, that will be attractive to private backers. He promotes the path that he has followed, crowdfunding his research or seeking support of patrons, as a possible path for the independently minded once they have completed their training in academia, and in this I wish him well: he is clearly serious, determined and sincere. But while this is now part of twenty-first century society, many people have noticed that this modern trend is a return to the nineteenth century (or even earlier, e.g. Leonardo da Vinci being invited to France by François 1) where a wealthy patron was the only source of funding. 



July 14, 2025

Clifford JohnsonThe Power of the String Equation

[More technical post follows.] I've been working on this project with (UCSB postdoc) Maciej Kolanowski on and off for a while now, but only in the last couple of weeks did I have the time to hunker down and help push the writing of the results to the finish. For your Sunday reading pleasure, it is already up on the arXiv here (it came out Thursday but I've been too busy to pause to post about it - partly because I've begun work on writing up the next paper in the backlog). The title is "Extended JT supergravity and random matrix models: The power of the string equation", and it is co-authored with Maciej Kolanowski.

In a way, it is a natural continuation of work I've described here from 2023 and 2024, described here and here. At a meeting at the Institute for Advanced Study in December 2023 I described in a talk (YouTube video here, look in particular from minute 35) something miraculous I'd discovered concerning capturing certain special supergravity (and black hole) behaviour using a random matrix model. The effective physics is [...] Click to continue reading this post

The post The Power of the String Equation appeared first on Asymptotia.

July 11, 2025

Justin WilsonTwo Dimensional Materials have gone crazy!

There are a ton of two-dimensional materials these days. You’ve probably heard of graphene, a single layer of carbon atoms arranged in a hexagonal grid.

a close up of a woven surface
In graphene, carbon atoms sit at the vertices of these hexagons. Photo by Andrew Draper on Unsplash

In 2018, everything changed when two layers of graphene were twisted to reveal superconductivity! The twist itself is interesting (I briefly discussed it in a previous post), but the key takeaway is that these materials now come with an extra knob for accessing new phases of matter. It’s remarkable. We can first think of these materials like Lego blocks:

blue, red, and white artwork
Photo by Omar Flores on Unsplash

Each layer is a different material: mix and match, and you might discover an exotic new phase. This “Lego” idea had already been in the air before 2018, but the physics since then has shown that it’s not just about stacking—we can twist too, creating not just patterns, but new ways for electrons to move.

Subscribe now

Two hexagonal layers twisted on top of each other, creating a moiré pattern.

We knew these patterns would occur, but we didn’t realize we could make it superconduct. Now we can stack and twist to great effect. Of course, twisted bilayer graphene isn’t about to revolutionize high-speed trains (it goes superconducting at only 4K1), but the way it goes superconducting is eerily reminiscent of higher-temperature superconductors. That means it might help us understand those other materials better.

And once people started twisting, they didn’t stop. We now have twisted multilayers of graphene, transition-metal dichalcogenide (TMD) bilayers2, and more. But it doesn’t end there; you can also apply magnetic fields, electric fields, and pattern the lattice in sophisticated ways. With all that in mind, here’s a short and incomplete survey of some of the exotic phases in these materials:

“Fractional… what now?”

All of these phases are exceptionally hard to understand and model. Some of the best minds in the field are actively working on them. One particularly exciting phase is the fractional Chern insulator, which could be useful for quantum computing.

But even setting aside applications, what’s astonishing is that all of these phenomena come from nothing more than electrons moving on a lattice and experiencing a few fields. Nature seems to treat electrons like Play-Doh, shaping them into wildly different quantum phases.

This is a deep and fundamental question: What can be accomplished using electrons alone?

1

That’s -452.47 degrees Fahrenheit.

2

To this day, I still can’t say the full name, so I just say “TMD.”

July 10, 2025

Scott Aaronson Trump and Iran, by popular request

I posted this on my Facebook, but several friends asked me to share more widely, so here goes:

I voted against Trump three times, and donated thousands to his opponents. I’d still vote against him today, seeing him as a once-in-a-lifetime threat to American democracy and even to the Enlightenment itself.

