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  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Saturday, 23 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , derivations,   

    Anatomizing An Error 


    Though it’s the summer months I’m happy to say the Carnot Cycle thermodynamics blog is still posting. He had been writing about Jacobus Henricus van ‘t Hoff, first recipient of the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. In the 1880s van ‘t Hoff was studying the osmosis. In April’s essay Carnot Cycle described the problem, and how van ‘t Hoff passed up a correct formula describing osmotic pressure in favor of an attractive but wrong alternative.

    In this month’s essay Carnot Cycle continues the topic. It particularly goes over just how van ‘t Hoff got to his mistaken idea. It’s not that he started out wrong. He began from a good start and derived a mistaken formula. The derivation involved a string of assumptions and simplifications and approximations, of the kind that must be made to go from starting principles to a specific problem. He was guided by an idea of what the answer ought to look like, though, and that led him astray. The blog describes what he did and why it would look reasonable in the circumstance. It’s worth reading to see what actual mathematics, the kind that doesn’t have known answers, is like.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Thursday, 21 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , utilities   

    Theorem Thursday: Kuratowski’s Reduction Theorem and Playing With Gas Pipelines 


    I’m doing that thing again. Sometime for my A To Z posts I’ve used one essay to explain something, but also to introduce ideas and jargon that will come up later. Here, I want to do a theorem in graph theory. But I don’t want to overload one essay. So I’m going to do a theorem that’s interesting and neat in itself. But my real interest in next week’s piece. This is just so recurring readers are ready for it.

    The Kuratowski Reduction Theorem.

    It starts with a children’s activity book-type puzzle. A lot of real mathematics does. In the traditional form that I have a faint memory of ever actually seeing it’s posed as a problem of hooking up utilities to houses. There are three utilities, usually gas, water, and electricity. There are three houses. Is it possible to connect pipes from each of the three utility starting points to each of the three houses?

    Of course. We do it all the time. We do this with many more utilities and many more than three buildings. The underground of Manhattan island is a network of pipes and tunnels and subways and roads and basements and buildings so complicated I doubt humans can understand it all. But the problem isn’t about that. The problem is about connecting these pipes all in the same plane, by drawing lines on a sheet of paper, without ever going into the third dimension. Nor making that little semicircular hop that denotes one line going over the other.

    That’s a little harder. By that I mean it’s impossible. You can try and it’s fun to try a while. Draw three dots that are the houses and three dots that are the utilities. Try drawing three lines, one from each utility to each of the houses. Or one leading into each house that comes from each of the utilities. The lines don’t have to be straight. They can have extra jogs, too. Soon you’ll hit on the possibilities of lines that go way out, away from the dots, in the quest to avoid crossing over one another. It doesn’t matter. The attempt’s doomed to failure.

    You’ll be sure of this by at latest the twelfth attempt at finding an arrangement. But that leaves open the possibility you weren’t clever enough to find an arrangement. To close that possibility guess what theorem is sitting there ready to answer your question, just like I told you it would be?

    This is a problem in graph theory. I’ve talked about graph theory before. It’s the field of mathematics most comfortable to people who like doodling. A graph is a bunch of points, which we call vertices, connected by arcs or lines, which we call edges. For this utilities graph problem, the houses are the vertices. The pipes are the edges. An edge has to start at one vertex and end at a vertex. These may be the same vertex. We’re not judging. A vertex can have one edge connecting it to something else, or two edges, or three edges. It can have no edges. It can have any number of edges. We’re even allowed to have two or more edges connecting a vertex to the same vertex. My experience is we think of that last, forgetting that it is a possibility, but it’s there.

    This is a “nonplanar” graph. This means you can’t draw it in a plane, like a sheet of paper, without having at least two edges crossing each other. We draw this on paper by making one of the lines wiggle in a little half-circle to show it’s going over, or to fade out and back in again to show it’s going under. There are planar graphs. Try the same problem with two houses and two utilities, for example. Or three houses and two utilities. Or three houses and three utilities, but one of the houses doesn’t get one of the utilities. Your choice which. It can be a little surprise to the homeowners.

    This utilities graph is an example of a “bipartite” graph. The “bi” maybe suggests where things are going. You can always divide the vertices in a graph into two groups for the same reason you can always divide a pile of change into two piles. As long as you have at least two vertices or pieces of change. But a graph is bipartite if, once you’ve divided the vertices up, each edge has one vertex in the first set and the other vertex in the second. For the utilities graph these sets are easy to find. Each edge, each pipe, connects one utility to one house. There’s our division: vertices representing houses and vertices representing utilities.

    This graph turns up a lot. Graph theorists have a shorthand way of writing it. It’s written as K3,3. This means it’s a bipartite graph. It has three vertices in the first set. There’s three vertices in the second set. There’s an edge connecting everything in the first set to everything in the second. Go ahead now and guess what K2, 2 is. Or K3,5. The K — I’ve never heard what the K stands for, although while writing this essay I started to wonder if it’s for “Kuratowski”. That seems too organized, somehow.

    Not every graph is bipartite. You might say “of course; why else would we have a name `bipartite’ if there weren’t such a thing as `non-bipartite’?” Well, we have the name “graph” for everything that’s a graph in graph theory. But there are non-bipartite graphs. They just don’t look like the utility-graph problem. Imagine three vertices, each of them connected to the other two. If you aren’t imagining a triangle you’re overthinking this. But this is a perfectly good non-bipartite graph. There’s no way to split the vertices into two sets with every edge connecting something in one set to something in the other. No, that isn’t inevitable once you have an odd number of vertices. Look above at the utilities problem where there’s three houses and two utilities. That’s nice and bipartite.

    Non-bipartite graphs can be planar. The one with three vertices, each connected to each other, is. The one with four vertices, each vertex connected to each other, is also planar. But if you have five vertices, each connected to each other — well, that’s a lovely star-in-pentagon shape. It’s also not planar. There’s no connecting each vertex to each other one without some line crossing another or jumping out of the plane.

    This shape, five vertices each connected to one another, shows up a lot too. And it has a shorthand notation. It’s K5. That is, it’s five points, all connected to each other. This makes it a “complete” graph: every set of two vertices has an edge connecting them. If you’ve leapt to the supposition that K3 is that circle and K4 is that square with diagonals drawn in you’re right. K6 is six vertices, each one connected to the five other vertices.

    It may seem intolerably confusing that we have two kinds of graphs and describe them both with K and a subscript. But they’re completely different. The bipartite graphs have a subscript that’s two numbers separated by a comma: p, q. The p is the number of vertices in one of the subsets. The q is the number of vertices in the other subset. There’s an edge connecting every point in p to every point in q, and vice-versa. The points in the p subset aren’t connected to one another, though. And the points in the q subset aren’t connected to one another. That they don’t mean this isn’t a complete graph.

    The others, K with a single number r in the subscript, are complete graphs, ones that aren’t bipartite. They have r vertices, and each vertex is connected to the (r – 1) other vertices. So there’s (1/2) times r times (r – 1) edges all told.

    Not every graph is either Kp, q or Kr. There’s a lot of kinds of graphs out there. Some are planar, some are not. But here’s an amazing thing, and it’s Kuratowski’s Reduction Theorem. If a graph is not planar, then it has to have, somewhere inside it, K3, 3 or K5 or both. Maybe several of them.

    A graph that’s hidden within another is called a “subgraph”. This follows the same etymological reasoning that gives us “subsets” and “subgroups” and many other mathematics words beginning with “sub”. And these subgraphs turn up whenever you have a nonplanar graph. A subgraph uses some set of the vertices and edges of the original graph; it doesn’t need all of them. A nonplanar graph has a subgraph that’s K3, 3 or K5 or both.

    Sometimes it’s easy to find one of these. K4, 4 obviously has K3, 3 inside it. Pick three of the four vertices on one side and three of the four vertices on the other, and look at the edges connecting them up. There’s your K3, 3. Or on the other side, K6 obviously has K5 inside it. Pick any five of the vertices inside K6 and the edges connecting those vertices. There’s your K5.

    Sometimes it’s hard to find one of these. We can make a graph look more complicated without changing whether it’s planar or not. Take your K3, 3 again. Go to each edge and draw another dot, another vertex, inside it. Well, now it’s a graph that’s got twelve vertices in it. It’s not obvious whether this is bipartite still. (Play with it a while.) But it hasn’t become planar, not because of this. It won’t be.

    This is because we can make graphs more complicated, or more simple, without changing whether they’re planar. The process is a lot like what we did last week with the five-color map theorem, making a map simpler until it was easy enough to color. Suppose there’s a little section of the graph that’s a vertex connected by one edge to a middle vertex connected by one edge to a third vertex. Do we actually need that middle vertex for anything? Besides padding our vertex count? Nah. We can drop that whole edge-middle vertex-edge sequence and replace it all with a single edge. And there’s other rules that let us turn a vertex-edge-vertex set into a single vertex. That sort of thing. It won’t change a planar graph to a nonplanar one or vice-versa.

    So it can be hard to find the K3, 3 or the K5 hiding inside a nonplanar graph. A big enough graph can have so much going on it’s hard to find the pattern. But they’ll be there, in some group of five or six vertices with the right paths between them.

    It would make a good activity puzzle, if you could explain what to look for to kids.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Wednesday, 20 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , intuition, , reruns   

    Reading the Comics, July 16, 2016: More To Life Than Mathematics Edition 


    I know, it’s impolitic for me to say something like my title. But I noticed a particular rerun in this set of mathematically-themed comics. And it left me wondering if I should drop that from my daily routine. There are strips I read more out of a fear of missing out than anything else. Most of them are in perpetual reruns, though some of them are so delightful I wouldn’t dare drop them. (Here I mean Cul de Sac and Peanuts.) An individual comic takes typically little time to read, but add that up and it does take a while, especially on vacation or the like. I won’t actually change anything; I’m too stubborn in lazy ways for that. But it crosses my mind.

    Tim Lachowski’s Get A Life for the 14th is what set me off. Lachowski’s rerun this before, and I’ve mentioned it before, back in March of 2015 and back in November 2012. Given this I wonder if there’s a late-2013 or early-2014 reuse of the strip I failed to note around here. Or just missed, possibly because I was on vacation.

    Nicholas Gurewitch’s Perry Bible Fellowship reprint for the 14th gives me the title for this edition. It uses symbols and diagrams of mathematics for their graphical artistry, the sort of thing I’m surprised doesn’t get done more. Back in college the creative-writing-and-arts editor for the unread leftist weekly asked me to do a page of physics calculations as an aesthetic composition and I was glad to do it. Good notation has a beauty to it; I wonder if people would like mathematics more if they got to spend time at play with its shapes.

    Morrie Turner’s Wee Pals rerun for the 14th name-checks the New Math. The New Math was this attempt to reform mathematics in the 1970s. It was great for me, and my love remembers only liking or understanding mathematics while in New Math-guided classes. But it was an attempt at educational reform that didn’t promise that people at the cash registers would make change fast enough, and so was doomed to failure. (I am being reductive here. Much about the development of New Math went wrong, and it’s unfair to blame it all on the resistance of parents to new teaching methods. But educational reform always crashes hard against parents’ reasonable question, “Why should my child be your test case?”)

    Many of the New Math ideas grew out of the work of Nicholas Bourbaki, and the attempt to explain mathematics on completely rigorous logical foundations, as free from intuition as possible to get. That sounds like an odd thing to do; intuition is a guide to useful ways to spend one’s time and energy. But that supposes the intuition is good.

    Much of late 19th and early 20th century mathematics was spent discovering cases in which intuitive understandings of things were wrong. Deterministic systems can be unpredictable. A curve can be continuous at a single point and nowhere else in space. Infinitely large sets can be bigger or smaller than other sets. A line can wriggle around so much that it has a volume, it fills space. In that context wanting to ditch intuition a a once-useful but now-unreliable guide is not a bad idea.

    I like the New Math. I suppose we always like the way we first learned things. But I still think it’s got a healthy focus. The idea that mathematics is built on rules we agree to use, and that we are free to change if we find they’re not doing things we need, is true. It’s one easy to forget considering mathematics’ primary job, which has always been making trade, accounting, and record-keeping go smoothly. Changing those systems are perilous. But we should know something about how to pick tools to use.

    Zoe Piel’s At The Zoo for the 15th uses the blackboard-full-of-mathematics image to suggest deep thinking. (Toby the lion’s infatuated with the vet, which is why he’s thinking how to get her to visit again.) Really there’s a bunch of iconic cartoon images of deep thinking, including a mid-century-esque big-tin-box computer with reel-to-reel memory tape. Modern computers are vastly more powerful than that sort of 50s/60s contraption, but they’re worthless artistically if you want to suggest any deep thinking going on. You need stuff with moving parts for that, even in a still image.

    Scott Adams’s Dilbert Classics for the 16th originally ran the 21st of May, 1993. And it comes back to a practical use for mathematics and the sort of thing we do need to know how to calculate. It also uses the image of mathematics as obscurant nonsense.

