Planet Musings

October 30, 2026

Proofs and Prompts — Recommendations from the Harvard CMSA summit on Math and AI

The organizers of the Harvard CMSA summit1

Last week we organized an intensive two-day summit Math Research in the Age of AI. It was held at the Harvard Center for Mathematical Sciences and Applications (CMSA). Thirty-two mathematicians from academia, government, and industry came together to help navigate this period of rapid change in mathematics and, most importantly, to offer ideas for building the future. There were five working groups organized around the following themes:

  • Evaluation, production, and dissemination of research
  • Coordinated actions for the AI era
  • Open-source tools
  • Formalization in mathematics
  • Collaboration between academia and AI labs

Our report can be found on the summit website. There you’ll also find a link to provide feedback.

Portions of the recommendations, particularly those in the section on evaluation, production, and dissemination of research, offer immediately actionable suggestions for review and hiring in mathematics departments. We encourage departments to act on those they can implement at this time and to begin longer-term conversations to rethink evaluation practices. We recognize that many of these changes may temporarily place greater burdens on faculty. These efforts are necessary to facilitate transitions to new norms for the field and are especially important in light of the need to support our students and young colleagues. Our recommendations go beyond academia; they impact government and industry as well.


Received 30 October 2026.

  1. Dan Freed (Harvard), Larry Guth (MIT), Bryna Kra (Northwestern), Emily Riehl (Johns Hopkins) and Mohammed Abouzaid (Stanford) ↩︎

Matt von Hippel — An AI Apocalypse, but Just for You

For Halloween, I like to talk about spooky scenarios. And these days, the most trendy one is an AI apocalypse.

You can run into a wild range of ideas for how AI could go wrong, of varying plausibility. They go from hacks shutting down key infrastructure or engineered viruses, to taking over nuclear arsenals and sending out armies of killer robots, all the way to nanotech that devours the world and flawlessly manipulative plans that end up filling space with computers simulating hell at the speed of light.

And of course, on the other end, the possibility that banks suddenly become convinced that the investments underpinning AI companies’ trillion dollar evaluations aren’t going to pay, collapsing the economy.

So, lots of things to be scared of this year!

But in all of those scenarios, at least we suffer together. If civilization cracks like an egg, everyone who survives has to adapt and figure out a new path forward. And if everyone’s dead, well, everyone’s dead. There’s something oddly comforting about that.

That’s not guaranteed, though.

I occasionally see quotes from “100+ reactions to 100+ solutions”, a compilation of thoughts by mathematicians about OpenAI’s recent claim to have solved hundreds of difficult open problems in mathematics. For the most part, these people aren’t writing about an AI apocalypse that sweeps civilization into a new form. They’re writing about what AI seems to be capable of in mathematics, right now, and wondering how they personally will withstand it.

Picture a world where you’ve defined yourself around something. Maybe you’re competitive, someone who wants to be the best in the world. Maybe you just want something of your own, accomplishments that came from you, not anyone else. Either way, it’s something you love, something you chose a strange and difficult path to pursue.

Then, that identity falls apart. For the competitive, you’re not the best anymore, not at the kind of thing you were doing, you’ll never be the best at that again. For the rest, your sense of ownership is less secure. Someone could hear about that problem you’re tinkering with, decide to tackle it on a whim, and jump so far ahead that you’d never be able to catch up on your own merits.

And if there isn’t a wider collapse, you’re facing this on your own. You might have to find a new job, though in a world where universities still need math classes that seems unlikely. But you will have to find a new purpose. You’d have to become a different kind of mathematician, at minimum, one more dedicated to something the AI can’t do and less dedicated to the things that happened to define your style of mathematics. Your friends in other fields will never quite understand. Your friends outside of academia will understand even less.

If we thread the needle between the apocalypses of powerful AI and an economic bubble that pops so hard that companies can’t host the models anymore, we end up with a series of quieter, more personal AI apocalypses, people who feel like their own world is ending, and have to figure out how to go on. For now, that’s the possibility many mathematicians are considering. We’ll see how many others consider it in the years to come.

Proofs and Prompts — Math is for Feeding your Family

Anonymous, Early Career Researcher

Math has only one application that I care about: To feed my family. Any other application has largely been to the detriment of us all. Look no further than Hiroshima and Nagasaki to see why matrices were not meant to be multiplied.

Now the one application I care about is being threatened. I am tenure track at a good institution where I teach amazing students and have fantastic coworkers who all fill me with joy. I love my job, and I want to keep it. To keep it, I need to get tenure, but what does research work for tenure mean now? I have asked several people this question. Many don’t understand why this question is being asked, which is a major concern to me. I will explain why I ask. But even those I know who agree that this question must be answered tell me it is not up to them. Instead, it is up to famous people, those blessed by the Gods old and new who can speak math into being and tap dance and smoke a cigar in one long drag.

However, when looking for famous people’s opinions, I find in its place much discussion about philosophical issues. Uniformly I hear the sentiment that mathematics is about understanding. I don’t understand why people are saying this en masse. It is true of course but unhelpful for the problem at hand. The appropriate reaction to the situation is not to dig down deep and think: Why do we really do mathematics research? It’s so we can feed our families. It’s not an interesting question.

This is the obvious flaw of the AHM. They forget that if you have to decide between using AI or letting your family starve, the choice is obvious.

I believe many mathematicians do not understand that this is not an abstract discussion of AI’s capabilities anymore. Let me be concrete. In the last month I have solved so many distinct open problems with GPT Pro personally that I do not know what to do with the material. Under our traditional metrics, I should be publishing as much mathematics at as high of a quality as I can produce as fast as possible. But if I were to do that, I would release 10 papers this semester, which is clearly wrong. What should I be doing instead?

AI is better at proving stuff than us now. There’s no question anymore. We like to joke about it, but it’s not actually bad at explaining stuff either. If you ask GPT even without the pro version to explain a proof step by step, it does a phenomenal job. I know because I’ve done this with many results personally for more than a year now. Focusing on us giving the best explanations is not a solution either. I’ve seen that proposed. I don’t think that will work.

That’s the reality, which is why I ask how research is to be evaluated. AI can produce high quality research infinitely, better than us, at rapid rates, and it is only getting better. We urgently need to make a radical policy decision to account for this. To be clear what I am looking for, here is a candidate policy solution:

The only thing I can imagine valuing mathematicians for is as human beings who work to understand what the AI is producing. The sole question is how to verify that. Writing won’t work as AI can do that better than us and infinitely. Any sort of manufacturing of a product will not work for that same reason. As a result, we should end the journal system completely. The only way is for us to communicate about it with each other live human to human. The structure of the community would then surround research workshops organized around understanding particular topics. Our corporate overlords could fund some of them to get us to parse their breakthroughs. Then participants earn credit by presenting various lemmas and so on. These workshops focus moreso on compute allocation and yield a final product that is a mix of human and AI generation, which is published to the math community at large with no external refereeing as fodder for the models. The actual most relevant skills for the job are interpersonal. Teaching, mentoring, working with colleagues in meetings, and service work are the core of the job and all that really matters now. We should just hire based on the skills relevant for the job like other professions. We can ask for materials that are evidence of that in applications such as letters of recommendation, workshop participation, teaching, organizing events, and outreach activities.

Maybe you dislike this proposal. My point is not that I have the perfect solution. It is that we need to stop wasting time and answer: How are we going to evaluate research output now that our previous model is defunct? I have heard many of us in denial. There is no way for journals to survive, because AI can easily produce submissions of high quality from anyone independent of their skillset. At the very least, I don’t want to write 10 papers this semester or worse yet referee proportionately many papers. We need an alternative. This is not a hypothetical. I need to know the answer, so I know how to get tenure. PhD students and postdocs need to know because they are going on the job market. Faculty need to know because we are hiring people right now. The publication process is broken. We can’t use it anymore in its current form. I gave you an alternative. You don’t like it? I can totally understand that. Propose a better idea, or better yet, implement it at scale. I don’t actually care what the solution is as long as it works. Just tell me what I need to do to feed my family.