But last night I was also grateful to him for overruling the isolationists and even open antisemites in his orbit, striking a blow against the most evil regime on the planet, and making it harder for that regime to build nuclear weapons. I acknowledge that his opponents, who I voted for, would’ve probably settled for a deal that would’ve resulted in Iran eventually getting nuclear weapons, and at any rate getting a flow of money to redirect to Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis.

May last night’s events lead to the downfall of the murderous ayatollah regime altogether, and to the liberation of the Iranian people from 46 years of oppression. To my many, many Iranian friends: I hope all your loved ones stay safe, and I hope your great people soon sees better days. I say this as someone whose wife and 8-year-old son are right now in Tel Aviv, sheltering every night from Iranian missiles.

Fundamentally, I believe not only that evil exists in the world, but that it’s important to calibrate evil on a logarithmic scale. Trump (as I’ve written on this blog for a decade) terrifies me, infuriates me, and embarrasses me, and through his evisceration of American science and universities, has made my life noticeably worse. On the other hand, he won’t hang me from a crane for apostasy, nor will he send a ballistic missile to kill my wife and son and then praise God for delivering them into his hands.


Update: I received the following comment on this post, which filled me with hope, and demonstrated more moral courage than perhaps every other anonymous comment in this blog’s 20-year history combined. To this commenter and their friends and family, I wish safety and eventually, liberation from tyranny.

I will keep my name private for clear reasons. Thank you for your concern for Iranians’ safety and for wishing the mullah regime’s swift collapse. I have fled Tehran and I’m physically safe but mentally, I’m devastated by the war and the internet blackout (the pretext is that Israeli drones are using our internet). Speaking of what the mullahs have done, especially outrageous was the attack on the Weizmann Institute. I hope your wife and son remain safe from the missiles of the regime whose thugs have chased me and my friends in the streets and imprisoned my friends for simple dissent. All’s well that ends well, and I hope this all ends well.

July 08, 2025

Terence TaoSalem Prize now accepting nominations for 2025

The Salem prize was established in 1968 and named in honor of Raphaël Salem (1898-1963), a mathematician famous notably for his deep study of the links between Fourier series and number theory and for pioneering applications of probabilistic methods to these fields. It was not awarded from 2019-2022, due to both the COVID pandemic and the death of Jean Bourgain who had been almost single-handedly administering the prize, but is now active again, being administered by Akshay Ventakesh and the IAS. I chair the scientific committee for this prize, whose other members are Guy David and Mikhail Sodin. Last year, the prize was awarded to Miguel Walsh and Yilin Wang.

Nominations for the 2025 Salem Prize are now open until September 15th. Nominations should include a CV of the nominee and a nomination letter explaining the significance of the nominee’s work. Supplementary documentation, such as supporting letters of recommendation or key publications, can additionally be provided, but are not required.

Nominees may be individuals from any country or institution. Preference will be given to nominees who have received their PhD in the last ten years, although this rule may be relaxed if there are mitigating personal circumstances, or if there have been few Salem prize winners in recent years.  Self-nominations will not be considered, nor are past Prize winners or Scientific Committee members eligible.

The prize does not come with a direct monetary award, but winners will be invited to visit the IAS and to give a lecture associated with the award of the prize.

See also the previous year’s announcement of the Salem prize nomination period.

July 07, 2025

Matt Strassler Extreme and Dumb Cuts to US Science

As many of you are no doubt aware, in the past few days the US Congress voted to make major cuts to scientific research, and the president signed the bill. The government’s National Science Foundation has been cut by more than half, which means that its actual science budget has been cut by much more than that after you account for fixed costs. So vast, sudden and draconian are these cuts that it will take a long time for me and others in the field to figure out what has actually happened.