    That tweet’s interesting in itself, although one of the respondents wonders if William meant astrology, often called “mathematics” at the time. That would be a fairer thing to call magic. But it would be only a century after William of Malmesbury’s death that Arabic numerals would become familiar in Europe. They would bring suspicions that merchants and moneylenders were trying to cheat their customers, by using these exotic specialist notations with unrecognizable rules, instead of the traditional and easy-to-follow Roman numerals. If this particular set of mathematics comics were mostly reruns, that’s all right; sometimes life is like that.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Monday, 18 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , birds, , ,   

    Reading the Comics, July 13, 2016: Catching Up On Vacation Week Edition 


    I confess I spent the last week on vacation, away from home and without the time to write about the comics. And it was another of those curiously busy weeks that happens when it’s inconvenient. I’ll try to get caught up ahead of the weekend. No promises.

    Art and Chip Samson’s The Born Loser for the 10th talks about the statistics of body measurements. Measuring bodies is one of the foundations of modern statistics. Adolphe Quetelet, in the mid-19th century, found a rough relationship between body mass and the square of a person’s height, used today as the base for the body mass index.Francis Galton spent much of the late 19th century developing the tools of statistics and how they might be used to understand human populations with work I will describe as “problematic” because I don’t have the time to get into how much trouble the right mind at the right idea can be.

    No attempt to measure people’s health with a few simple measurements and derived quantities can be fully successful. Health is too complicated a thing for one or two or even ten quantities to describe. Measures like height-to-waist ratios and body mass indices and the like should be understood as filters, the way temperature and blood pressure are. If one or more of these measurements are in dangerous ranges there’s reason to think there’s a health problem worth investigating here. It doesn’t mean there is; it means there’s reason to think it’s worth spending resources on tests that are more expensive in time and money and energy. And similarly just because all the simple numbers are fine doesn’t mean someone is perfectly healthy. But it suggests that the person is more likely all right than not. They’re guides to setting priorities, easy to understand and requiring no training to use. They’re not a replacement for thought; no guides are.

    Jeff Harris’s Shortcuts educational panel for the 10th is about zero. It’s got a mix of facts and trivia and puzzles with a few jokes on the side.

    I don’t have a strong reason to discuss Ashleigh Brilliant’s Pot-Shots rerun for the 11th. It only mentions odds in a way that doesn’t open up to discussing probability. But I do like Brilliant’s “Embrace-the-Doom” tone and I want to share that when I can.

    John Hambrock’s The Brilliant Mind of Edison Lee for the 13th of July riffs on the world’s leading exporter of statistics, baseball. Organized baseball has always been a statistics-keeping game. The Olympic Ball Club of Philadelphia’s 1837 rules set out what statistics to keep. I’m not sure why the game is so statistics-friendly. It must be in part that the game lends itself to representation as a series of identical events — pitcher throws ball at batter, while runners wait on up to three bases — with so many different outcomes.

    'Edison, let's discuss stats while we wait for the opening pitch.' 'Statistics? I have plenty of those. A hot dog has 400 calories and costs five dollars. A 12-ounce root beer has 38 grams of sugar.' 'I mean *player* stats.' 'Oh'. (To his grandfather instead) 'Did you know the average wait time to buy nachos is eight minutes and six seconds?'

    John Hambrock’s The Brilliant Mind of Edison Lee for the 13th of July, 2016. Properly speaking, the waiting time to buy nachos isn’t a player statistic, but I guess Edison Lee did choose to stop talking to his father for it. Which is strange considering his father’s totally natural and human-like word emission ‘Edison, let’s discuss stats while we wait for the opening pitch’.

    Alan Schwarz’s book The Numbers Game: Baseball’s Lifelong Fascination With Statistics describes much of the sport’s statistics and record-keeping history. The things recorded have varied over time, with the list of things mostly growing. The number of statistics kept have also tended to grow. Sometimes they get dropped. Runs Batted In were first calculated in 1880, then dropped as an inherently unfair statistic to keep; leadoff hitters were necessarily cheated of chances to get someone else home. How people’s idea of what is worth measuring changes is interesting. It speaks to how we change the ways we look at the same event.

    Dana Summers’s Bound And Gagged for the 13th uses the old joke about computers being abacuses and the like. I suppose it’s properly true that anything you could do on a real computer could be done on the abacus, just, with a lot ore time and manual labor involved. At some point it’s not worth it, though.

    Nate Fakes’s Break of Day for the 13th uses the whiteboard full of mathematics to denote intelligence. Cute birds, though. But any animal in eyeglasses looks good. Lab coats are almost as good as eyeglasses.

    LERBE ( O O - O - ), GIRDI ( O O O - - ), TACNAV ( O - O - O - ), ULDNOA ( O O O - O - ). When it came to measuring the Earth's circumference, there was a ( - - - - - - - - ) ( - - - - - ).

    David L Hoyt and Jeff Knurek’s Jumble for the 13th of July, 2016. The link will be gone sometime after mid-August I figure. I hadn’t thought of a student being baffled by using the same formula for an orange and a planet’s circumference because of their enormous difference in size. It feels authentic, though.

    David L Hoyt and Jeff Knurek’s Jumble for the 13th is about one of geometry’s great applications, measuring how large the Earth is. It’s something that can be worked out through ingenuity and a bit of luck. Once you have that, some clever argument lets you work out the distance to the Moon, and its size. And that will let you work out the distance to the Sun, and its size. The Ancient Greeks had worked out all of this reasoning. But they had to make observations with the unaided eye, without good timekeeping — time and position are conjoined ideas — and without photographs or other instantly-made permanent records. So their numbers are, to our eyes, lousy. No matter. The reasoning is brilliant and deserves respect.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Sunday, 17 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , ,   

    Bourbaki and How To Write Numbers, A Trifle 


    So my attempt at keeping the Reading the Comics posts to Sunday has crashed and burned again. This time for a good reason. As you might have read between the lines on my humor blog, I spent the past week on holiday and just didn’t have time to write stuff. I barely had time to read my comics. I’ll get around to it this week.

    In the meanwhile then I’d like to point people to the MathsByAGirl blog. The blog recently had an essay on Nicolas Bourbaki, who’s among the most famous mathematicians of the 20th century. Bourbaki is also someone with a tremendous and controversial legacy, one that I expect to touch on as I catch up on last week’s comics. If you don’t know the secret of Bourbaki then do go over and learn it. If you do, well, go over and read anyway. The author’s wondering whether to write more about Bourbaki’s mathematics and while I’m all in favor of that more people should say.

    And as I promised a trifle, let me point to something from my own humor blog. How To Write Out Numbers is an older trifle based on everyone’s love for copy-editing standards. I had forgotten I wrote it before digging it up for a week of self-glorifying posts last week. I hope folks around here like it too.

    Oh, one more thing: it’s the anniversary of the publishing of an admirable but incorrect proof of the four-color map theorem. It would take another century to get right. As I said Thursday, the five-color map theorem is easy. it’s that last color that’s hard.

    Vacations are grand but there is always that comfortable day or two once you’re back home.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Thursday, 14 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: coloring, , , , , New England, states, ,   

    Theorem Thursday: The Five-Color Map Theorem 


    People think mathematics is mostly counting and arithmetic. It’s what we get at when we say “do the math[s]”. It’s why the mathematician in the group is the one called on to work out what the tip should be. Heck, I attribute part of my love for mathematics to a Berenstain Bears book which implied being a mathematician was mostly about adding up sums in a base on the Moon, which is an irresistible prospect. In fact, usually counting and arithmetic are, at least, minor influences on real mathematics. There are legends of how catastrophically bad at figuring mathematical genius can be. But usually isn’t always, and this week I’d like to show off a case where counting things and adding things up lets us prove something interesting.

    The Five-Color Map Theorem.

    No, not four. I imagine anyone interested enough to read a mathematics blog knows the four-color map theorem. It says that you only need four colors to color a map. That’s true, given some qualifiers. No discontiguous chunks that need the same color. Two regions with the same color can touch at a point, they just can’t share a line or curve. The map is on a plane or the surface of a sphere. Probably some other requirements. I’m not going to prove that. Nobody has time for that. The best proofs we’ve figured out for it amount to working out how every map fits into one of a huge number of cases, and trying out each case. It’s possible to color each of those cases with only four colors, so, we’re done. Nice but unenlightening and way too long to deal with.

    The five-color map theorem is a lot like the four-color map theorem, with this difference: it says that you only need five colors to color a map. Same qualifiers as before. Yes, it’s true because the four-color map theorem is true and because five is more than four. We can do better than that. We can prove five colors are enough even without knowing whether four colors will do. And it’s easy. The ease of the five-color map theorem gave people reason to think four colors would be maybe harder but still manageable.

    The proof I want to show uses one of mathematicians’ common tricks. It employs the same principle which Hercules used to slay the Hydra, although it has less cauterizing lake-monster flesh with flaming torches, as that’s considered beneath the dignity of the Academy anymore except when grading finals for general-requirements classes. The part of the idea we do use is to take a problem which we might not be able to do and cut it down to one we can do. Properly speaking this is a kind of induction proof. In those we start from problems we can do and show that if we can do those, we can do all the complicated problems. But we come at it by cutting down complicated problems and making them simple ones.

    So suppose we start with a map that’s got some huge number of territories to color. I’m going to start with the United States states which were part of the Dominion of New England. As I’m sure I don’t need to remind any readers, American or otherwise, this was a 17th century attempt by the English to reorganize their many North American colonies into something with fewer administrative irregularities. It lasted almost long enough for the colonists to hear about it. At that point the Glorious Revolution happened (not involving the colonists) and everybody went back to what they were doing before.

    Please enjoy my little map of the place. It gives all the states a single color because I don’t really know how to use QGIS and it would probably make my day job easier if I did. (Well, QGIS is open-source software, so its interface is a disaster and its tutorials gibberish. The only way to do something with it is to take flaming torches to it.)

    Map showing New York, New Jersey, and New England (Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine) in a vast white space.

    States which, in their 17th-century English colonial form, were part of the Dominion of New England (1685-1689). More or less. If I’ve messed up don’t tell me as it doesn’t really matter for this problem.

    There’s eight regions here, eight states, so it’s not like we’re at the point we can’t figure how to color this with five different colors. That’s all right. I’m using this for a demonstration. Pretend the Dominion of New England is so complicated we can’t tell whether five colors are enough. Oh, and a spot of lingo: if five colors are enough to color the map we say the map is “colorable”. We say it’s “5-colorable” if we want to emphasize five is enough colors.

    So imagine that we erase the border between Maine and New Hampshire. Combine them into a single state over the loud protests of the many proud, scary Mainers. But if this simplified New England is colorable, so is the real thing. There’s at least one color not used for Greater New Hampshire, Vermont, or Massachusetts. We give that color to a restored Maine. If the simplified map can be 5-colored, so can the original.

    Maybe we can’t tell. Suppose the simplified map is still too complicated to make it obvious. OK, then. Cut out another border. How about we offend Roger Williams partisans and merge Rhode Island into Massachusetts? Massachusetts started out touching five other states, which makes it a good candidate for a state that needed a sixth color. With Rhode Island reduced to being a couple counties of the Bay State, Greater Massachusetts only touches four other states. It can’t need a sixth color. There’s at least one of our original five that’s free.

    OK, but, how does that help us find a color for Rhode Island? Maine it’s easy to see why there’s a free color. But Rhode Island?

    Well, it’ll have to be the same color as either Greater New Hampshire or Vermont or New York. At least one of them has to be available. Rhode Island doesn’t touch them. Connecticut’s color is out because Rhode Island shares a border with it. Same with Greater Massachusetts’s color. But we’ve got three colors for the taking.

    But is our reduced map 5-colorable? Even with Maine part of New Hampshire and Rhode Island part of Massachusetts it might still be too hard to tell. There’s six territories in it, after all. We can simplify things a little. Let’s reverse the treason of 1777 and put Vermont back into New York, dismissing New Hampshire’s claim on the territory as obvious absurdity. I am never going to be allowed back into New England. This Greater New York needs one color for itself, yes. And it touches four other states. But these neighboring states don’t touch each other. A restored Vermont could use the same color as New Jersey or Connecticut. Greater Massachusetts and Greater New Hampshire are unavailable, but there’s still two choices left.

    And now look at the map we have remaining. There’s five states in it: Greater New Hampshire, Greater Massachusetts, Greater New York, Regular Old Connecticut, and Regular old New Jersey. We have five colors. Obviously we can give the five territories different colors.

    This is one case, one example map. That’s all we need. A proper proof makes things more abstract, but uses the same pattern. Any map of a bunch of territories is going to have at least one territory that’s got at most five neighbors. Maybe it will have several. Look for one of them. If you find a territory with just one neighbor, such as Maine had, remove that border. You’ve got a simpler map and there must be a color free for the restored territory.