Let me end on a positive note. We need to remember that as a community we decide collectively what constitutes mathematical scholarship. OpenAI and the National Science Foundation do not control it. It’s not up to my mom either. I asked her, and she said no. There is no threat to mathematics at all. That’s why this is not the mathocalypse. Math will be fine. This is the math-research-normsocalypse, which is less catchy but easier to address. The only things that need to change here are our evaluation practices. Honestly, I hate the current norms anyway. Publishing makes me want to perish. So let’s pretend we’re back in our first graduate course in real analysis and see what happens when we change the mathematical norms.


Received 12 October 2026.

Matt Strassler So Much News, So Little Time

[No AI was used in composing this blog post.]

I’ve been trying to get back to the blog recently. But every time I plan to write a blog post, something happens that requires my attention and adds to the list of items I should be writing about.

I’ve decided that the best I can do, for now, is to summarize some of the key stories that have been on my radar. Because I’m covering so many topics so briefly, the chance of an error is pretty high; please let me know if you spot inaccuracies. Normally I try to be super-careful, but today I’m prioritizing conveying the sense of things rather than getting every detail right. Moreover, a lot of what follows is half-baked opinion; things are happening way too fast for me to be sure that my thinking is clear and correct, so you should interpret this post in that context.

The overarching news, aside from the 2026 physics Nobel Prize is what you’ve heard: artificial intelligence (AI) is transforming mathematics and high-energy theoretical physics, no question. That said, what is reported in the media about this is usually wrong in key details, and almost always wildly overstates what’s been accomplished. Nevertheless, the advances in AI models in the last couple of months are historic and transformative, and there is every reason to expect this to accelerate. For people like me, 2027 will surely be very different from autumn 2026, which in turn barely resembles spring 2026.

A first point: as many experts have noted recently, AI unchecked is extremely dangerous. This is especially true of artificial general intelligence (AGI) machines— machines that are capable of learning to do anything and everything we can, and can do it faster, better and tirelessly. AGI machines are, in my view, a path to slavery and death for a large fraction of humans — possibly a near-death sentence for our species. I personally believe that AGI development and usage should be banned, NOW. (A draft of a document laying out my argument is here; comments are welcome.)

However, specialized machines that are very good at a number of things, but very bad at others, are somewhat less dangerous. This includes tools that can do math and physics better than any human; they will be very useful, but dangerous if they can also command a robot army or shut down a banking system.

As for the new AI-led or AI-assisted results in math and science, they are coming thick and fast. Already in August and September, Anthropic claimed its models had made progress on the famous Riemann hypothesis, and had solved a particular 9-loop quantum field theory calculation. The latter is a rather esoteric achievement, even for most high-energy physicists, much less for the layperson. In a sense it’s a math problem, and not one that, by itself, leads to any fundamental new insights in physics that I’m aware of. It was also over-hyped in the media. But still, it is a significant accomplishment that surprised the experts.

The real flood began in early October. First, OpenAI claimed to have solved a key question concerning the notoriously difficult Navier-Stokes equation for how fluids flow. Initial wild rumors suggested that they had actualy solved this equation; had this been true, it would have meant that they understood turbulence, one of the oldest and greatest problems in all of science. The reality was far less; they had proven an important fact about the equation’s solutions. In a sense, this is one of the “Millenium Prize” problems (whose solution is worth a measly $1 million), but this is somewhat disputed, because the problem was solved under a certain assumption that some would say should not have been made. There are other controversies, involving whether certain mathematicians’ work was improperly used. Moreover, the work involves finding a counterexample, which is much easier than a proof of the absence of counterexamples. On top of that, the proof (even the version intended for humans) is excessively complicated, and challenging for a human to interpret. By itself, impressive for sure, but not nearly as much as the hype.

But then on October 6th, OpenAI dumped hundreds of papers on us, with results in mathematics and theoretical physics. Many of the results were interesting and a few seem important, including notably a further significant advance on the Riemann hypothesis. Unfortunately, most of the papers are long, technical and extremely difficult to read; they seem pretty useless. They may be correct, but there simply aren’t enough human experts in the world to verify them all and to translate them into shorter efficient summaries that can aid future human thinkers. Worse, imagine now that this is just the start: that hundreds of such papers, and soon tens of thousands, will be dropped on us every month. This will just bring the mathematically-oriented sciences to a halt, to no one’s real benefit. There has to be a better way to approach this.

Then on the 26th, OpenAI claimed three big new results in math, computer science and physics; the computer science result was also claimed, more or less simultaneously, by Anthropic. The physics result was widely and mistakenly reported as a solution of the key mystery of the theory of the strong nuclear force: why, in a theory that purportedly describes massless gluons, does the theory in the end exhibit no massless particles, with the gluons all confined into massive clumps (called “glueballs”)? (In jargon, this is called “generating a mass gap.”) Had OpenAI done that, it would have solved one of the central “Millenium Prize” problems. But despite the media hype, the reality was much less glamorous; OpenAI merely claims to have proved that the field theory that describes the strong nuclear force makes mathematical sense. That is a long way from proving that the strong nuclear force confines gluons (and by extension, quarks too, in a limited sense.) A proof of confinement would be worth a “WOW!”, and worth $1 million. A proof of existence, however, while definitely important, won’t affects most experts’ research; for them, it’s worth a raised eyebrow, and a “we knew that from experiment, but it’s nice to have a math proof”. And yet again, the proof is hundreds of pages long and apparently very hard for humans to interpret. It will take experts weeks or months to get through it and reduce it to a form that anyone else can handle — and only then are we likely to understand if the proof is actually useful for physics, rather than merely a technical feat that only a machine could love. There’s a pattern here…

But meanwhile, physicists are using these AI tools to try to solve problems that are of greater interest and perhaps greater importance than those that Anthropic and OpenAI have announced. So far these have tended to be pretty esoteric from the view of the general public, but one early October claim (by Nathanial Craig, who is a visitor at OpenAI and a professor at UC Santa Barbara) is that a technique may have been found, using OpenAI’s AI model “Astra”, to define quantum field theories like the Standard Model on a “lattice” — a grid in space and time. (This is notable because Craig, while an leading expert in particle physics, is not known as an expert in this subfield of “lattice quantum field theory”.) This technique might lead to a method for simulating these theories on computers, which has not previously been possible. In such theories, referred to as “chiral”, the masses of particles like the electron and the quarks can only become non-zero in the presence of a Higgs field (here’s why); and this makes numerical simulation extremely difficult, because (speaking very crudely here) massless electrons and quarks are normally very hard for computers to handle. If the paper is correct and leads to a practical simulation technique, it could prove very valuable for future developments in particle physics and elsewhere. Unfortunately the paper is over 100 pages, and despite Craig’s efforts to convert the work of ChatGPT-Astra into a human-readable form, it will be some time before the field digests it; I myself have no time to do so. And this is one of many papers that are appearing faster than I can even read the titles and descriptions, much less convey their essence to you.

In a totally different vein, my Harvard colleague Matt Schwartz used Anthropic’s AI models (“Claude”) to solve whole new classes of mathematical integrals that are important for particle physics. Then he used AI to look for problems in other areas of science (and beyond) where these same integrals also appear. Collaborating with experts in those areas, he has now used his tools in dozens of significant projects ranging across many disciplines. It’s quite a tour de force, and would have been impossible before mid-2026. You can read more about that here.