The reductions seem extreme, quite arbitrary and very poorly thought out. As an example, half of the LIGO observatory (the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory, whose amazing discoveries, such as this one and this one, earned the United States a Nobel Prize in 2017) is being hit hard. There are currently two interferometers, one in Washington state and one in Lousiana, but one has been largely defunded in this bill, if I understand correctly.

I can see the logic: the scientists have two interferometers, but in tough times they ought to be able to get along with just one, right?

Well, that’s like cutting off one of a runner’s legs. Two were built because two were needed.

With just one, the signal from most gravitational wave events is so weak that you can’t distinguish it from noise. Other interferometers around the world just aren’t working well enough to make up for throwing away one of LIGOs. (And besides, you need three or four interferometers around the world to be able to know precisely in the sky where the waves are coming from, knowledge which can make other major discoveries possible.)

According to Science magazine, “In a two-sentence email to Science, an NSF spokesperson said the plan reflects `a strategic alignment of resources in a constrained fiscal environment.’ “

This is not strategic. This is stupid. The amount of money saved, less than 10 cents per year per US citizen, is very small compared to what we as a nation have already spent on this wonderful facility, and cutting LIGO in half makes it dramatically less than half as good — so this is actually a big waste of money both past and future. The decision to make this cut in this way is nothing short of ridiculous and incompetent.

[Not to mention that “constrained fiscal environment” is quite a phrase when you’re increasing the budget deficit rather than shrinking it.]

I fear there are many other similar examples to be found.

June 27, 2025

Justin WilsonWater and its phases

I’m working on a much longer post on phases and phase transitions for next week1, but in the meantime, let me share with you some cool facts about water and its “phases.”

\We all know about solids, liquids, and gases from school. Heat up ice, and you get water; heat up water, and you get vapor. We may even have been slightly baffled if we saw this phase diagram with “pressure” added to the mix

Thanks for reading Quantum Matters! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Phase diagram of water. This file is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 .

I see here a solid phase, a liquid phase, and a gas phase, but what is this “Critical point”? If you tune your temperature and pressure just right you can smoothly cross over from liquid to gas without ever undergoing a phase transition. Without getting into the molecular details, we can think of phases as particular valleys between mountains, and water wants to reach the absolute lowest point. Sometimes there are two valleys, but one is lower, and sometimes there is just one valley.

In fact, this “number of valleys” is why we see this odd behavior. If we sit at 100 degrees C and decrease or increase the pressure, there are two energy minima2—two valleys. At small pressure, the deepest valley is on the gas side, and at large pressure, the deepest valley is on the liquid side. As you then tune pressure across that one-bar point, one valley gets deeper than the other—it’s the true minimum! Yet, to get from one valley to the next, you need some energy to get you over that mountain in between. That’s the phase transition. However, that's not the only option. As the temperature increases, the mountain in between gets smaller and smaller until, at the critical point, it finally disappears, and the two valleys merge.

Without two distinguished valleys, there is no need to scale the mountain and no need for a phase transition. Liquid smoothly and easily becomes gas. At the temperatures above the critical point, you cannot meaningfully distinguish water and gas. OK, so perhaps we only have two phases?

Not quite; look at this more fleshed-out version of the phase diagram:

When ice forms, it adopts a low-energy crystal structure. However, there are numerous crystal structures to choose from. In fact, as you change pressure and temperature, it can completely reorganize how the ice bonds together into a crystal. This leads to over 20 phases of ice, labeled by some of the Roman numerals above.3

Then what are the phases? Solids undergo their own phase transitions—structural phase transitions. Are these not phases of matter? If they are, then we have already exceeded our three phases of matter just within water. But phases go beyond temperature and pressure. They also possess a multitude of interesting properties, particularly at that critical point. We'll cover some of that in detail next week.

1

We’ll be making our own phase! Related, of course, to a known phase transition.

2

For most of the phase diagram, there is one absolute minimum, and the other is a “metastable” or local minimum.

3

For those interested, this Wikipedia article has a lot of information on the phases of ice.