    If you find a territory with just two neighbors, such as Rhode Island, take your pick. Merge it with either neighbor. You’ll still have at least one color free for the restored territory. With three neighbors, such as Vermont or Connecticut, again you have your choice. Merge it with any of the three neighbors. You’ll have a simpler map and there’ll be at least one free color.

    If you have four neighbors, the way New York has, again pick a border you like and eliminate that. There is a catch. You can imagine one of the neighboring territories reaching out and wrapping around to touch the original state on more than one side. Imagine if Massachusetts ran far out to sea, looped back through Canada, and came back to touch New Jersey, Vermont from the north, and New York from the west. That’s more of a Connecticut stunt to pull, I admit. But that’s still all right. Most of the colonies tried this sort of stunt. And even if Massachusetts did that, we would have colors available. It would be impossible for Vermont and New Jersey to touch. We’ve got a theorem that proves it.

    Yes, it’s the Jordan Curve Theorem, here to save us right when we might get stuck. Just like I promised last week. In this case some part of the border of New York and Really Big Massachusetts serves as our curve. Either Vermont or New Jersey is going to be inside that curve, and the other state is outside. They can’t touch. Thank you.

    If you have five neighbors, the way Massachusetts has, well, maybe you’re lucky. We are here. None of its neighboring states touches more than two others. We can cut out a border easily and have colors to spare. But we could be in trouble. We could have a map in which all the bordering states touch three or four neighbors and that seems like it would run out of colors. Let me show a picture of that.

    The map shows a pentagonal region A which borders five regions, B, C, D, E, and F. Each of those regions borders three or four others. B is entirely enclosed by regions A, C, and D, although from B's perspective they're all enclosed by it.

    A hypothetical map with five regions named by an uninspired committee.

    So this map looks dire even when you ignore that line that looks like it isn’t connected where C and D come together. Flood fill didn’t run past it, so it must be connected. It just doesn’t look right. Everybody has four neighbors except the province of B, which has three. The province of A has got five. What can we do?

    Call on the Jordan Curve Theorem again. At least one of the provinces has to be landlocked, relative to the others. In this case, the borders of provinces A, D, and C come together to make a curve that keeps B in the inside and E on the outside. So we’re free to give B and E the same color. We treat this in the proof by doing a double merger. Erase the boundary between provinces A and B, and also that between provinces A and E. (Or you might merge B, A, and F together. It doesn’t matter. The Jordan Curve Theorem promises us there’ll be at least one choice and that’s all we need.)

    So there we have it. As long as we have a map that has some provinces with up to five neighbors, we can reduce the map. And reduce it again, if need be, and again and again. Eventually we’ll get to a map with only five provinces and that has to be 5-colorable.

    Just … now … one little nagging thing. We’re relying on there always being some province with at most five neighbors. Why can’t there be some horrible map where every province has six or more neighbors?

    Counting will tell us. Arithmetic will finish the job. But we have to get there by way of polygons.

    That is, the easiest way to prove this depends on a map with boundaries that are all polygons. That’s all right. Polygons are almost the polynomials of geometry. You can make a polygon that looks so much like the original shape the eye can’t tell the difference. Look at my Dominion of New England map. That’s computer-rendered, so it’s all polygons, and yet all those shore and river boundaries look natural.

    But what makes up a polygon? Well, it’s a bunch of straight lines. We call those ‘edges’. Each edge starts and ends at a corner. We call those ‘vertices’. These edges come around and close together to make a ‘face’, a territory like we’ve been talking about. We’re going to count all the regions that have a certain number of neighboring other regions.

    Specifically, F2 will represent however many faces there are that have two sides. F3 will represent however many faces there are that have three sides. F4 will represent however many faces there are that have four sides. F10 … yeah, you got this.

    One thing you didn’t get. The outside counts as a face. We need this to make the count come out right, so we can use some solid-geometry results. In my map that’s the vast white space that represents the Atlantic Ocean, the other United States, the other parts of Canada, the Great Lakes, all the rest of the world. So Maine, for example, belongs to F2 because it touches New Hampshire and the great unknown void of the rest of the universe. Rhode Island belongs to F3 similarly. New Hampshire’s in F4.

    Any map has to have at least one thing that’s in F2, F3, F4, or F5. They touch at most two, three, four or five neighbors. (If they touched more, they’d represent a face that was a polygon of even more sides.)

    How do we know? It comes from Euler’s Formula, which starts out describing the ways corners and edges and faces of a polyhedron fit together. Our map, with its polygon on the surface of the sphere, turns out to be just as good as a polyhedron. It looks a little less blocky, but that doesn’t show.

    By Euler’s Formula, there’s this neat relationship between the number of vertices, the number of edges, and the number of faces in a polyhedron. (This is the same Leonhard Euler famous for … well, everything in mathematics, really. But in this case it’s for his work with shapes.) It holds for our map too. Call the number of vertices V. Call the number of edges E. Call the number of faces F. Then:

    V - E + F = 2

    Always true. Try drawing some maps yourself, using simple straight lines, and see if it works. For that matter, look at my Really Really Simplified map and see if it doesn’t hold true still.

    One of those blocky diagrams of New York, New Jersey, and New England, done in that way transit maps look, only worse because I'm not so good at this.

    A very simplified blocky diagram of my Dominion of New England, with the vertices and edges highlighted so they’re easy to count if you want to do that.

    Here’s one of those insights that’s so obvious it’s hard to believe. Every edge ends in two vertices. Three edges meet at every vertex. (We don’t have more than three territories come together at a point. If that were to happen, we’d change the map a little to find our coloring and then put it back afterwards. Pick one of the territories and give it a disc of area from the four or five or more corners. The troublesome corner is gone. Once we’ve done with our proof, shrink the disc back down to nothing. Coloring done!) And therefore 2E = 3V .

    A polygon has the same number of edges as vertices, and if you don’t believe that then draw some and count. Every edge touches exactly two regions. Every vertex touches exactly three edges. So we can rework Euler’s formula. Multiply it by six and we get 6V - 6E + 6F = 12 . And from doubling the equation about edges and vertices equation in the last paragraph, 4E = 6V . So if we break up that 6E into 4E and 2E we can rewrite that Euler’s formula again. It becomes 6V - 4E - 2E + 6F = 12. 6V – 4E is zero, so, -2E + 6F = 12 .

    Do we know anything about F itself?

    Well, yeah. F = F_2 + F_3 + F_4 + F_5 + F_6 + \cdots . The number of faces has to equal the sum of the number of faces of two edges, and of three edges, and of four edges, and of five edges, and of six edges, and on and on. Counting!

    Do we know anything about how E and F relate?

    Well, yeah. A polygon in F2 has two edges. A polygon in F3 has three edges. A polygon in F4 has four edges. And each edge runs up against two faces. So therefore 2E = 2F_2 + 3F_3 + 4F_4 + 5F_5 + 6F_6 + \cdots . This goes on forever but that’s all right. We don’t need all these terms.

    Because here’s what we do have. We know that -2E + 6F = 12 . And we know how to write both E and F in terms of F2, F3, F4, and so on. We’re going to show at least one of these low-subscript Fsomethings has to be positive, that is, there has to be at least one of them.

    Start by just shoving our long sum expressions into the modified Euler’s Formula we had. That gives us this:

    -(2F_2 + 3F_3 + 4F_4 + 5F_5 + 6F_6 + \cdots) + 6(F_2 + F_3 + F_4 + F_5 + F_6 + \cdots) = 12

    Doesn’t look like we’ve got anywhere, does it? That’s all right. Multiply that -1 and that 6 into their parentheses. And then move the terms around, so that we group all the terms with F2 together, and all the terms with F3 together, and all the terms with F4 together, and so on. This gets us to:

    (-2 + 6) F_2 + (-3 + 6) F_3 + (-4 + 6) F_4 + (-5 + 6) F_5  + (-6 + 6) F_6 + (-7 + 6) F_7 + (-8 + 6) F_8 + \cdots = 12

    I know, that’s a lot of parentheses. And it adds negative numbers to positive which I guess we’re allowed to do but who wants to do that? Simplify things a little more:

    4 F_2 + 3 F_3 + 2 F_4 + 1 F_5 + 0 F_6 - 1 F_7 - 2 F_8 - \cdots = 12

    And now look at that. Each Fsubscript has to be zero or a positive number. You can’t have a negative number of shapes. If you can I don’t want to hear about it. Most of those Fsubscript‘s get multiplied by a negative number before they’re added up. But the sum has to be a positive number.

    There’s only one way that this sum can be a positive number. At least one of F2, F3, F4, or F5 has to be a positive number. So there must be at least one region with at most five neighbors. And that’s true without knowing anything about our map. So it’s true about the original map, and it’s true about a simplified map, and about a simplified-more map, and on and on.

    And that is why this hydra-style attack method always works. We can always simplify a map until it obviously can be colored with five colors. And we can go from that simplified map back to the original map, and color it in just fine. Formally, this is an existence proof: it shows there must be a way to color a map with five colors. But it does so the devious way, by showing a way to color the map. We don’t get enough existence proofs like that. And, at its critical point, we know the proof is true because we can count the number of regions and the number of edges and the number of corners they have. And we can add and subtract those numbers in the right way. Just like people imagine mathematicians do all day.

    Properly this works only on the surface of a sphere. Euler’s Formula, which we use for the proof, depends on that. We get away with it on a piece of paper because we can pretend this is just a part of the globe so small we don’t see how flat it is. The vast white edge we suppose wraps around the whole world. And that’s fine since we mostly care about maps on flat surfaces or on globes. If we had a map that needed three dimensions, like one that looked at mining and water and overflight and land-use rights, things wouldn’t be so easy. Nor would they work at all if the map turned out to be on an exotic shape like a torus, a doughnut shape.

    But this does have a staggering thought. Suppose we drew boundary lines. And suppose we found an arrangement of them so that we needed more than five colors. This would tell us that we have to be living on a surface such as a torus, the doughnut shape. We could learn something about the way space is curved by way of an experiment that never looks at more than where two regions come together. That we can find information about the whole of space, global information, by looking only at local stuff amazes me. I hope it at least surprises you.

    From fiddling with this you probably figure the four-color map theorem should follow right away. Maybe involve a little more arithmetic but nothing too crazy. I agree, it so should. It doesn’t. Sorry.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Tuesday, 12 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: convolution, evolution, , ,   

    Reading the Comics, July 8, 2016: Filling Out The Week Edition 


    When I split last week’s mathematically-themed comics I had just supposed there’d be some more on Friday to note. Live and learn, huh? Well, let me close out last week with a not-too-long essay. Better a couple of these than a few Reading the Comics posts long enough to break your foot on.

    Adrian Raeside’s The Other Coastfor the 6th uses mathematics as a way to judge the fit and the unfit. (And Daryl isn’t even far wrong.) It’s understandable and the sort of thing people figure should flatter mathematicians. But it also plays on 19th-century social-Darwinist/eugenicist ideas which try binding together mental acuity and evolutionary “superiority”. It’s a cute joke but there is a nasty undercurrent.

    Wayno’s Waynovisionfor the 6th is this essay’s pie chart. Good to have.

    The Vent Diagram. The overlap of Annoying Stuff At Work and Annoying Stuff At Home is the bar stool.

    Hilary Price’s Rhymes With Orangefor the 7th of July, 2016. I don’t know how valid it is; I don’t use the bar stools, myself.

    Hilary Price’s Rhymes With Orangefor the 7th is this essay’s Venn Diagram joke. Good to have.

    Rich Powell’s Wide Open for the 7th shows a Western-style “Convolution Kid”. It’s shown here as just shouting numbers in-between a count so as to mess things up. That matches the ordinary definition and I’m amused with it as-is. Convolution is a good mathematical function, though one I don’t remember encountering until a couple years into my undergraduate career. It’s a binary operation, one that takes two functions and combines them into a new function. It turns out to be a natural way to understand signal processing. The original signal is one function. The way a processor changes a signal is another function. The convolution of the two is what actually comes out of the processing. Dividing this lets us study the behaviors of the processor separate from a particular problem.

    And it turns up in other contexts. We can use convolution to solve differential equations, which turn up everywhere. We need to solve the differential equation for a special particular boundary condition, one called the Dirac delta function. That’s a really weird one. You have no idea. And it can require incredible ingenuity to find a solution. But once you have, you can find solutions for every boundary condition. You convolute the solution for the special case and the boundary condition you’re interested in, and there you go. The work may be particularly hard for this one case, but it is only the one case.

    Basic Mathematics in Nature: A small mountain, a flock of birds flying in a less-than symbol, and a tall mountain.

    Daniel Beyer’s Long Story Shortfor the 9th of July, 2016. The link’s probably good for a month or so. If you’re in the far future don’t worry about telling me how the link turned out, though. It’s not that important that I know.