This whole process is generating a lot of political backlash. Through personal connections, some scientists are getting access to the AI tools and the AI companies in ways that create haves and have-nots, undoing decades of efforts at making physics a more quasi-democratic meritocracy. Increasingly it seems that producing the best science has less and less to do with talent, and more to do with wealth and power and one’s political standing and “who you know”. (A disturbingly secretive invite-only meeting at the KITP-UCSB last week did not help matters.) It’s the old boys club all over again, with billionaires running the show. I hope that this trend will not continue, as there will be a lot of bad blood if it does.

So high-energy theoretical physics is in the midst of a vast transformation. One way to say it: there will never be another Newton or Einstein, because even the smartest scientist will work with AI from now on, and AI will do most of the work, and probably will be producing some or most of the ideas. It’s not even clear there will be anything for human experts to do, in the long run, other than interpreting AI results for human consumption. But for real progress, AI models need to get a lot better at writing papers and simplifying their proofs, derivations and arguments. Any proof or calculation is worth a lot more when it is both correct and efficient, and scientists have historically gotten a lot of credit for simplifying past results that were nearly uninterpretable. This is partly why Julius Schwinger, the genius who could do Herculean calculations using elaborate mathematical methods, is not as widely known today as Richard Feynman, who did some of the same calculations using methods that were easy for everyone to understand and implement.

For all these developments in mathematical/theoretical science, we should remember that at heart, physics is an experimental science. AI can’t “solve the universe” by just thinking; it has to make predictions, and those predictions have to be tested in the physical world. Even if AI invents seven new theories of quantum gravity, or other ways of explaining the cosmos, it will not tell us which of these theories is relevant for our own universe. Without experiment, we can only know all possible worlds; we cannot know which one is our own. So experimental physicists certainly have not been replaced… not yet. To replace them will require great advances in robotics.

Finallly — old school — a particle theorist won a Nobel Prize for inventing a new way to look for neutrinos, and then leading the experiment that first carried it out. As far back as 1960, it was suggested by Moisey Markov (who died long ago and could not be considered for this year’s Nobel prize) that neutrinos could be searched for in a deep lake or ocean; on the rare occassions that a neutrino hits the nucleus of an atom in the water, the super-fast fragments from the collision emit Cerenkov light, which though faint can be observed in the abyssal darkness. However, there are other things that emit light in the ocean, and there are complications such as waves and storms (and salt, in oceans) that make building a stable detector challenging. In 1988 Francis Halzen had the clever idea of using ice instead of water — of melting deep holes into an ice sheet and putting light detectors into them. Ice has no waves and no critters emitting light; detectors in ice stay where you put them. The ice that lies below the south pole is both deep and pure, perfect for this effort. Unusually for a theorist of the time, Halzen chose to lead the experimental collaboration that built the first ice-based detectors, initially AMANDA and then the much larger IceCube. I wrote an article explaining IceCube here; it’s still current. So successful was this idea that it led to the birth of high-energy neutrino astronomy. Only very recently are deep water detectors catching up with IceCube, potentially making important discoveries of their own. Halzen’s Nobel-Prize winning idea (which, I’m told, occurred to him after a winter’s lunch in sight of the frozen lake that borders the University of Wisconsin, where he has spent his career) appears in a very short paper (with John Learned). It contains no math — much of it can be read by a layperson — and ends with a quaint diagram, reproduced below. The picture says it all. The prize isn’t merely for this paper though; it is also for shepherding the idea all the way to fruition, and ensuring that real discoveries about the universe were made with it.

The one and only figure from the 1988 Halzen-Learned paper, laying out how and where a neutrino detector could be built in ice, and how it would work. A neutrino passes through the Earth; upon striking an atom just below the detector, it is converted to a muon, which travels through the detector emitting Cerenkov light. That light is observed by sensitive light collectors (“photomultipliers.”) The detector sits deep in the ice sheet, where the ice is pure and transparent.

As for me, I’ve been working on black holes with Harvard colleague Mark Riojas, and we’ve discovered some very interesting things (without using AI, I’m pleased to say!) I don’t have time to write about that now, but maybe I’ll get to it later. That’s in addition to some Large Hadron Collider physics, mostly on this and related subjects, and a public outreach workshop at Canada’s Perimeter Institute.

Such is the news for today. If I sound frazzled, it’s because I am. It’s a time of great chaos. I suppose we’ll muddle our way through it somehow.

n-Category Café Bruce Bartlett Wins Levi Conant Prize

Hurrah! Bruce Bartlett has won the 2027 Levi L. Conant Prize for the best expository paper in either the Notices or Bulletin of the American Mathematical Society. He won it for his paper The quintic, the icosahedron and elliptic curves, and I recommend that you stop reading this right now and read that instead.

No? You’re still reading this? Okay, here’s what the AMS said about Bruce’s prize-winning paper:

The article describes a deep and beautiful connection between the roots of a quintic polynomial, the icosahedron, and elliptic curves. As Bartlett explains, the original discovery of this connection was made by Felix Klein in 1878. The goal of the article is to recount Klein’s story and update it with new ideas and perspectives that have developed over the last 150 years. It succeeds in doing this in a a clear, engaging, and exciting fashion.

More specifically, the article draws a direct correspondence between (a) the “evenly ordered” roots for a specific family of polynomials, the Brioschi quintics, (b) points on the icosahedron, and (c) elliptic curves equipped with a primitive basis for their 5-torsion. The article then uses this correspondence to give an elegant algorithm for computing the roots of an arbitrary quintic polynomial.

Bartlett invites the reader to join “on a mathematical carpet ride through the mathematics of the last four centuries. Along the way we will marvel at Kepler’s Platonic model of the solar system from 1597, witness Gauss’ excitement in his diary entry from 1799, and experience the atmosphere in Trinity College Hall during the wonderful moment Ramanujan burst onto the scene in 1913.” Again, the article lives up to this billing.

On the way to describing the root-finding algorithm, the article wends its way through a wide variety of rich mathematics. It touches upon classical invariant theory, elliptic curves and their moduli space, covering space theory, the structure of the symmetric group, and the group theory of the modular group and its subgroups.

The reader also learns about Vladimir Arnold’s topological proof of the unsolvability of the quintic by radicals (originally presented to high school students in Moscow), the complex arithmetic-geometric mean of Cremona and Thongjunthug, and the continued fraction of Rogers and Ramanujan. Amazingly, along with all the fantastic mathematical ideas, the article manages to give salient insights into the people behind those ideas. There are cameos from Hermite, Hardy, and Russell, among many others.

The article is beautifully illustrated. It ends with a step-by-step description of the root-finding algorithm, as well as a link to an implementation of the algorithm in Mathematica, a fitting exclamation point to this broad, engaging, and hands-on tour through the wonders of the quintic polynomials.

Bruce replied, in part:

I am greatly honoured and chuffed to receive the 2027 Levi L. Conant prize for my April 2024 paper in the Notices on “The Quintic, the Icosahedron and Elliptic Curves.” I had long been fascinated by this topic, but I could never quite understand it, until I got hold of Sander Bessels’ wonderful Master’s thesis from 2006, which explained that the “five things” which are being permuted when we rotate the icosahedron are the five inscribed octahedra. I gradually became aware that there are a number of simple but remarkable geometric insights like this, each individually known to a group of experts, but apparently no-one had made a coherent expository account of it all. (Another example is how the six vertex axes of the icosahedron can be placed in an intriguing correspondence with the six points in the projective line over the field with five elements, giving an explanation for the group isomorphism A5 = PSL(2,5)… this had to wait for my follow-up article though!) Once Ramanujan entered the story, I knew I could write up a nice article.

Nice use of the word “chuffed”! I’m glad that Bruce likes many of the things I like, and has managed to fit a bunch of them together more clearly than I ever could.