    Daniel Beyer’s Long Story Shortfor the 9th is this essay’s mathematical symbols joke. Good to have.

     
    • mathtuition88 3:33 am on Friday, 15 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      Nice. I don’t really get the “bar stool” part of the joke though. Any idea?

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 4:21 pm on Wednesday, 20 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        If I’m not reading it wrong, the comic means you share what’s annoying at work and annoying at home by going to the bar and venting about it. But yeah, as a Venn diagram the joke is a muddle. Most people haven’t got bar stools either at home or at work, so the strip takes more time to understand than the cartoonist probably expected.

        Liked by 1 person

    • elizabetcetera 8:51 am on Friday, 22 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      This was great! :)

      The mountain math cartoon is about my speed of understanding! And I loved the “vent” diagram … a good friend could be substitued for that bar stool and I’ve never been to a bar and laid out my woes for the barkeep — they don’t have time anyway and this must be an Irish thing, movie theme or old tradition from the past … I don’t know anyone who goes to bars to vent.

      Like

  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Sunday, 10 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , , , scams   

    Reading the Comics, July 6, 2016: Another Busy Week Edition 


    It’s supposed to be the summer vacation. I don’t know why Comic Strip Master Command is so eager to send me stuff. Maybe my standards are too loose. This doesn’t even cover all of last week’s mathematically-themed comics. I’ll need another that I’ve got set for Tuesday. I don’t mind.

    Corey Pandolph and Phil Frank and Joe Troise’s The Elderberries rerun for the 3rd features one of my favorite examples of applied probability. The game show Deal or No Deal offered contestants the prize within a suitcase they picked, or a dealer’s offer. The offer would vary up or down as non-selected suitcases were picked, giving the chance for people to second-guess themselves. It also makes a good redemption game. The banker’s offer would typically be less than the expectation value, what you’d get on average from all the available suitcases. But now and then the dealer offered more than the expectation value and I got all ready to yell at the contestants.

    This particular strip focuses on a smaller question: can you pick which of the many suitcases held the grand prize? And with the right setup, yes, you can pick it reliably.

    Mac King and Bill King’s Magic in a Minute for the 3rd uses a bit of arithmetic to support a mind-reading magic trick. The instructions say to start with a number from 1 to 10 and do various bits of arithmetic which lead inevitably to 4. You can prove that for an arbitrary number, or you can just try it for all ten numbers. That’s tedious but not hard and it’ll prove the inevitability of 4 here. There aren’t many countries with names that start with ‘D’; Denmark’s surely the one any American (or European) reader is likeliest to name. But Dominica, the Dominican Republic, and Djibouti would also be answers. (List Of Countries Of The World.com also lists Dhekelia, which I never heard of either.) Anyway, with Denmark forced, ‘E’ almost begs for ‘elephant’. I suppose ’emu’ would do too, or ‘echidna’. And ‘elephant’ almost forces ‘grey’ for a color, although ‘white’ would be plausible too. A magician has to know how things like this work.

    Werner Wejp-Olsen’s feature Inspector Danger’s Crime Quiz for the 4th features a mathematician as victim of the day’s puzzle murder. I admit I’m skeptical of deathbed identifications of murderers like this, but it would spoil a lot of puzzle mysteries if we disallowed them. (Does anyone know how often a deathbed identification actually happens?) I can’t make the alleged answer make any sense to me. Danger of the trade in murder puzzles.

    Kris Straub’s Starship for the 4th uses mathematics as a stand-in for anything that’s hard to study and solve. I’m amused.

    Edison Lee tells his grandfather how if the universe is infinitely large, then it's possible there's an exact duplicate to him. This makes his grandfather's head explode. Edison's father says 'I see you've been pondering incomprehensibles again'. Headless grandfather says 'I need a Twinkie.'

    John Hambrock’s The Brilliant Mind of Edison lee for the 6th of July, 2016. I’m a little surprised the last panel wasn’t set on a duplicate Earth where things turned out a little differently.

    John Hambrock’s The Brilliant Mind of Edison lee for the 6th is about the existentialist dread mathematics can inspire. Suppose there is a chance, within any given volume of space, of Earth being made. Well, it happened at least once, didn’t it? If the universe is vast enough, it seems hard to argue that there wouldn’t be two or three or, really, infinitely many versions of Earth. It’s a chilling thought. But it requires some big suppositions, most importantly that the universe actually is infinite. The observable universe, the one we can ever get a signal from, certainly isn’t. The entire universe including the stuff we can never get to? I don’t know that that’s infinite. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s impossible to say, for good reason. Anyway, I’m not worried about it.

    Jim Meddick’s Monty for the 6th is part of a storyline in which Monty is worshipped by tiny aliens who resemble him. They’re a bit nerdy, and calculate before they understand the relevant units. It’s a common mistake. Understand the problem before you start calculating.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Saturday, 9 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: celestial mechanics, ,   

    Why Stuff Can Orbit: Why It’s Waiting 


    I can’t imagine people are going to be surprised to hear this. But I have to put the “Why Stuff Can Orbit” series. It’s about central forces and what circumstances make it possible for something to have a stable orbit. I mean to get back to it. It’s just that the Theorem Thursday posts take up a lot of thinking on my part. They end up running quite long and detailed. I figure to get back to it once I’ve exhausted the Theorem Thursday topics I have in mind, which should be shortly into August.

    It happens I’d run across a WordPress blog that contained the whole of the stable-central-orbits argument, in terse but legitimate terms. I wanted to link to that now but the site’s been deleted for reasons I won’t presume to guess. I have guesses. Sorry.

    But for some other interesting reading, here’s a bit about Immanuel Kant:

    I have long understood, and passed on, that Immanuel Kant had the insight that the laws of physics tell us things about the geometry of space and vice-versa. I haven’t had the chance yet to read Francisco Caruso and Roberto Moreira Xavier’s On Kant’s First Insight into the Problem of Space Dimensionality and its Physical Foundations. But the abstract promises “a conclusion that does not match the usually accepted interpretation of Kant’s reasoning”. I would imagine this to be an interesting introduction to the question, then, and to what might be controversial about Kant and the number of dimensions space should have. Also we need to use the word “tridimensionality” more.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Thursday, 7 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , ,   

    Theorem Thursday: The Jordan Curve Theorem 


    There are many theorems that you have to get fairly far into mathematics to even hear of. Often they involve things that are so abstract and abstruse that it’s hard to parse just what we’re studying. This week’s entry is not one of them.

    The Jordan Curve Theorem.

    There are a couple of ways to write this. I’m going to fall back on the version that Richard Courant and Herbert Robbins put in the great book What Is Mathematics?. It’s a theorem in the field of topology, the study of how shapes interact. In particular it’s about simple, closed curves on a plane. A curve is just what you figure it should be. It’s closed if it … uh … closes, makes a complete loop. It’s simple if it doesn’t cross itself or have any disconnected bits. So, something you could draw without lifting pencil from paper and without crossing back over yourself. Have all that? Good. Here’s the theorem:

    A simple closed curve in the plane divides that plane into exactly two domains, an inside and an outside.

    It’s named for Camille Jordan, a French mathematician who lived from 1838 to 1922, and who’s renowned for work in group theory and topology. It’s a different Jordan from the one named in Gauss-Jordan Elimination, which is a matrix thing that’s important but tedious. It’s also a different Jordan from Jordan Algebras, which I remember hearing about somewhere.

    The Jordan Curve Theorem is proved by reading its proposition and then saying, “Duh”. This is compelling, although it lacks rigor. It’s obvious if your curve is a circle, or a slightly squished circle, or a rectangle or something like that. It’s less obvious if your curve is a complicated labyrinth-type shape.

    A labyrinth drawn in straight and slightly looped lines.

    A generic complicated maze shape. Can you pick out which part is the inside and which the outside? Pretend you don’t notice that little peninsula thing in the upper right corner. I didn’t mean the line to overlap itself but I was using too thick a brush in ArtRage and didn’t notice before I’d exported the image.

    It gets downright hard if the curve has a lot of corners. This is why a completely satisfying rigorous proof took decades to find. There are curves that are nowhere differentiable, that are nothing but corners, and those are hard to deal with. If you think there’s no such thing, then remember the Koch Snowflake. That’s that triangle sticking up from the middle of a straight line, that itself has triangles sticking up in the middle of its straight lines, and littler triangles still sticking up from the straight lines. Carry that on forever and you have a shape that’s continuous but always changing direction, and this is hard to deal with.

    Still, you can have a good bit of fun drawing a complicated figure, then picking a point and trying to work out whether it’s inside or outside the curve. The challenging way to do that is to view your figure as a maze and look for a path leading outside. The easy way is to draw a new line. I recommend doing that in a different color.

    In particular, draw a line from your target point to the outside. Some definitely outside point. You need the line to not be parallel to any of the curve’s line segments. And it’s easier if you don’t happen to intersect any vertices, but if you must, we’ll deal with that two paragraphs down.

    A dot with a testing line that crosses the labyrinth curve six times, and therefore is outside the curve.

    A red dot that turns out to be outside the labyrinth, based on the number of times the testing line, in blue, crosses the curve. I learned doing this that I should have drawn the dot and blue line first and then fit a curve around it so I wouldn’t have to work so hard to find one lousy point and line segment that didn’t have some problems.

    So draw your testing line here from the point to something definitely outside. And count how many times your testing line crosses the original curve. If the testing line crosses the original curve an even number of times then the original point was outside the curve. If the testing line crosses the original an odd number of times then the original point was inside of the curve. Done.

    If your testing line touches a vertex, well, then it gets fussy. It depends whether the two edges of the curve that go into that vertex stay on the same side as your testing line. If the original curve’s edges stay on the same side of your testing line, then don’t count that as a crossing. If the edges go on opposite sides of the testing line, then that does count as one crossing. With that in mind, carry on like you did before. An even number of crossings means your point was outside. An odd number of crossings means your point was inside.

    The testing line touches a corner of the curve. The curve comes up to and goes away from the same side as the testing line.

    This? Doesn’t count as the blue testing line crossing the black curve.


    The testing line touches a corner of the curve. The curve crosses over, with legs on either side of the testing line at that point.

    This? This counts as the blue testing line crossing the black curve.

    So go ahead and do this a couple times with a few labyrinths and sample points. It’s fun and elevates your doodling to the heights of 19th-century mathematics. Also once you’ve done that a couple times you’ve proved the Jordan curve theorem.

    Well, no, not quite. But you are most of the way to proving it for a special case. If the curve is a polygon, a shape made up of a finite number of line segments, then you’ve got almost all the proof done. You have to finish it off by choosing a ray, a direction, that isn’t parallel to any of the polygon’s line segments. (This is one reason this method only works for polygons, and fails for stuff like the Koch Snowflake. It also doesn’t work well with space-filling curves, which are things that exist. Yes, those are what they sound like: lines that squiggle around so much they fill up area. Some can fill volume. I swear. It’s fractal stuff.) Imagine all the lines that are parallel to that ray. There’s definitely some point along that line that’s outside the curve. You’ll need that for reference. Classify all the points on that line by whether there’s an even or an odd number of crossings between a starting point and your reference definitely-outside point. Keep doing that for all these many parallel lines.

    And that’s it. The mess of points that have an odd number of intersections are the inside. The mess of points that have an even number of intersections are the outside.

    You won’t be surprised to know there’s versions of the Jordan curve theorem for solid objects in three-dimensional space. And for hyperdimensional spaces too. You can always work out an inside and an outside, as long as space isn’t being all weird. But it might sound like it’s not much of a theorem. So you can work out an inside and an outside; so what?

    But it’s one of those great utility theorems. It pops in to places, the perfect tool for a problem you were just starting to notice existed. If I can get my rhetoric organized I hope to show that off next week, when I figure to do the Five-Color Map Theorem.

     
    • howardat58 7:00 pm on Thursday, 7 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      Richard Courant and Herbert Robbins: What Is Mathematics?.

      My bedside book, since 1961.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Joseph Nebus 4:10 am on Saturday, 9 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        I’d first read it as an undergraduate and it was one of my first online book purchases. I do keep dipping into it and finding things I feel like I should write about here. But then I have to think of something to add to it. In my case, that’s jokes, mostly.

        Like

    • mathtuition88 4:45 am on Friday, 8 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      Very interesting. Jordan Curve Theorem shows the rigor of math in action.

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 4:15 am on Saturday, 9 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        I like it for being the sort of theorem that seems too obvious to be useful. I have got it scheduled to be used in next Thursday’s post.

        Liked by 1 person

    • Mark Jackson 12:18 am on Sunday, 17 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      “You won’t be surprised to know there’s versions of the Jordan curve theorem for solid objects in three-dimensional space.” Not that I ought to doubt this, but the counterintuitive discovery that the 3-sphere can be everted sprang to mind, and now I’m worried.

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 4:42 pm on Wednesday, 20 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        It’s a good worry and I’ll admit this is getting deeper into topology than I’m trained in. My suspicion is that the possible self-intersections of a sphere being turned inside-out cause it to fall outside the bounds of the Jordan-Brouwer Separation Theorem. I don’t have a good argument that has to be the case though; that’s just where I would start looking.

        Like

  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Tuesday, 5 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , ,   

    Reading the Comics, July 2, 2016: Ripley’s Edition 


    As I said Sunday, there were more mathematics-mentioning comic strips than I expected last week. So do please read this little one and consider it an extra. The best stuff to talk about is from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, which may or may not count as a comic strip. Depends how you view these things.

    Randy Glasbergen’s Glasbergen Cartoons for the 29th just uses arithmetic as the sort of problem it’s easiest to hide in bed from. We’ve all been there. And the problem doesn’t really enter into the joke at all. It’s just easy to draw.

    John Graziano’s Ripley’s Believe It Or Not on the 29th shows off a bit of real trivia: that 599 is the smallest number whose digits add up to 23. And yet it doesn’t say what the largest number is. That’s actually fair enough. There isn’t one. If you had a largest number whose digits add up to 23, you could get a bigger one by multiplying it by ten: 5990, for example. Or otherwise add a zero somewhere in the digits: 5099; or 50,909; or 50,909,000. If we ignore zeroes, though, there are finitely many different ways to write a number with digits that add up to 23. This is almost an example of a partition problem. Partitions are about how to break up a set of things into groups of one or more. But in a partition proper we don’t really care about the order: 5-9-9 is as good as 9-9-5. But we can see some minor differences between 599 and 995 as numbers. I imagine there must be a name for the sort of partition problem in which order matters, but I don’t know what it is. I’ll take nominations if someone’s heard of one.

    Graziano’s Ripley’s sneaks back in here the next day, too, with a trivia almost as baffling as the proper credit for the strip. I don’t know what Graziano is getting at with the claim that Ancient Greeks didn’t consider “one” to be a number. None of the commenters have an idea either and my exhaustive minutes of researching haven’t worked it out.

    But I wouldn’t blame the Ancient Greeks for finding something strange about 1. We find something strange about it too. Most notably, of all the counting numbers 1 falls outside the classifications of “prime” and “composite”. It fits into its own special category, “unity”. It divides into every whole number evenly; only it and zero do that, if you don’t consider zero to be a whole number. It’s the multiplicative identity, and it’s the numerator in the set of unit fractions — one-half and one-third and one-tenth and all that — the first fractions that people understand. There’s good reasons to find something exceptional about 1.

    dro-mo for the 30th somehow missed both Pi Day and Tau Day. I imagine it’s a rerun that the artist wasn’t watching too closely.

    Aaron McGruder’s The Boondocks rerun for the 2nd concludes that storyline I mentioned on Sunday about Riley not seeing the point of learning subtraction. It’s always the motivation problem.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Sunday, 3 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , cheating, fairy tales, , ,   

    Reading the Comics, June 29, 2016: Math Is Just This Hard Stuff, Right? Edition 


    We’ve got into that stretch of the year when (United States) schools are out of session. Comic Strip Master Command seems to have thus ordered everyone to clean out their mathematics gags, even if they didn’t have any particularly strong ones. There were enough the past week I’m breaking this collection into two segments, though. And the first segment, I admit, is mostly the same joke repeated.

    Russell Myers’s Broom Hilda for the 27th is the type case for my “Math Is Just This Hard Stuff, Right?” name here. In fairness to Broom Hilda, mathematics is a lot harder now than it was 1,500 years ago. It’s fair not being able to keep up. There was a time that finding roots of third-degree polynomials was the stuff of experts. Today it’s within the powers of any Boring Algebra student, although she’ll have to look up the formula for it.

    John McPherson’s Close To Home for the 27th is a bunch of trigonometry-cheat tattoos. I’m sure some folks have gotten mathematics tattoos that include … probably not these formulas. They’re not beautiful enough. Maybe some diagrams of triangles and the like, though. The proof of the Pythagoran Theorem in Euclid’s Elements, for example, includes this intricate figure I would expect captures imaginations and could be appreciated as a beautiful drawing.

    Missy Meyer’s Holiday Doodles observed that the 28th was “Tau Day”, which takes everything I find dubious about “Pi Day” and matches it to the silly idea that we would somehow make life better by replacing π with a symbol for 2π.

    Ginger Bread Boulevard: a witch with her candy house, and a witch with a house made of a Geometry book, a compass, erasers, that sort of thing. 'I'll eat any kid, but my sister prefers the nerdy ones.' Bonus text in the title panel: 'Cme on in, little child, we'll do quadratic equations'.

    Hilary Price’s Rhymes With Orange for the 29th of June, 2016. I like the Number-two-pencil fence.

    Hilary Price’s Rhymes With Orange for the 29th uses mathematics as the way to sort out nerds. I can’t say that’s necessarily wrong. It’s interesting to me that geometry and algebra communicate “nerdy” in a shorthand way that, say, an obsession with poetry or history or other interests wouldn’t. It wouldn’t fit the needs of this particular strip, but I imagine that a well-diagrammed sentence would be as good as a page full of equations for expressing nerdiness. The title card’s promise of doing quadratic equations would have worked on me as a kid, but I thought they sounded neat and exotic and something to discover because they sounded hard. When I took Boring High School Algebra that charm wore off.

    Aaron McGruder’s The Boondocks rerun for the 29th starts a sequence of Riley doubting the use of parts of mathematics. The parts about making numbers smaller. It’s a better-than-normal treatment of the problem of getting a student motivated. The strip originally ran the 18th of April, 2001, and the story continued the several days after that.

    Bill Whitehead’s Free Range for the 29th uses Boring Algebra as an example of the stuff kinds have to do for homework.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 6:00 pm on Saturday, 2 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , ,   

    How June 2016 Treated My Mathematics Blog 


    I like the nice block-form style organization my monthly vanity post, as I used last month. So I’ll stick with that another month.

    Readership Numbers:

    My raw readership was up a little bit in June! It came to 1,099 page views, breaking that important psychological barrier of a thousand. May had a mere 981 page views. April had 1,500 but that was a month when I posted something every single day, which is quite the strain. June I cut back to sixteen posts in the month, although five of them were the challenging Theorem Thursdays posts. I like those, but the more I figure one is going to be a quick, easy little thing to dash off the longer it is. I don’t understand the dynamic there.

    And yet the number of unique visitors dropped. There were 598 visitors in June, compared to the 627 in May, and the 757 in April. I’ll chalk the difference up to archive-binging. That’s comforting to think .

    The number of likes received rose to 155. It had been at 133 in May, but at 345 in the busy month of April. The number of comments which weren’t just linkbacks rose from 22 to 37, which makes me feel a bit more confident that I’m actually interesting people here. I’m not sure how many of those are responses I finally got around to making from comments people posted in May, though. It’s just too easy to take an evening off and then be suddenly three weeks behind.

    Popular Posts:

    There were quite a few popular posts this time around. Everything in the top ten had at least thirty page views, which used to be the biggest thing of the month. It’s about the mix of subjects I might have guessed:

    Listing Countries:

    Which countries sent me the most readers? The ones you’d expect if you’ve seen this before:

    • United States (640)
    • Canada (40)
    • United Kingdom (36)
    • Australia (34)
    • Germany (33)

    (India’s in seventh place, at 30. Singapore sent me eleven page views. Poland’s nowhere to be seen.)

    Single-reader countries this time around were:

    • Albania
    • Angola
    • European Union (******)
    • Honduras
    • Jamaica
    • Japan
    • New Zealand
    • Norway
    • Paraguay
    • Sweden
    • Ukraine

    My European Union reader has checked in for exactly one page for seven months in a row now. No other countries are on a two-month or other streak.

    Search Terms Non-Poetry:

    The real news is that the mysterious “origin is the gateway to your entire gaming universe” did not appear in my search terms this month. Some of the stuff that did, though:

    I’m glad I could help with some of these at least. I’m not sure what’s meant by keeping a trapezium horizontal. Maybe if it’s a right trapezium and the only slanted side is the one on top? I would pick the longer of the parallel legs as “the” base in that case.

    Counting Readers:

    If I make this out right, July starts with my page having 38,337 views from 15,498 recorded distinct visitors. Also that my most popular day for being read is Sunday, at 3 pm. Sunday seems unambiguous enough but I don’t know what time zone that 3:00 is. I set most of my posts to appear at 3 pm UTC, which right now is about 11 am Eastern. Maybe I should spend July posting stuff at 5 pm UTC to see if that clears up what time zone this means.

    WordPress reports me as starting the month at 597 readers through the site, which is considerably up from the start of June’s 586. I mean considerably for me. Still eleven e-mail followers, which feels like it’s too many people to address individually and too few people to address impersonally. I make up such complicated problems for myself.

    On the upper right of these pages should be a little blue button to “Follow Another NebusResearch”. Under that should be a Follow By E-Mail button, if you want to make it twelve. I’m on Twitter, if you want to see me on Twitter. If none of that interests you, all right. This little performance-review post is done anyway. Thanks for being here.

     
    • ivasallay 5:12 am on Sunday, 3 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      I had to smile when you wrote that quick posts always seem to turn into longer ones. For me the posts might not become long, but writing them often takes too much time. Writing anything takes me longer than I think it will. Even this comment took much longer than the 30 seconds I thought it would.

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 7:02 am on Sunday, 3 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        It’s some perverse law of the universe. I really figured the Liouville’s Theorem thing would be twenty minutes of writing and it came out instead something like 2500 words.

        The other perverse thing is the stuff I dash off without an effort is the most popular stuff of the month. The thing I spend 2500 words on sinks without a trace. Although I understand people who study blog metrics say that longer-form stuff may start less popular but it holds on to that readership over time, while short-form stuff may last a week but not after that.

        Like

    • elkement (Elke Stangl) 6:35 am on Monday, 4 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      Some day I will record all my clicks on your blog in one month – so I can prove that there were a substantial number of clicks from Austria ;-) As mentioned before, my experiments with Ad Blockers and other ‘browser security hardening’ seem to screw up WordPress’ click detection methods.

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 4:09 am on Saturday, 9 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        Aw, thanks. I’m confident you’re reading. It’s just getting WordPress to admit it that’s the hard part.

        Liked by 1 person

  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Thursday, 30 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , factorials, , , , , , ,   

    Theorem Thursday: Liouville’s Approximation Theorem And How To Make Your Own Transcendental Number 


    As I get into the second month of Theorem Thursdays I have, I think, the whole roster of weeks sketched out. Today, I want to dive into some real analysis, and the study of numbers. It’s the sort of thing you normally get only if you’re willing to be a mathematics major. I’ll try to be readable by people who aren’t. If you carry through to the end and follow directions you’ll have your very own mathematical construct, too, so enjoy.

    Liouville’s Approximation Theorem

    It all comes back to polynomials. Of course it does. Polynomials aren’t literally everything in mathematics. They just come close. Among the things we can do with polynomials is divide up the real numbers into different sets. The tool we use is polynomials with integer coefficients. Integers are the positive and the negative whole numbers, stuff like ‘4’ and ‘5’ and ‘-12’ and ‘0’.

    A polynomial is the sum of a bunch of products of coefficients multiplied by a variable raised to a power. We can use anything for the variable’s name. So we use ‘x’. Sometimes ‘t’. If we want complex-valued polynomials we use ‘z’. Some people trying to make a point will use ‘y’ or ‘s’ but they’re just showing off. Coefficients are just numbers. If we know the numbers, great. If we don’t know the numbers, or we want to write something that doesn’t commit us to any particular numbers, we use letters from the start of the alphabet. So we use ‘a’, maybe ‘b’ if we must. If we need a lot of numbers, we use subscripts: a0, a1, a2, and so on, up to some an for some big whole number n. To talk about one of these without committing ourselves to a specific example we use a subscript of i or j or k: aj, ak. It’s possible that aj and ak equal each other, but they don’t have to, unless j and k are the same whole number. They might also be zero, but they don’t have to be. They can be any numbers. Or, for this essay, they can be any integers. So we’d write a generic polynomial f(x) as:

    f(x) = a_0 + a_1 x + a_2 x^2 + a_3 x^3 + \cdots + a_{n - 1}x^{n - 1} + a_n x^n

    (Some people put the coefficients in the other order, that is, a_n + a_{n - 1}x + a_{n - 2}x^2 and so on. That’s not wrong. The name we give a number doesn’t matter. But it makes it harder to remember what coefficient matches up with, say, x14.)

    A zero, or root, is a value for the variable (‘x’, or ‘t’, or what have you) which makes the polynomial equal to zero. It’s possible that ‘0’ is a zero, but don’t count on it. A polynomial of degree n — meaning the highest power to which x is raised is n — can have up to n different real-valued roots. All we’re going to care about is one.