Proofs and Prompts — The value of mathematicians in the AI age

Nicola Gigli, Professor at SISSA

SERIES · AI is making papers cheap to produce but they remain costly to referee. Proofs and Prompts is publishing a series of posts from 26 October on the future of publishing, papers and credit. Questions such as how to disclose AI use, who bears the cost of checking, what authorship means and what papers of the future might look like will be addressed. This post is part of the series. Each is written independently and reflects only its authors’ views. All posts in the series

What this is about

Given the societal changes around the corner, discussing the value of professional mathematicians in the upcoming era is perhaps a scope too narrow: all in all, if AI kills us all or the singularity happens, who cares about these people? Even if things do not go that far, it is a plausible scenario that in a few years the combination of AI and robotics will be able to replace humans in most jobs, a fact that would radically transform society and, in relation to the scope of this essay, might lead someone to question the value of humans in general (I know: the value of what humans do is not the same as the value of what humans are. But still).

And yet, understanding whether there is value, as I think is the case, in one specific job that seems to be taken over by AI might help shed light on the bigger picture and this is a subject I have competence in. Also, and specifically for my profession, I believe that my role as an intellectual is to first recognise and accept a change that is occurring and then question which kind of future I want, so that in the current turmoil I can steer the wheel in the appropriate direction whenever I’m able to.

I am aware that the topics discussed here touch something quite deep, often somehow linked to our identities (despite what I wrote a few lines above, when asked what I do for a living I do not answer ‘I do math’ but rather ‘I am a mathematician’): this is another good reason to have an honest look at what is happening and reexamine the foundations of our value, if any, both toward society and within our community.

A lot has been written on the matter recently, and a lot I have read. While obviously I agree more with someone and less with someone else, I shall try not to criticise any specific position, but rather just express my own: many of us have strong opinions on the matter, and I believe these opinions should be openly discussed, so that each viewpoint, expectation, value and fear is brought to the surface.

Regardless of the specific view each of us might have, I think we can all agree that we are entering uncharted territory and that nobody has a clear view of how the future will be. This might certainly be scary, but I encourage all of us to embrace this new adventure with excitement and explore the new world, and contribute to its building, with the spirit of pioneers.

The value of mathematicians for society

In the last decades, the unwritten reason why the work of mathematicians has been funded has been teaching and research. Now that research is soon to be done by machines, such a societal contract should be reexamined and rediscussed.

My core message is that the key added value brought by mathematicians is, and in fact has always been, in the human understanding of math1: the role of math as the basic language of science does not change if tomorrow new math is produced by machines, and in fact once freed from the need to do research, mathematicians will have much more time to study math than they have today.

If we, humanity, give up the idea of deep human understanding of math, then I’m afraid we will soon give up the idea of understanding any science at all, and thus soon any control over the world, including, in particular, AI. I strongly advise against this scenario, and thus insist that we should have a community of people able to understand math.

A few points in this direction:

  • Despite being an atheist, I believe that the universe obeys some laws, and that the role of physics is to understand these laws. In doing so it has done a great job so far, but the task is not complete yet, and a theory of everything is still missing. Now, suppose that tomorrow an alien (for instance: an AI) tells us that indeed such a theory exists and gives us a book in which the theory is explained, but such a book is written in a language we cannot understand. In this case, will tomorrow’s situation really be different from today’s one for me? I mean, I already firmly believe that such a theory exists, so what am I gaining? Just the confirmation that my act of faith was correct? This surely is better than nothing, but not very much so. What I would really like is for me, or perhaps for us humans, to be able to understand what is written in that book, and to this aim the understanding of deep mathematical concepts will very likely be crucial.
  • Somehow more concretely, suppose that tomorrow AI finds a cure for cancer. Then one might argue that even if humanity does not understand the mechanism behind it, surely we might be happy that a cure exists and just treat people with it. This is certainly true, but nevertheless I note that either we give up the idea of understanding what is going on with this cure, or we do not. It might be that I am just a curious person, but I am against giving up on understanding it, thus advocate the latter option, which requires us to understand medicine, biology, chemistry, physics (recall also the need of elaborate medical machinery) and thus surely also math.

To this I would add that while the pursuit of knowledge is, I think, noble per sé and thus needs no justification, at the practical level the societal impact of research at the frontiers of pure math has been mostly that of keeping alive and vibrant, through an intense intellectual challenge, a community of mathematicians, whose role has been to contribute to the culture broth of basic research from which innovation has typically sparked. To this extent, the actual math research achievements, say in the last decades, have not been that relevant: they mostly had a role just within pure math and certain branches of theoretical physics. Perhaps a good, and slightly brutal, illustration of this comes from the recent solution of the millennium problem, i.e. one of the most important problems in math, concerning the equations of fluid dynamics: now we know that the solutions of the forced Navier-Stokes equations can blow up in finite time, yet the plumbing industry won’t change a tiny bit.

In this sense the upcoming automation of research will not really change much from the perspective of usefulness of mathematicians for society. It does change a lot, however, for mathematicians themselves and if we want to have mathematicians in the future, these changes have to be thoroughly discussed.

The value of mathematicians for mathematicians

Grant me for a moment that in the near future most, if not all, of the research in math will be done by AI2 and let me elaborate on what kind of future we might expect and what we should aim for in it. Even if you are not convinced by this claim, still notice that what I’m writing in this section is valid even if things remain as they are today, i.e. with about half of math papers produced via intensive use of AI3.

If the claim holds, then a tsunami is coming for math and due to the forces in place it is not reasonable to expect that academia will go on roughly as it is and AI will be tamed to the current state of affairs4. Rather, we should deeply reform research institutions to work in a world where AI will play a central role.

The core issue, as I see it, is that automated research will disrupt the current value system in academia: for ages, mathematicians have been assessed mostly by the research they produced (we can discuss whether this was a smart choice or not, but that was it). If research is going to be automated, then surely this won’t be the case anymore. Notice that this is true even if all mathematicians continue to do research in parallel with AI: once a process is automated, the outcome becomes cheaper and thus loses value. This has already happened thousands of times throughout history when a technological change occurred. This time is about research in math: what once required months of hard work, discussions, conferences, collaborations etc, now is, or soon will be, just one prompt away. I am not saying this lightly and as already mentioned I am aware of the psychological impact of the redefinition of our value system: up to now our entire professional validation, and thus for many also part of the personal validation, passed through the math we produced. This won’t be the case anymore.

It is thus imperative, if we want to still have a community of mathematicians, that we rediscuss and redefine the internal values upon which such a community is built. My perspective on this matter is that we should value knowing, understanding and communicating math, which are the keys needed to pursue the goal of human understanding of math I mentioned before. These have always been important in the field, but for some reason their relevance has been overshadowed by the imperative of doing as much research as possible, well described by the famous ‘publish or perish’ dictum: how often did we not study a topic just because we knew it would have been hard to publish on it? Now that we are relieved from the pressure of publishing, this — understandable given the old value system, but nevertheless rather crazy — line of thought has no reason to exist anymore. Admittedly, I take this part of the story with a bit of relief: for a person interested in studying math, this is actually the best time in history. Future practitioners will very likely know much more math than current ones and will likewise have more chances to know about neighbouring disciplines, with beneficial effects on human understanding of science in general.

Switching to a new value system will not be easy. Below I will briefly discuss two key challenges: the authorship issue and the next-generation side of the story.

Authorship. Among the changes caused by the automation of research, perhaps the one that will be the hardest to digest will be that future mathematicians will not author anything: they simply won’t have work to put their signature on. As of yesterday, if I had an idea I could write up a paper on it, and it didn’t matter how brilliant or insignificant the resulting work was: still on the first page, right below the title, there was my name. Signing papers was surely a key part of the gratification I got from my work: on one hand from it I could get some appreciation from colleagues and on the other it gave me the possibility of adding my tiny contribution to the Eternal Book of Math. In a world where AI is intensively used to produce papers, being an author loses its significance. What does it mean if I sign a paper that is mostly AI-generated? And what does it mean to sign a paper and to say that AI had little to no role in its preparation? Even assuming I am being honest in this declaration, why does this information matter in a world where, likely, the same result could have been obtained with a few prompts to a latest-generation AI model5? Am I asking for some credit from the community? What for, precisely?