    Rational numbers are what we get by dividing one whole number by another. They’re numbers like 1/2 and 5/3 and 6. They’re numbers like -2.5 and 1.0625 and negative a billion. Almost none of the real numbers are rational numbers; they’re exceptional freaks. But they are all the numbers we actually compute with, once we start working out digits. Thus we remember that to live is to live paradoxically.

    And every rational number is a root of a first-degree polynomial. That is, there’s some polynomial f(x) = a_0 + a_1 x that’s made zero for your polynomial. It’s easy to tell you what it is, too. Pick your rational number. You can write that as the integer p divided by the integer q. Now look at the polynomial f(x) = p – q x. Astounded yet?

    That trick will work for any rational number. It won’t work for any irrational number. There’s no first-degree polynomial with integer coefficients that has the square root of two as a root. There are polynomials that do, though. There’s f(x) = 2 – x2. You can find the square root of two as the zero of a second-degree polynomial. You can’t find it as the zero of any lower-degree polynomials. So we say that this is an algebraic number of the second degree.

    This goes on higher. Look at the cube root of 2. That’s another irrational number, so no first-degree polynomials have it as a root. And there’s no second-degree polynomials that have it as a root, not if we stick to integer coefficients. Ah, but f(x) = 2 – x3? That’s got it. So the cube root of two is an algebraic number of degree three.

    We can go on like this, although I admit examples for higher-order algebraic numbers start getting hard to justify. Most of the numbers people have heard of are either rational or are order-two algebraic numbers. I can tell you truly that the eighth root of two is an eighth-degree algebraic number. But I bet you don’t feel enlightened. At best you feel like I’m setting up for something. The number r(5), the smallest radius a disc can have so that five of them will completely cover a disc of radius 1, is eighth-degree and that’s interesting. But you never imagined the number before and don’t have any idea how big that is, other than “I guess that has to be smaller than 1”. (It’s just a touch less than 0.61.) I sound like I’m wasting your time, although you might start doing little puzzles trying to make smaller coins cover larger ones. Do have fun.

    Liouville’s Approximation Theorem is about approximating algebraic numbers with rational ones. Almost everything we ever do is with rational numbers. That’s all right because we can make the difference between the number we want, even if it’s r(5), and the numbers we can compute with, rational numbers, as tiny as we need. We trust that the errors we make from this approximation will stay small. And then we discover chaos science. Nothing is perfect.

    For example, suppose we need to estimate π. Everyone knows we can approximate this with the rational number 22/7. That’s about 3.142857, which is all right but nothing great. Some people know we can approximate it as 333/106. (I didn’t until I started writing this paragraph and did some research.) That’s about 3.141509, which is better. Then there’s 355/113, which is not as famous as 22/7 but is a celebrity compared to 333/106. That’s about 3.141529. Then we get into some numbers only mathematics hipsters know: 103993/33102 and 104348/33215 and so on. Fine.

    The Liouville Approximation Theorem is about sequences that converge on an irrational number. So we have our first approximation x1, that’s the integer p1 divided by the integer q1. So, 22 and 7. Then there’s the next approximation x2, that’s the integer p2 divided by the integer q2. So, 333 and 106. Then there’s the next approximation yet, x3, that’s the integer p3 divided by the integer q3. As we look at more and more approximations, xj‘s, we get closer and closer to the actual irrational number we want, in this case π. Also, the denominators, the qj‘s, keep getting bigger.

    The theorem speaks of having an algebraic number, call it x, of some degree n greater than 1. Then we have this limit on how good an approximation can be. The difference between the number x that we want, and our best approximation p / q, has to be larger than the number (1/q)n + 1. The approximation might be higher than x. It might be lower than x. But it will be off by at least the n-plus-first power of 1/q.

    Polynomials let us separate the real numbers into infinitely many tiers of numbers. They also let us say how well the most accessible tier of numbers, rational numbers, can approximate these more exotic things.

    One of the things we learn by looking at numbers through this polynomial screen is that there are transcendental numbers. These are numbers that can’t be the root of any polynomial with integer coefficients. π is one of them. e is another. Nearly all numbers are transcendental. But the proof that any particular number is one is hard. Joseph Liouville showed that transcendental numbers must exist by using continued fractions. But this approximation theorem tells us how to make our own transcendental numbers. This won’t be any number you or anyone else has ever heard of, unless you pick a special case. But it will be yours.

    You will need:

    1. a1, an integer from 1 to 9, such as ‘1’, ‘9’, or ‘5’.
    2. a2, another integer from 1 to 9. It may be the same as a1 if you like, but it doesn’t have to be.
    3. a3, yet another integer from 1 to 9. It may be the same as a1 or a2 or, if it so happens, both.
    4. a4, one more integer from 1 to 9 and you know what? Let’s summarize things a bit.
    5. A whopping great big gob of integers aj, every one of them from 1 to 9, for every possible integer ‘j’ so technically this is infinitely many of them.
    6. Comfort with the notation n!, which is the factorial of n. For whole numbers that’s the product of every whole number from 1 to n, so, 2! is 1 times 2, or 2. 3! is 1 times 2 times 3, or 6. 4! is 1 times 2 times 3 times 4, or 24. And so on.
    7. Not to be thrown by me writing -n!. By that I mean work out n! and then multiply that by -1. So -2! is -2. -3! is -6. -4! is -24. And so on.

    Now, assemble them into your very own transcendental number z, by this formula:

    z = a_1 \cdot 10^{-1} + a_2 \cdot 10^{-2!} + a_3 \cdot 10^{-3!} + a_4 \cdot 10^{-4!} + a_5 \cdot 10^{-5!} + a_6 \cdot 10^{-6!} \cdots

    If you’ve done it right, this will look something like:

    z = 0.a_{1}a_{2}000a_{3}00000000000000000a_{4}0000000 \cdots

    Ah, but, how do you know this is transcendental? We can prove it is. The proof is by contradiction, which is how a lot of great proofs are done. We show nonsense follows if the thing isn’t true, so the thing must be true. (There are mathematicians that don’t care for proof-by-contradiction. They insist on proof by charging straight ahead and showing a thing is true directly. That’s a matter of taste. I think every mathematician feels that way sometimes, to some extent or on some issues. The proof-by-contradiction is easier, at least in this case.)

    Suppose that your z here is not transcendental. Then it’s got to be an algebraic number of degree n, for some finite number n. That’s what it means not to be transcendental. I don’t know what n is; I don’t care. There is some n and that’s enough.

    Now, let’s let zm be a rational number approximating z. We find this approximation by taking the first m! digits after the decimal point. So, z1 would be just the number 0.a1. z2 is the number 0.a1a2. z3 is the number 0.a1a2000a3. I don’t know what m you like, but that’s all right. We’ll pick a nice big m.

    So what’s the difference between z and zm? Well, it can’t be larger than 10 times 10-(m + 1)!. This is for the same reason that π minus 3.14 can’t be any bigger than 0.01.

    Now suppose we have the best possible rational approximation, p/q, of your number z. Its first m! digits are going to be p / 10m!. This will be zm And by the Liouville Approximation Theorem, then, the difference between z and zm has to be at least as big as (1/10m!)(n + 1).

    So we know the difference between z and zm has to be larger than one number. And it has to be smaller than another. Let me write those out.

    \frac{1}{10^{m! (n + 1)}} < |z - z_m | < \frac{10}{10^{(m + 1)!}}

    We don’t need the z – zm anymore. That thing on the rightmost side we can write what I’ll swear is a little easier to use. What we have left is:

    \frac{1}{10^{m! (n + 1)}} < \frac{1}{10^{(m + 1)! - 1}}

    And this will be true whenever the number m! (n + 1) is greater than (m + 1)! – 1 for big enough numbers m.

    But there’s the thing. This isn’t true whenever m is greater than n. So the difference between your alleged transcendental number and its best-possible rational approximation has to be simultaneously bigger than a number and smaller than that same number without being equal to it. Supposing your number is anything but transcendental produces nonsense. Therefore, congratulations! You have a transcendental number.

    If you chose all 1’s for your aj‘s, then you have what is sometimes called the Liouville Constant. If you didn’t, you may have a transcendental number nobody’s ever noticed before. You can name it after someone if you like. That’s as meaningful as naming a star for someone and cheaper. But you can style it as weaving someone’s name into the universal truth of mathematics. Enjoy!

    I’m glad to finally give you a mathematics essay that lets you make something you can keep.

     
    • Andrew Wearden 3:29 pm on Thursday, 30 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      Admittedly, I do have an undergrad math degree, but I thought you did a good job explaining this. Out of curiosity, is there a reason you can’t use the integer ‘0’ when creating a transcendental number?

      Liked by 1 person

      • Joseph Nebus 6:45 am on Sunday, 3 July, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        Thank you. I’m glad you followed.

        If I’m not missing a trick there’s no reason you can’t slip a couple of zeroes in to the transcendental number. But there is a problem if you have nothing but zeroes after some point. If, say, everything from a_9 on were zero, then you’d have a rational number, which is as un-transcendental as it gets. So it’s easier to build a number without electing zeroes rather than work out a rule that allows zeroes only in non-dangerous configurations.

        Like

  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Tuesday, 28 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , ,   

    Reading the Comics, June 25, 2016: What The Heck, Why Not Edition 


    I had figured to do Reading the Comics posts weekly, and then last week went and gave me too big a flood of things to do. I have no idea what the rest of this week is going to look like. But given that I had four strips dated before last Sunday I’m going to err on the side of posting too much about comic strips.

    Scott Metzger’s The Bent Pinky for the 24th uses mathematics as something that dogs can be adorable about not understanding. Thus all the heads tilted, as if it were me in a photograph. The graph here is from economics, which has long had a challenging relationship with mathematics. This particular graph is qualitative; it doesn’t exactly match anything in the real world. But it helps one visualize how we might expect changes in the price of something to affect its sales. A graph doesn’t need to be precise to be instructional.

    Dave Whamond’s Reality Check for the 24th is this essay’s anthropomorphic-numerals joke. And it’s a reminder that something can be quite true without being reassuring. It plays on the difference between “real” numbers and things that really exist. It’s hard to think of a way that a number such as two could “really” exist that doesn’t also allow the square root of -1 to “really” exist.

    And to be a bit curmudgeonly, it’s a bit sloppy to speak of “the square root of negative one”, even though everyone does. It’s all right to expand the idea of square roots to cover stuff it didn’t before. But there’s at least two numbers that would, squared, equal -1. We usually call them i and -i. Square roots naturally have this problem,. Both +2 and -2 squared give us 4. We pick out “the” square root by selecting the positive one of the two. But neither i nor -i is “positive”. (Don’t let the – sign fool you. It doesn’t count.) You can’t say either i or -i is greater than zero. It’s not possible to define a “greater than” or “less than” for complex-valued numbers. And that’s even before we get into quaternions, in which we summon two more “square roots” of -1 into existence. Octonions can be even stranger. I don’t blame 1 for being worried.

    Zach Weinersmith’s Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal for the 24th is a pleasant bit of pop-mathematics debunking. I’ve explained in the past how I’m a doubter of the golden ratio. The Fibonacci Sequence has a bit more legitimate interest to it. That’s sequences of numbers in which the next term is the sum of the previous two terms. The famous one of that is 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, et cetera. It may not surprise you to know that the Fibonacci Sequence has a link to the golden ratio. As it goes on, the ratio between one term and the next one gets close to the golden ratio.

    The Harmonic Series is much more deeply weird. A series is the number we get from adding together everything in a sequence. The Harmonic Series grows out of the first sequence you’d imagine ever adding up. It’s 1 plus 1/2 plus 1/3 plus 1/4 plus 1/5 plus 1/6 plus … et cetera. The first time you hear of this you get the surprise: this sum doesn’t ever stop piling up. We say it ‘diverges’. It won’t on your computer; the floating-point arithmetic it does won’t let you add enormous numbers like ‘1’ to tiny numbers like ‘1/531,325,263,953,066,893,142,231,356,120’ and get the right answer. But if you actually added this all up, it would.

    The proof gets a little messy. But it amounts to this: 1/2 plus 1/3 plus 1/4? That’s more than 1. 1/5 + 1/6 + 1/7 + 1/8 + 1/9 + 1/10 + 1/11 + 1/12? That’s also more than 1. 1/13 + 1/14 + 1/15 + et cetera up through + 1/32 + 1/33 + 1/34 is also more than 1. You need to pile up more and more terms each time, but a finite string of these numbers will add up to more than 1. So the whole series has to be more than 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 … and so more than any finite number.

    That’s all amazing enough. And then the series goes on to defy all kinds of intuition. Obviously dropping a couple of terms from the series won’t change whether it converges or diverges. Multiplying alternating terms by -1, so you have (say) 1 – 1/2 + 1/3 – 1/4 + 1/5 et cetera produces something that looks like it converges. It equals the natural logarithm of 2. But if you take those terms and rearrange them, you can produce any real number, positive or negative, that you want.

    And, as Weinersmith describes here, if you just skip the correct set of terms, you can make the sum converge. The ones with 9 in the denominator will be, then, 1/9, 1/19, 1/29, 1/90, 1/91, 1/92, 1/290, 1/999, those sorts of things. Amazing? Yes. Absurd? I suppose so. This is why mathematicians learn to be very careful when they do anything, even addition, infinitely many times.

    John Deering’s Strange Brew for the 25th is a fear-of-mathematics joke. The sign the warrior’s carrying is legitimate algebra, at least so far as it goes. The right-hand side of the equation gets cut off. In time, it would get to the conclusion that x equals –19/2, or -9.5.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Sunday, 26 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: comic books, , , normal numbers, , , , ,   

    Reading the Comics, June 26, 2015: June 23, 2016 Plus Golden Lizards Edition 


    And now for the huge pile of comic strips that had some mathematics-related content on the 23rd of June. I admit some of them are just using mathematics as a stand-in for “something really smart people do”. But first, another moment with the Magic Realism Bot:

    So, you know, watch the lizards and all.

    Tom Batiuk’s Funky Winkerbean name-drops E = mc2 as the sort of thing people respect. If the strip seems a little baffling then you should know that Mason’s last name is Jarr. He was originally introduced as a minor player in a storyline that wasn’t about him, so the name just had to exist. But since then Tom Batiuk’s decided he likes the fellow and promoted him to major-player status. And maybe Batiuk regrets having a major character with a self-consciously Funny Name, which is an odd thing considering he named his long-running comic strip for original lead character Funky Winkerbean.

    'I don't know how adding an E to your last name will make much of a difference, Mason.' 'It will immediately give my name more gravitas ... like Shiela E ... the E Street Band ... e e commungs ... E = mc^2 ... ' And he smirks because that's just what the comic strip is really about.

    Tom Batiuk’s Funky Winkerbean for the 23rd of June, 2016. They’re in the middle of filming one or possibly two movies about the silver-age comic book hero Starbuck Jones. This is all the comic strip is about anymore, so if you go looking for its old standbys — people dying — or its older standbys — band practice being rained on — sorry, you’ll have to look somewhere else. That somewhere else would be the yellowed strips taped to the walls in the teachers lounge.

    Charlie Podrebarac’s CowTown depicts the harsh realities of Math Camp. I assume they’re the realities. I never went to one myself. And while I was on the Physics Team in high school I didn’t make it over to the competitive mathematics squad. Yes, I noticed that the not-a-numbers-person Jim Smith can’t come up with anything other than the null symbol, representing nothing, not even zero. I like that touch.

    Ryan North’s Dinosaur Comics rerun is about Richard Feynman, the great physicist whose classic memoir What Do You Care What Other People Think? is hundreds of pages of stories about how awesome he was. Anyway, the story goes that Feynman noticed one of the sequences of digits in π and thought of the joke which T-Rex shares here.

    π is believed but not proved to be a “normal” number. This means several things. One is that any finite sequence of digits you like should appear in its representation, somewhere. Feynman and T-Rex look for the sequence ‘999999’, which sure enough happens less than eight hundred digits past the decimal point. Lucky stroke there. There’s no reason to suppose the sequence should be anywhere near the decimal point. There’s no reason to suppose the sequence has to be anywhere in the finite number of digits of π that humanity will ever know. (This is why Carl Sagan’s novel Contact, which has as a plot point the discovery of a message apparently encoded in the digits of π, is not building on a stupid idea. That any finite message exists somewhere is kind-of certain. That it’s findable is not.)

    e, mentioned in the last panel, is similarly thought to be a normal number. It’s also not proved to be. We are able to say that nearly all numbers are normal. It’s in much the way we can say nearly all numbers are irrational. But it is hard to prove that any numbers are. I believe that the only numbers humans have proved to be normal are a handful of freaks created to show normal numbers exist. I don’t know of any number that’s interesting in its own right that’s also been shown to be normal. We just know that almost all numbers are.

    But it is imaginable that π or e aren’t. They look like they’re normal, based on how their digits are arranged. It’s an open question and someone might make a name for herself by answering the question. It’s not an easy question, though.

    Missy Meyer’s Holiday Doodles breaks the news to me the 23rd was SAT Math Day. I had no idea and I’m not sure what that even means. The doodle does use the classic “two trains leave Chicago” introduction, the “it was a dark and stormy night” of Boring High School Algebra word problems.

    Stephan Pastis’s Pearls Before Swine is about everyone who does science and mathematics popularization, and what we worry someone’s going to reveal about us. Um. Except me, of course. I don’t do this at all.

    Ashleigh Brilliant’s Pot-Shots rerun is a nice little averages joke. It does highlight something which looks paradoxical, though. Typically if you look at the distributions of values of something that can be measured you get a bell cure, like Brilliant drew here. The value most likely to turn up — the mode, mathematicians say — is also the arithmetic mean. “The average”, is what everybody except mathematicians say. And even they say that most of the time. But almost nobody is at the average.

    Looking at a drawing, Brilliant’s included, explains why. The exact average is a tiny slice of all the data, the “population”. Look at the area in Brilliant’s drawing underneath the curve that’s just the blocks underneath the upside-down fellow. Most of the area underneath the curve is away from that.

    There’s a lot of results that are close to but not exactly at the arithmetic mean. Most of the results are going to be close to the arithmetic mean. Look at how many area there is under the curve and within four vertical lines of the upside-down fellow. That’s nearly everything. So we have this apparent contradiction: the most likely result is the average. But almost nothing is average. And yet almost everything is nearly average. This is why statisticians have their own departments, or get to make the mathematics department brand itself the Department of Mathematics and Statistics.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Saturday, 25 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , branding, , , , ,   

    Reading the Comics, June 25, 2016: Busy Week Edition 


    I had meant to cut the Reading The Comics posts back to a reasonable one a week. Then came the 23rd, which had something like six hundred mathematically-themed comic strips. So I could post another impossibly long article on Sunday or split what I have. And splitting works better for my posting count, so, here we are.

    Charles Brubaker’s Ask A Cat for the 19th is a soap-bubbles strip. As ever happens with comic strips, the cat blows bubbles that can’t happen without wireframes and skillful bubble-blowing artistry. It happens that a few days ago I linked to a couple essays showing off some magnificent surfaces that the right wireframe boundary might inspire. The mathematics describing how a soap bubbles’s shape should be made aren’t hard; I’m confident I could’ve understood the equations as an undergraduate. Finding exact solutions … I’m not sure I could have done. (I’d still want someone looking over my work if I did them today.) But numerical solutions, that I’d be confident in doing. And the real thing is available when you’re ready to get your hands … dirty … with soapy water.

    Rick Stromoski’s Soup To Nutz for the 19th Shows RoyBoy on the brink of understanding symmetry. To lose at rock-paper-scissors is indeed just as hard as winning is. Suppose we replaced the names of the things thrown with letters. Suppose we replace ‘beats’ and ‘loses to’ with nonsense words. Then we could describe the game: A flobs B. B flobs C. C flobs A. A dostks C. C dostks B. B dostks A. There’s no way to tell, from this, whether A is rock or paper or scissors, or whether ‘flob’ or ‘dostk’ is a win.

    Bill Whitehead’s Free Range for the 20th is the old joke about tipping being the hardest kind of mathematics to do. Proof? There’s an enormous blackboard full of symbols and the three guys in lab coats are still having trouble with it. I have long wondered why tips are used as the model of impossibly difficult things to compute that aren’t taxes. I suppose the idea of taking “fifteen percent” (or twenty, or whatever) of something suggests a need for precision. And it’ll be fifteen percent of a number chosen without any interest in making the calculation neat. So it looks like the worst possible kind of arithmetic problem. But the secret, of course, is that you don’t have to have “the” right answer. You just have to land anywhere in an acceptable range. You can work out a fraction — a sixth, a fifth, or so — of a number that’s close to the tab and you’ll be right. So, as ever, it’s important to know how to tell whether you have a correct answer before worrying about calculating it.

    Allison Barrows’s Preeteena rerun for the 20th is your cheerleading geometry joke for this week.

    'I refuse to change my personality just for a stupid speech.' 'Fi, you wouldn't have to! In fact, make it an asset! Brand yourself as The Math Curmudgeon! ... The Grouchy Grapher ... The Sour Cosine ... The Number Grump ... The Count of Carping ... The Kvetching Quotient' 'I GET IT!'

    Bill Holbrook’s On The Fastrack for the 22nd of June, 2016. There are so many bloggers wondering if Holbrook is talking about them.

    I am sure Bill Holbrook’s On The Fastrack for the 22nd is not aimed at me. He hangs around Usenet group rec.arts.comics.strips some, as I do, and we’ve communicated a bit that way. But I can’t imagine he thinks of me much or even at all once he’s done with racs for the day. Anyway, Dethany does point out how a clear identity helps one communicate mathematics well. (Fi is to talk with elementary school girls about mathematics careers.) And bitterness is always a well-received pose. Me, I’m aware that my pop-mathematics brand identity is best described as “I guess he writes a couple things a week, doesn’t he?” and I could probably use some stronger hook, somewhere. I just don’t feel curmudgeonly most of the time.

    Darby Conley’s Get Fuzzy rerun for the 22nd is about arithmetic as a way to be obscure. We’ve all been there. I had, at first, read Bucky’s rating as “out of 178 1/3 π” and thought, well, that’s not too bad since one-third of π is pretty close to 1. But then, Conley being a normal person, probably meant “one-hundred seventy-eight and a third”, and π times that is a mess. Well, it’s somewhere around 550 or so. Octave tells me it’s more like 560.251 and so on.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Thursday, 23 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , iteration, , , ,   

    Theorem Thursday: A First Fixed Point Theorem 


    I’m going to let the Mean Value Theorem slide a while. I feel more like a Fixed Point Theorem today. As with the Mean Value Theorem there’s several of these. Here I’ll start with an easy one.

    The Fixed Point Theorem.

    Back when the world and I were young I would play with electronic calculators. They encouraged play. They made it so easy to enter a number and hit an operation, and then hit that operation again, and again and again. Patterns appeared. Start with, say, ‘2’ and hit the ‘squared’ button, the smaller ‘2’ raised up from the key’s baseline. You got 4. And again: 16. And again: 256. And again and again and you got ever-huger numbers. This happened whenever you started from a number bigger than 1. Start from something smaller than 1, however tiny, and it dwindled down to zero, whatever you tried. Start at ‘1’ and it just stays there. The results were similar if you started with negative numbers. The first squaring put you in positive numbers and everything carried on as before.

    This sort of thing happened a lot. Keep hitting the mysterious ‘exp’ and the numbers would keep growing forever. Keep hitting ‘sqrt’; if you started above 1, the numbers dwindled to 1. Start below and the numbers rise to 1. Or you started at zero, but who’s boring enough to do that? ‘log’ would start with positive numbers and keep dropping until it turned into a negative number. The next step was the calculator’s protest we were unleashing madness on the world.

    But you didn’t always get zero, one, infinity, or madness, from repeatedly hitting the calculator button. Sometimes, some functions, you’d get an interesting number. If you picked any old number and hit cosine over and over the digits would eventually settle down to around 0.739085. Or -0.739085. Cosine’s great. Tangent … tangent is weird. Tangent does all sorts of bizarre stuff. But at least cosine is there, giving us this interesting number.

    (Something you might wonder: this is the cosine of an angle measured in radians, which is how mathematicians naturally think of angles. Normal people measure angles in degrees, and that will have a different fixed point. We write both the cosine-in-radians and the cosine-in-degrees using the shorthand ‘cos’. We get away with this because people who are confused by this are too embarrassed to call us out on it. If we’re thoughtful we write, say, ‘cos x’ for radians and ‘cos x°’ for degrees. This makes the difference obvious. It doesn’t really, but at least we gave some hint to the reader.)

    This all is an example of a fixed point theorem. Fixed point theorems turn up in a lot of fields. They were most impressed upon me in dynamical systems, studying how a complex system changes in time. A fixed point, for these problems, is an equilibrium. It’s where things aren’t changed by a process. You can see where that’s interesting.

    In this series I haven’t stated theorems exactly much, and I haven’t given them real proofs. But this is an easy one to state and to prove. Start off with a function, which I’ll name ‘f’, because yes that is exactly how much effort goes in to naming functions. It has as a domain the interval [a, b] for some real numbers ‘a’ and ‘b’. And it has as rang the same interval, [a, b]. It might use the whole range; it might use only a subset of it. And we have to require that f is continuous.

    Then there has to be at least one fixed point. There must be at last one number ‘c’, somewhere in the interval [a, b], for which f(c) equals c. There may be more than one; we don’t say anything about how many there are. And it can happen that c is equal to a. Or that c equals b. We don’t know that it is or that it isn’t. We just know there’s at least one ‘c’ that makes f(c) equal c.