Perhaps one aspect where human authorship will still play a role will be in communicating math and creating stories around it. In a world overpopulated by theorems, likely more than those humanity can possibly navigate, we will need a certain critique of mathematics to guide us through this ocean of statements. Why is a subject relevant? On what grounds is it based? What are the core ideas? What the connections with other fields, both within and outside math? What should I be acquainted with if I want to understand a certain topic? Or even, very simply: why is this beautiful? These are all questions that a human Cicerone can offer answers to (I mean: to other humans) and creating these maps while having access to, de facto, Erdös’ book might actually turn out to be fascinating6.

I am not saying that the loss of significance of authorship in research will happen quickly, but I do not see how it can survive for long in a context where most of the research is either machine-assisted or entirely machine-made. With this happening, the very same reasons for doing math will change and with them the kind of people attracted to the profession. For instance, I admit that if I were in my 20s I am not sure I would choose the same job today and, likewise, it might be that those who also enjoy the performative aspects of the work will simply lose interest and pick different career paths. On the other hand, people more inclined toward the genuine enjoyment of the intellectual activity might benefit from being relieved of the pressure to do research (and all that comes with it, such as sleepless nights, grant applications, paper submissions etc.) and actually decide to pick this career.

Again, I think it is up to us, the current generation of mathematicians, to ask what value, if any, there is in being a mathematician: the next generation of mathematicians will exist if and only if we find this value, both toward society and in our community, and communicate it properly. As written above, I believe there is such value and will fiercely fight for it. Should we fail to agree and communicate our values, well, then so be it: we will be the last human mathematicians and our research institutions will be converted into beautiful museums7.

Another consequence of the automation of research is that the entire ecosystem built around research production will fall. For instance, properly crediting previous contributions will not really matter anymore if such contributions are machine-made. Also, scientific journals will not have any role tomorrow, as their main raison d’etre today is to grant status to the published papers, and thus to their authors.

In fact, even the necessity of having papers as we always had is in question now: will we really need an introduction and a collection of preliminary results for each new theorem? I am not so sure, and suggest that we should find new ways to organise and access the research. The human-made critique I mentioned above might be, among others, one of the options.

Next generation. In a world where knowing, understanding and communicating math are agreed and shared values, we will need ways to train the next generation of mathematicians and to evaluate them. Here are my two cents.

As for training, we should ‘simply’ shift the focus of PhD studies from the production of new results to understanding math (which has always been a good thing) and communicating math (which also has always been a good thing, even though too often not sufficiently appreciated). In particular, I would not push schools/students into getting the latest, most expensive, model of AI to assist them in research, as doing research won’t really be a thing in the typical PhD. Again, the release from the pressure to produce something new will give students, and teachers, the time to dig down into deep theories: it won’t be unreasonable to, say, have a PhD student study the blow-up in finite time of the forced Navier-Stokes, or any other cornerstone of modern mathematics.

When it comes to hiring, it won’t be difficult to assess candidates’ knowledge and understanding of math and their communication skills: they might for instance be given a few hours to write an essay on a given topic, and/or asked to prepare a lecture on a subject chosen by the committee. Interviews might also play a role. Let me stress that hiring in most of the already existing high-level jobs is based on a mixture of previous experience, recommendation letters and interviews. The possibility of supplementing all of this with a clear set of well-defined work outputs of the candidate, i.e. the publication list seasoned with a few bibliometric indicators, was an exception specific to academia, but the new ecosystem might certainly work well even without it (as in fact it should: if the job changes, so should the selection process).

I know of some concerns about the training of future PhD students. One is that if they do not work hard by doing research they will turn out to be weak mathematicians, another is that knowing the path to ‘the solution’ of the given problems will disrupt the possibility of exploring potentially interesting nearby areas. Maybe I am overly optimistic, but I do not have such concerns. Surely things worked well in the past, but, again, if the work of mathematicians changes, so should their training. On top of this:

  1. I believe that future generations will be as smart as the current one, thus if they perceive some lack of abilities in areas they believe important, then they will work to build up such abilities. Will this be too late for them to make use of our guidance? Maybe, but that just means that they will have to work a bit harder (which is what we want, right? Also, in any case I do not think I ever taught my students how to do research, but rather what they could research) to reach their goals, not that such goals cannot be reached at all.
  2. A relevant part of the math that I learned, in particular all the mathematics I studied as an undergraduate, I learned from books, not via research: it was ‘given’ to me, not explored by me. And thankfully so: this gave me a solid base of knowledge. In particular, I do not share the fear that knowing ‘the correct path’ from the get-go makes it harder to explore alternative routes. Quite the contrary: having a robust picture of a subject clearly in mind has always given, at least to me, a sense of safety in exploring the surroundings.

Math research in the AI age

Here I argue why I do not think that in the near future humans will have any role at all in doing research in math, regardless of the actions that either individuals or the whole community will take8.

Supporting arguments are:

  • Current AI systems are the dumbest (whatever this means) they will ever be. I don’t know what intelligence is, but available commercial tools are already as good at producing research as most mathematicians, to say the least, and while we cannot improve our capabilities much, they surely can. In this regard notice that in the grand scheme of things Einstein (or your preferred superhero) was not much smarter than the average person. With this I certainly do not intend to minimise the incredible contributions he made to science, but just to underline that he was a human being. As such he ‘ran the same machine’ as everybody else, with a brain of a given size working on principles that are the same as those of everybody else. With experience and tools, we can certainly improve, but we are all still limited by our biology. This is not the same for AI: data centres can still grow significantly and more efficient algorithms can still be found, with both events being very likely. I am not saying that AI capabilities have no theoretical upper bound, nor that they will continue improving at the same pace we have witnessed in the last few years, but given that they are already better at doing research than many of us, they do not need to improve much to become better than all of us.
  • AI can be as creative in math (whatever this means) as humans. Again, I do not know what creativity really is, but judging by my own experience I don’t see anything I have ever read and understood in my research area that could not have been, at least in principle, done by AI. I sincerely hope no colleague gets offended by this claim: if it is of any consolation, please notice that the mathematics I am referring to includes the work I have done myself (and, speaking of creativity, I would say my most important contributions are definitions, not theorems).

    Surely there is a whole lot of math that I do not really understand and that feels like magic, and thus extremely creative, to me, meaning I cannot see a path of ‘little intuitions’ that led to the final results nor how these results might have been conceived in the first place (e.g. some of Gromov’s work). But still I would not declare AI incapable of producing such math: I would have no arguments to support the claim other than I am too dumb to argue otherwise, which sounds a bit like throwing the ball where I can’t see it to conclude that nobody can play with it.

    Even if I’m wrong on this matter, e.g. say there will be room for human creation of theories, still given the current strength of existing models only a handful of mathematicians will actually be able to provide this sort of contribution. In particular, all the previous discourses around the value of mathematicians and the need to redesign our structures will still be in place.
  • AI won’t be shut down. Of course in principle it could, but it won’t happen: the tool is just too useful to society (proof: most people use it) for society to abandon it, regardless of the risks it bears. Analogously, the internet hasn’t been shut down to prevent, e.g., the spread of fake news and factories have not all been closed to prevent pollution. Of course, given the power of these tools and the concentration of such power, I do nevertheless firmly believe that they should be heavily regulated, akin to how nuclear power facilities are.
  • AI systems cannot be ignored by the math community. If you are a mathematician active today, then it is likely that in your field you have already witnessed serious advances made also thanks to AI. If we keep on with business as usual, which values research, then this research will mostly be done by somebody using AI, even if all professional mathematicians decide not to use it: it is just too easy, even for non-professionals, to produce research.