    You get that in my various examples. If the function f has the rule that any given x is matched to x2, then we do get two fixed points: f(0) = 02 = 0, and, f(1) = 12 = 1. Or if f has the rule that any given x is matched to the square root of x, then again we have: f(0) = \sqrt{0} = 0 and f(1) = \sqrt{1} = 1 . Same old boring fixed points. The cosine is a little more interesting. For that we have f(0.739085...) = \cos\left(0.739085...\right) = 0.739085... .

    How to prove it? The easiest way I know is to summon the Intermediate Value Theorem. Since I wrote a couple hundred words about that a few weeks ago I can assume you to understand it perfectly and have no question about how it makes this problem easy. I don’t even need to go on, do I?

    … Yeah, fair enough. Well, here’s how to do it. We’ll take the original function f and create, based on it, a new function. We’ll dig deep in the alphabet and name that ‘g’. It has the same domain as f, [a, b]. Its range is … oh, well, something in the real numbers. Don’t care. The wonder comes from the rule we use.

    The rule for ‘g’ is this: match the given number ‘x’ with the number ‘f(x) – x’. That is, g(a) equals whatever f(a) would be, minus a. g(b) equals whatever f(b) would be, minus b. We’re allowed to define a function in terms of some other function, as long as the symbols are meaningful. But we aren’t doing anything wrong like dividing by zero or taking the logarithm of a negative number or asking for f where it isn’t defined.

    You might protest that we don’t know what the rule for f is. We’re told there is one, and that it’s a continuous function, but nothing more. So how can I say I’ve defined g in terms of a function I don’t know?

    In the first place, I already know everything about f that I need to. I know it’s a continuous function defined on the interval [a, b]. I won’t use any more than that about it. And that’s great. A theorem that doesn’t require knowing much about a function is one that applies to more functions. It’s like the difference between being able to say something true of all living things in North America, and being able to say something true of all persons born in Redbank, New Jersey, on the 18th of February, 1944, who are presently between 68 and 70 inches tall and working on their rock operas. Both things may be true, but one of those things you probably use more.

    In the second place, suppose I gave you a specific rule for f. Let me say, oh, f matches x with the arccosecant of x. Are you feeling any more enlightened now? Didn’t think so.

    Back to g. Here’s some things we can say for sure about it. g is a function defined on the interval [a, b]. That’s how we set it up. Next point: g is a continuous function on the interval [a, b]. Remember, g is just the function f, which was continuous, minus x, which is also continuous. The difference of two continuous functions is still going to be continuous. (This is obvious, although it may take some considered thinking to realize why it is obvious.)

    Now some interesting stuff. What is g(a)? Well, it’s whatever number f(a) is minus a. I can’t tell you what number that is. But I can tell you this: it’s not negative. Remember that f(a) has to be some number in the interval [a, b]. That is, it’s got to be no smaller than a. So the smallest f(a) can be is equal to a, in which case f(a) minus a is zero. And f(a) might be larger than a, in which case f(a) minus a is positive. So g(a) is either zero or a positive number.

    (If you’ve just realized where I’m going and gasped in delight, well done. If you haven’t, don’t worry. You will. You’re just out of practice.)

    What about g(b)? Since I don’t know what f(b) is, I can’t tell you what specific number it is. But I can tell you it’s not a positive number. The reasoning is just like above: f(b) is some number on the interval [a, b]. So the biggest number f(b) can equal is b. And in that case f(b) minus b is zero. If f(b) is any smaller than b, then f(b) minus b is negative. So g(b) is either zero or a negative number.

    (Smiling at this? Good job. If you aren’t, again, not to worry. This sort of argument is not the kind of thing you do in Boring Algebra. It takes time and practice to think this way.)

    And now the Intermediate Value Theorem works. g(a) is a positive number. g(b) is a negative number. g is continuous from a to b. Therefore, there must be some number ‘c’, between a and b, for which g(c) equals zero. And remember what g(c) means: f(c) – c equals 0. Therefore f(c) has to equal c. There has to be a fixed point.

    And some tidying up. Like I said, g(a) might be positive. It might also be zero. But if g(a) is zero, then f(a) – a = 0. So a would be a fixed point. And similarly if g(b) is zero, then f(b) – b = 0. So then b would be a fixed point. The important thing is there must be at least some fixed point.

    Now that calculator play starts taking on purposeful shape. Squaring a number could find a fixed point only if you started with a number from -1 to 1. The square of a number outside this range, such as ‘2’, would be bigger than you started with, and the Fixed Point Theorem doesn’t apply. Similarly with exponentials. But square roots? The square root of any number from 0 to a positive number ‘b’ is a number between 0 and ‘b’, at least as long as b was bigger than 1. So there was a fixed point, at 1. The cosine of a real number is some number between -1 and 1, and the cosines of all the numbers between -1 and 1 are themselves between -1 and 1. The Fixed Point Theorem applies. Tangent isn’t a continuous function. And the calculator play never settles on anything.

    As with the Intermediate Value Theorem, this is an existence proof. It guarantees there is a fixed point. It doesn’t tell us how to find one. Calculator play does, though. Start from any old number that looks promising and work out f for that number. Then take that and put it back into f. And again. And again. This is known as “fixed point iteration”. It won’t give you the exact answer.

    Not usually, anyway. In some freak cases it will. But what it will give, provided some extra conditions are satisfied, is a sequence of values that get closer and closer to the fixed point. When you’re close enough, then you stop calculating. How do you know you’re close enough? If you know something about the original f you can work out some logically rigorous estimates. Or you just keep calculating until all the decimal points you want stop changing between iterations. That’s not logically sound, but it’s easy to program.

    That won’t always work. It’ll only work if the function f is differentiable on the interval (a, b). That is, it can’t have corners. And there have to be limits on how fast the function changes on the interval (a, b). If the function changes too fast, iteration can’t be guaranteed to work. But often if we’re interested in a function at all then these conditions will be true, or we can think of a related function that for which they are true.

    And even if it works it won’t always work well. It can take an enormous pile of calculations to get near the fixed point. But this is why we have computers, and why we can leave them to work overnight.

    And yet such a simple idea works. It appears in ancient times, in a formula for finding the square root of an arbitrary positive number ‘N’. (Find the fixed point for f(x) = \frac{1}{2}\left(\frac{N}{x} + x\right) ). It creeps into problems that don’t look like fixed points. Calculus students learn of something called the Newton-Raphson Iteration. It finds roots, points where a function f(x) equals zero. Mathematics majors learn of numerical methods to solve ordinary differential equations. The most stable of these are again fixed-point iteration schemes, albeit in disguise.

    They all share this almost playful backbone.

     
  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Tuesday, 21 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , differential geometry, minimal surfaces, architecture   

    Minimal Yet Interesting Surfaces 


    Some days you just run across a shape you never heard of before and that’s interesting. Matthias Weber of The Inner Frame gave me one last night. In a string of essays Weber shows a figure which comes up from minimal surface theory. This is a study of making a shape that fits to some given boundary while keeping a property called “mean curvature” equal to zero. This is how mathematicians make it sound all academic when they talk about soap bubbles in wire frames.

    This is from a particular kind of surface developed in the 1860s by Alfred Enneper, whom I admit I never heard of before either. It’s just outside my specialty. But he was a student of Peter Gustav Lejeune Dirichlet, who’s just all over partial differential equations and Fourier series. Enneper and Karl Weierstrauss — whose name is all over analysis — described a way to describe these surfaces, using differential geometry. Once again I’m sad I don’t know that field more, as it produces such compelling pictures.

    Here Weber introduces the surface, complete with a craft project! If you’d like you can cut out and fit together a wonderful exotic little surface. The second essay looking at some shapes with similar properties, and at what you get by stacking these surfaces. The third part extends this even farther, to the part of mathematics that’s just Googie architecture. I hope you enjoy.

     
    • KnotTheorist 7:25 pm on Tuesday, 21 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply

      What fun and funky surfaces!

      By the way, since you mentioned it, what is your area of specialty?

      Like

      • Joseph Nebus 9:14 pm on Tuesday, 21 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply

        Glad you like it.

        My particular specialty was in Monte Carlo methods, which are numerical techniques for finding quite good approximations to a solution. And particularly, in using them to find equilibriums of a viscosity-free fluid’s flow. You can treat planetary atmospheres as viscosity-free for some problems without making an insufferably large error.

        I came to that after the failure of a project in graph theory, so I’m more conversant with that than my thesis and scattered few papers would suggest.

        But I came to the fluid flow problem by accident, basically. My advisor was particularly interested in it, while I hadn’t given planetary atmospheres much thought. So I have a remarkably scattershot knowledge of my own specialty! … Or more fairly, my first area of specialty is Monte Carlo methods, with graph theory a secondary interest, and fluid mechanics something I plundered for my own purposes. And I keep wanting to know mechanics better.

        Like

        • xianyouhoule 7:16 am on Sunday, 26 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply

          Thanks for your share,I have learned some great things from your posts.

          What’s application of minimal surface theory??I don’t hear about Its any application before.
          and I am curious about Monte Carlo method(I don’t even hear about it ),What’s its core idea and application??

          Like

          • Joseph Nebus 5:43 am on Tuesday, 28 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply

            Thank you. I’m glad you’ve liked.

            The obvious application of minimal surface theory is that it describes the shape that soap bubbles, or other lightweight, self-adhesive fluids, take on. That might not seem like it’s very exciting. But the equations that describe this shape also describe ways to look at physics problems. These are ways that let us talk about what equilibriums are like, and how small changes in the setup change the kind of behavior shown.

            Monte Carlo methods are a bunch of related tools. They’re all built on the idea of using probability, randomly-evaluated solutions, to work out approximate solutions to complicated questions. My specialty was in the Metropolis-Hastings algorithm. That’s used for problems where it’s hard to find the best answer, but it’s easy to tell whether one answer is better or worse than another.

            You start with a randomly-generated guess at the answer. And then you make a randomly-generated change in the answer. If you’ve made the answer better, you accept that change. If you’ve made the answer worse, usually you reject the change, but sometimes you do accept it anyway. Sometimes you can get to a much better answer by way of a start that looks unpromising, which is why we sometimes take a bad move. Do this over and over. And you’ll get to very good answers after all.

            Like

  • Joseph Nebus 3:00 pm on Sunday, 19 June, 2016 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , caves, , nerds, , percentages   

    Reading the Comics, June 18, 2016: The Quiet Week Edition 


    It’s been a quiet week. There’s not a lot of comic strips telling mathematically-themed jokes. Those that were didn’t give me a lot to talk about. And then on Friday nobody came around to even look at my blog. I exaggerate but only barely; I was down to about a quarter the usual low point of page views. I have no explanation for this and I just hope it doesn’t come up again. That’s the sort of thing that’ll break a mere blogger’s heart.

    Charles Brubaker’s Ask A Cat for the 12th got the week started with a numerals-as-things joke.

    Mike Baldwin’s Cornered for the 12th uses the traditional blackboard — well, whiteboard — full of mathematics to represent intelligence. The symbols aren’t in enough detail to mean anything,

    Jeremy Kaye’s Up and Out for the 13th uses a smaller blackboard (whiteboard) full of mathematics to represent intelligence. Here the symbols are more clearly focused, on Boring High School Algebra. It was looking like this might be the blackboard (well, whiteboard)-themed week.

    Cave woman asks 'why don't you build me a big house?' The cave man answers, 'Because I'd have to invent math.'

    Dan Piraro’s Bizarro for the 14th of June, 2016. Don’t be distracted by the little alien in the upper-right corner. It isn’t part of the joke. It’s just there in every panel. (Because Piraro loves drawing more stuff than he has to, and he works some number of recurring little figures into each panel. There’s also, often, a “K2” that refers to his daughter’s initials. There’s often also and a disembodied eyeball, a firecracker, a screaming rabbit, some pie, an upside-down bird, a crown, and other stuff. There’s also usually a digit near his signature that warns how many hidden symbols there are in the day’s panel so people know when to stop looking. In this case it’s ‘3’.)

    Dan Piraro’s Bizarro for the 14th I admit I don’t quite get. I get that it’s circling around the invention of mathematics and of architecture and all that. And I expect the need to build stuff efficiently helped inspire people to do mathematics. I’m just not sure how the joke quite fits together here. It happens.

    Bill Amend’s Fox Trot Classics for the 17th reruns a storyline in which Jason tries to de-nerdify himself. The use of many digits past the decimal make up a lot of what’s left of Jason’s nerdiness. And since it’s easy to overlook let me point this out: 0.0675 percent is only half of the difference between 99.865 percent and 100 percent. It’s not exactly a classic nerd move to use decimal points when a fraction would be at least as good. Digits have a hypnotic power; many people would think 0.25 a more mathematical thing than “one-quarter”. But it is quite nerdly to speak of 0.0675 percent instead of “half of what’s left”.

    This strip originally ran the 24th of June, 2005.

     
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