    Not using AI is also complicated by the fact that it relies on an unprovable claim: suppose that next month I’ll post a paper on arXiv with the complete solution of a major and well-known problem and that I declare that I have not used AI in working on this. Should I be trusted? Would you trust me? It is a delicate issue, because on this trust depends my recognition in the community, which, if sufficiently high, brings money, prizes etc. I cannot prove I didn’t use AI, but if the value system in our community remains the one currently in use, where producing new research is the main career driver, then incentives to cheat are just too strong: somebody will simply use AI and declare otherwise. Of course I would never do that, I’m a good guy, and I am sure neither would you, my dear and trustworthy reader. Still, I advise against a system entirely based on mutual trust. For instance: how would you feel if in 2030 a Fields medal is awarded to a person who solved the Riemann hypothesis and declared heavy use of AI? And what if the same person declared no use of AI at all?
  1. This is, of course, very much in line with Thurston’s famous essay “On proof and progress in mathematics”, which is still very current (even in its title!) ↩︎
  2. I am aware that this is a controversial take: I will argue for this claim in the next section. Notice that I am not looking forward to such a future: I was happy the way things were (which does not mean I can’t be happy in tomorrow’s world). ↩︎
  3. The number of arXiv submissions in math in September ’26 is 30% higher than that in August ’26 and more than twice that of September ’25 (data from arXiv monthly submissions). My assumption is that AI has something to do with this. ↩︎
  4. I have just one kind question for the AI-workers that will mass-produce statements: please only put online stuff that either you understand as correct or that is lean-certified. ↩︎
  5. This might not be the situation today, but as I shall argue in the next section I believe it will soon be the case for, at least, the vast majority of papers. ↩︎
  6. There are a number of stimulating ontological questions related to this discussion, avoided by the pragmatic take of this essay that puts value in the human understanding of math. Unfortunately, I am not acquainted enough with the topic to say anything meaningful or to provide a roadmap to the existing literature, but a basic question is: does non-human knowledge exist at all?

    With an AI tool capable of answering some (many? all?) mathematical questions we throw at it we can ask: when does this math start existing? The moment we switch on the tool, the moment the question is posed, or the moment the answer is provided? And what if also the question has been asked by the AI and the answer stored in some server no human has accessed yet? Our answers to these are related to how we will perceive our role in this world: will we be merely explorers, or will we have a part in the creative process? ↩︎
  7. In this case I will make sure that in mine there will be a picture of myself at the blackboard, to witness those crazy old times when math was hand-made with a 1$ chalk and not crafted by a trillion$ machine. ↩︎
  8. This essay has been prepared before OpenAI released more than 700 papers on October 6, 2026, a fact that strengthens the arguments collected here. ↩︎

Received 12 October 2026.

Proofs and Prompts — Let’s stop writing papers…

Patrick Morris, Ramón y Cajal Fellow (Post-doc) at Universitat Politècnica de Catalunya (UPC), Barcelona

SERIES · AI is making papers cheap to produce but they remain costly to referee. Proofs and Prompts is publishing a series of posts from 26 October on the future of publishing, papers and credit. Questions such as how to disclose AI use, who bears the cost of checking, what authorship means and what papers of the future might look like will be addressed. This post is part of the series. Each is written independently and reflects only its authors’ views. All posts in the series

AI Disclosure: All sentiments and words are my own. I used Chat GPT 6 medium to suggest other essays discussing changes in mathematical culture and to inform myself about initiatives. Another chat was used to understand the process of atlasing, after Google AI suggested it as a term that is ‘like mapping out but starting with an a’ (which admittedly I probably could have got to myself if I had thought for a moment).

In this essay, I put forward some ideas on what the future of mathematical culture could look like as well as thoughts and concrete suggestions for how we get there. My focus is centred around a more diverse ecosystem of mathematical output, moving away from traditional practices of writing and submitting papers to journals. My vision is aspirational, formed through a fair amount of dreaming, as well as insights from others. Through my research, it became clear to me that as a community we have vastly different views on how we approach the use of AI in maths as well as its current and predicted capabilities. As much as possible, I have tried to envisage a robust community that can adapt to developments in AI whilst making space for people to contribute in the way they feel most comfortable.

Stop writing papers, really?!

My main aim is to provide some direction and cultivate positivity around the future of mathematics. Before that though, let me address what I believe we should not do. The title of this essay is purposefully incendiary and stems from a deep feeling that we cannot simply try to do business as usual. The pressure to publish has been the prominent driving force in most mathematicians’ careers, often drowning out the rest of what we do. Arguably the community was long overdue some introspection but the advent of AI gives us no choice.

The situation requires a monumental shift in how we approach mathematics as well as a complete reform of our value system, rather than clunky attempts to try and accommodate new advances into the status quo. (I realise that this view is not held by everyone, but it is beyond the scope of this essay to convince people of this 1). This is why we urgently need to stop writing papers and focus on other activities.

In reality, I know that this is idealistic and that there are many obstacles to change. Our institutions are built around the current system and will be slow to adjust, a problem that disproportionately affects junior academics and especially students. I am a post-doc and am acutely aware that my publication list will remain the most influential factor in obtaining a permanent job and grants in the coming years. If I do get tenure at my current university, as I hope I will, my pay is affected by how many papers I write.

There is another issue which is simply that this is what we know. I myself will contradict my own advice. I have a pile of unfinished projects that I plan to complete for a variety of reasons, some because I am invested, some because I feel that I owe it to younger colleagues who will benefit from the experience and just one that I believe provides new ideas that cannot (currently) be obtained by pushing a button. Nonetheless I believe I am not alone in at times feeling quite lost2 over the last months and I hope that my suggestions can provide some purpose moving forward.

Ok, so let’s at least write fewer papers. What should we do instead?

Below I lay out different axes of activities (in no particular order), briefly explaining how we currently approach them and some ideas of what we can do differently. All of them are broadly aimed at advancing and facilitating human understanding of mathematics.

  1. Atlasing: In neuroscience3, atlasing refers to creating models of the brain that provide a standardised framework for many individual brain maps. I like this as a metaphor for the process of collating and canonising different mathematical works. This has typically been done through books and surveys, which remain incredibly valuable resources. One particularly ambitious example of this was The Princeton Companion to Mathematics which aimed to overview all of modern mathematics. Moving forward we should be more systematic and dynamic in our efforts to atlas. I don’t think it is so crazy to aim for a comprehensive online mathematical encyclopaedia that catalogues topics, theorems, concepts, proof methods and their interconnections and which is continually being expanded and refined. On the formal level, this is already happening4.
  2. Big Mathematics: This is a term used by Tao to mean5 ‘large-scale decentralised collaboration between humans and machines’. I would like to slightly broaden this definition by not imposing the use of machines. Indeed, I see the crowdsourcing Polymath project as an innovative example of big mathematics. Once we move away from a system that lauds individual ownership of results, we can become more open and collaborative on a large scale. I would love to see more accounts of failed attempts or half-proven results, as well as logs of what cannot be currently achieved by AI. In this way, I think we will save a lot of duplication by people working in secrecy.
  3. Curation: By definition, to curate is to select, organise and present. Whilst similar to A, I would contrast them by placing A as an attempt to create permanence, whilst C is concerned with processing the torrent of brand-new mathematics. Good curation picks out results/progress, places it in a wider context and tells you why you should care about it. This is a role that has been underserved with the exceptions I know of being some blogs6, Quanta magazine and the Bourbaki seminar (and to some extent MathReviews and workshops on current trends). With more maths being generated and the fall of many guiding conjectures, we will need more curation. This can take the form of podcasts, blogs, magazines and newsletters both for maths as a whole and for specialists in its many corners.
  4. Dialogue: Mathematicians talk to each other all the time, whether sharing ideas at a blackboard, debating our culture over coffee or catching up at conferences. These ongoing conversations are deeply useful but are mostly localised. Our global community also needs spaces to discuss and debate more widely and they are lacking7. Comments sections on blogs such as Bloom’s Erdős problem website have almost accidentally become forums. We should create avenues for meaningful conversations, both about maths itself and about the culture. For example, a repository where people can share feedback, questions, answers and comments on papers/preprints would surely be useful. Maybe even a mathematics focused social media or a shared discord or slack. I don’t mean that we should move completely online. On the contrary, I think we should also create more seminars, reading groups and round-table discussions. There is space for both to flourish.
  5. Exposition: This one has been grabbing a lot of attention8 due to AI’s current inability to present ideas well. If we’re honest with ourselves, we were also lacking in this as humans. I know plenty of highly influential papers that are terribly written and a bunch more that contain some beautiful idea that is completely obscured by the technicalities needed to get the proof over the line. The situation with talks is even worse, with the plenary lectures at our biggest conferences essentially being awards for research and with no expectation on the speaker or from the audience to understand after 5 minutes in. On the flip side, there are certainly some amazing storytellers in our community and reading their work or seeing them speak has made me realise what an art it is. It is exciting to see what we can achieve in terms of exposition when we give it the real weight and respect it deserves. It can and should come in many different forms and for the full spectrum of audiences, from experts, to students and researchers in other areas, to the general public.

Ok but what should we actually do now?

The areas outlined above are not new but need much more attention and, most importantly, the development of platforms and infrastructure to highlight and reward them. This is the time to innovate and it is happening already9. Proofs and Prompts, for example, is a great example facilitating D and the new video journal Mathematical Discourse feels like an important move towards developing E. Further initiatives include the Mathathon coding project to develop new proofs and expositions of known results (B,E), the open-source mathematical formalisation project Mathlib (A,B) and Transformation, a new weekly digest from Quanta tracking news in maths and AI (C).

I hope to see many more exciting projects come to fruition and I believe we all have a part to play in revolutionising what modern mathematics looks like. In the past, we have placed a great deal of responsibility on relatively few, those that have established themselves to the extent that they can take time away from proving theorems to serve as editors, give colloquia and write books. These people have an important role to play in providing leadership, expertise and stature to new initiatives but we cannot rely solely on them to build everything, there is simply too much to do. Moreover, we should take this opportunity to diversify the voices at the table. In particular, young researchers as well as groups that are underrepresented in our current community will bring vital new perspectives to the conversation. I encourage everyone to think about how the future can look and how they want to contribute to it. Apply for grants to help realise your ideas and support and contribute to the ideas of others.

We should think with longevity and establish long-term alternatives to traditional journals. We can borrow from what worked before and aim to incentivise contribution by creating venues for other types of mathematical output that are competitive and prestigious. However, we should also explore new ways of rewarding output. We can look at measuring forms of engagement from the community that go beyond citations, maybe through views or voting systems (as used by Math Overflow, for example). Learning also from our mistakes in the past, we should avoid outsourcing ownership of our infrastructure and should celebrate community-led alternatives.

It is incredibly difficult to predict the future of maths but for now, developing along axes A-E represents a tremendous workload of things that we can be focusing on, all of which I can only see as being beneficial.

Acknowledgements: I am very grateful to my many colleagues whom I have spoken with at length about this topic. In particular I thank Richard Lang, Miquel Ortega and Tibor Szabó for their insights and Tássio Naia and my dad, Tim Morris, for their comments on an earlier draft. I also thank my wife Jiselle for her patience and help in processing my thoughts and writing in a format I am not so used to.

  1. Many eloquent arguments can be found elsewhere, see e.g. this essay of Bryna Kra, Daniel Litt’s The end of mathematics and Amit Harlev’s Dear conferences, journals, and hiring committees: don’t wait for everyone else. ↩
  2. Kirwin Hampshire’s The Dark Night of Mathematics captures the feeling beautifully. ↩
  3. See, for example, A. W. Toga and P. M. Thompson, Maps of the Brain, The Anatomical Record, 265(2), 2002. The notion also appears in topology and differential geometry where an atlas is a collection of coordinate charts that covers a geometric space. ↩
  4. The mathlib Community, The Lean mathematical library, arXiv:1910.09336, 2019. ↩
  5. According to Terence Tao on AI in mathematics (and beyond) at the time of writing. He also talks of Math 2.0 and highlights many interesting examples and ideas for rethinking mathematical research. ↩
  6. Terence Tao’s and Gil Kalai’s spring to mind for me. ↩
  7. Maths Stack Exchange and Math Overflow are notable exceptions but they seem to be in decline, sadly. ↩
  8. See e.g. Grant Sanderson’s essay If math is more than proof, we need to better celebrate the rest of it ↩
  9. There are also some examples of older initiatives that were ahead of their time and have sadly stunted. Tricki, for example, aimed to create a database for problem solving techniques (A,B), see also the incredibly ambitious The Mathematics Survey project of David Aldous and Jim Pitman (A,E). Maybe it is time to revisit these ideas. ↩

Received 19 October 2026.

October 29, 2026

Proofs and Prompts — The (human) emotional part of doing maths

A follow-up to Shmuel Weinberger’s post

Luise Ge, PhD student in computer science at Washington University St Louis

First, the not so serious part: emotions

Someone was shouting in her vernacular accent: “Because all the relationships are emotional!” just now, at 11pm.

It was so loud that I heard it as clearly as possible from the fifth floor.

It broke my concentration and made my mind switch to something different: maybe instead of saying I am a mathematician which actually made me feel nervous because i am no longer in a math department, I should say I am someone that have a deep relationship with it. How do i prove it? Because I have had and plan to continue having so many strong emotions with it!

Here is a list:

Euphoria: When I proved something successfully, blimey, I am the happiest person in the world.

Empowered: I am so grateful that I can understand a lot of physics, biology, chemistry, computer science or music because I know maths.

Humbled: Why are large number so large? Why are we still knowing so little about everything?

Dread: I was not good at maths during high school, and maths exams at that time gave me tremendous nerves. I think it was to the level of panic attacks.

Sublimity: To me the Euler equation is like a Flemish painting I could hang on my wall; the aesthetic experience of an elegant is as haughty as listening to Bach’s music, but a little bit scary when thinking about higher dimensional space and topology (see, for example, this video).

Anticipation: When I was going to learn a new topic, I would feel super excited.

Repose: I remember, for example, going over lecture notes for revision, and seeing all the definitions and theorems and lemmas connecting with each other makes me feel extremely organized and calm.

Camaraderie: The quarrels between you and your teammate can get so intense and heated that outsiders wouldn’t understand, but when the problem’s solved, we are the best teammates together.

Isolation: I felt sour when all my friends went out on Friday night.

Desolation: Does the never-ending tunnel resonates with you?

Tenacity: Is it about faith in myself, faith in the conjecture, or just because there is no exit?

Grounding: As I am doing CS, formal verification of things and some provable bounds give me something i can grip on and feel grounded by.

Bewilderment: Just dazed and confused.

Second, are they really not so serious?—\text{\textemdash}or, what are emotions good for?

I travelled to an AI conference recently focused on integrating reasoning and learning; one of the main goals of this community (check inductive logic programming, for instance) is automated discovery, defining new entities and finding relationships between them, from atoms to genes. This is not a new dream either. As brought up by keynote speaker Prof. Stephen Muggleton, Turing1 once pondered a question about whether a machine can generate new ideas like a nuclear chain reaction.

Discovery to me is the most exciting, and grandiose objective of AI, as it has truly propelled the development of our civilization.

As for mathematical creation, it feels like these mysterious emotions, like the sense of “rightness”, or surprise, curiosity are like the little fairies guiding us to the destinations.

And this is the part current AI has not be able to do yet.

Maybe partially it’s because AI doesn’t have emotions yet but we do?

Maybe our human emotions will still make us better mathematicians, sometimes, and for a while?

Maybe we should try to always keep it this way?

And be wary that when we work with AI, our feelings seem to be less deep, and less varied.


Received 24 September 2026.

  1. The passage (responding to Lady Lovelace’s objection that a machine can only do what it’s told) reads: a person can “inject” an idea into a mind or machine, and it will respond to some extent and then die away —\text{\textemdash} like a piano string struck by a hammer. Turing then extends the simile to an atomic pile below critical size: an injected idea corresponds to a neutron entering the pile from outside, causing a disturbance that eventually dies away —\text{\textemdash} unless the pile is large enough, in which case the disturbance keeps growing until the whole pile goes up.
    He then applies this directly to minds: most human minds seem to be “sub-critical,” meaning an idea presented to them gives rise, on average, to less than one idea in reply, while a smaller proportion are “supercritical,” where an idea can set off a whole cascade of secondary and tertiary ideas. He notes animal minds seem clearly sub-critical, and then poses the question your talk seems to have been built around: can a machine be made to be super-critical? ↩︎

Scott Aaronson Podcasts about the Topic: Part II

As always, I strongly recommend 2x speed, which compensates somewhat for my verbal infelicities!


New! More podcasts keep dropping! This one is with the AI alignment researcher Roman Yampolskiy, about … well, AI alignment, plus the Mathocalypse, plus quantum computing, plus whether the universe is a simulation, and I forget what else! Man do the YouTube comments make me despair of humanity though.


Another one that recently dropped, with Sophia Aryan:


With Curt Jaimungal:

The title Curt put next to my head could’ve been in reference to many, many things! But sorry, he just mean AI. He and I start with the Mathacre, of course, but then we get onto the firewall paradox and then Curt starts asking about computational complexity and the Second Law, and then about Integrated Information Theory.


Ah, and another one that just dropped! Man’s Search for Meaning podcast (recorded in-person in Austin), with Yannick Bernard, who asked me about quantum computing, AI, my personal story, grade-skipping, antisemitism, and I don’t even remember what else. I didn’t refuse to answer anything. (Note: this one was recorded over the summer, which is why I so weirdly omit the latest AI math breakthroughs!)


OK, despite the title of this post, short break from “The Topic.” Here’s an absolute masterpiece of mathematical exposition, from the “Polylog” YouTube channel, which tells the story of the determination of Busy Beaver values through spectacular animations. I play cameo roles in the video, although I embarrass myself (as the video silently points out) by transposing two digits in the value of BB(5)…!


Just for old times’ sake, a short podcast about quantum computing with Danny Li.


And, coming soon (not on YouTube quite yet): a conversation about the Mathacre with celebrated physics popularizer (and character on The Big Bang Theory) Brian Greene, recorded in-person in NYC during my recent trip to speak in the math department at Columbia University!


And to preempt the inevitable comments about it: yes, my students just came to my office to tell me that an OpenAI model has now refuted the Exponential Time Hypothesis, by giving an algorithm to solve 3SAT in an amount of time that scales roughly like exp(n/√log(n)). Even as we struggle to digest the previous courses, the endless buffet continues!

Jordan Ellenberg — THE MILWAUKEE BREWERS ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS OF BASEBALL

You guys know I’m an Orioles fan. But the Brewers are my National League team and once the Orioles arrive at their usual pre-postseason exit I switch hats and cheer for Milwaukee, who as of about an hour ago are the World Series champs for the first time in franchise history. I have to admit it — I think is the best team I’ve ever cheered for, better than any Orioles team of my adult lifetime, including the 1983 champions.

So much to like here. Top-to-bottom production from the lineup. Bullpen guys who can go long. World Series MVP William Contreras’s incredibly sharp eye for ABS challenges. One of the best teams of our era.

Scott Aaronson AI Alignment Theory Course: Readings and Rapporteur Reports!

As I announced on this blog a couple weeks ago, I’m teaching a new course this semester at UT Austin, entitled AI Alignment Theory. To call such a course “timely” seems like an understatement; this is the first course I’ve ever taught for which multiple gargantuan developments relevant to the course have happened while I was teaching it.

Since AI alignment is still a field with no standard textbook (although that might be changing), no accepted body of mathematical theory, etc. etc., the way we’ve been running the course is like a humanities discussion seminar, albeit one that happens to be in a CS department and to include technical results from time to time. Basically, in each class session, a student “rapporteur” gives a talk on an AI alignment reading—which include “ancient” readings (from way back in 2016), “modern” readings (from, say, last week), and everything in between—and then we freely discuss and debate whatever was presented, with my own role mostly limited to that of gadfly (occasionally I’ll do a mini-lecture on some technical concept).

Anyway, two weeks ago, I promised a list of the papers and other writings that we’ve been discussing, as well as student “rapporteur reports” on those papers, which cover not only the papers themselves, but the students’ thoughts about the papers and (anonymized) summaries of points raised during our class discussion. People have been bugging me for that ever since.

Since I am to please, here you are, without further ado! I’ll continue to update the list as the semester progresses, so that this post can serve as a central public repository for the course.

  1. AGI Ruin: A List of Lethalities, by Eliezer Yudkowsky (2022). Rapporteur report by Tennyson Bardwell (this is the one that we posted previously).
  2. Concrete Problems in AI Safety, by Amodei, Olah, Steinhardt, Christiano, Schulman, and Mané (2016). Rapporteur report by Daniela Wiepert.
  3. The Alignment Problem from a Deep Learning Perspective, by Ngo, Chan, and Mindermann (many versions but latest is 2025), and Research Priorities for Robust and Beneficial Artificial Intelligence by Russell, Dewey, and Tegmark (2016). Rapporteur report by Oleg Pittman and Jack Holt.
  4. What Happened: OpenAI and HuggingFace, by Zvi Mowshowitz; The Rise and Fall of Agent Civilizations, by Dwarkesh Patel, and the METR report by on the HuggingFace incident, by Greenblatt, Cotra, and Wijk (all 2026). Rapporteur report by Shourjo Aditya Chaudhuri and John Robertson.
  5. We Must Pace the Frontier, by Dario Amodei (2026). Rapporteur report by Dhilan Shah.
  6. The Basic AI Drives, by Stephen Omohundro (2008), and Optimal Policies Tend to Seek Power, by Turner, Smith, Shah, Critch, and Tadepalli (2023). Rapporteur report by Bill Zheng.
  7. Corrigibility, by Soares, Fallenstein, Yudkowsky, and Armstrong (2015). Rapporteur report by Sukrut Chikodikar.
  8. The Off-Switch Game, by Hadfield-Menell, Dragan, Abbeel, and Russell (2017). Rapporteur report by Praneel Seth.
  9. Planting Undetectable Backdoors in Machine Learning Models, by Goldwasser, Kim, Vaikuntanathan, and Zamir (latest version 2024), and Oblivious Defense in ML Models: Backdoor Removal without Detection, by Goldwasser, Shafer, Vafa, and Vaikuntanathan (2025). Rapporteur report by Agrim Jain and Indira Dutta.
  10. Backdoor Defense, Learnability, and Obfuscation by Christiano, Hilton, Lecomte, and Zhu (2024), and Unelicitable Backdoors in Language Models via Cryptographic Transformer Circuits, by Draguns et al. (2024). Rapporteur report by John Dunbar.
  11. Functional Decision Theory: A New Theory of Instrumental Rationality, by Eliezer Yudkowsky and Nate Soares (2018). Rapporteur report by Isaac Noel (coming).
  12. Robust Cooperation In the Prisoner’s Dilemma: Program Equilibrium via Provability Logic, by Barasz, Christiano, Fallenstein, Herreshoff, LaVictoire, and Yudkowsky (latest version 2021). Rapporteur report by Shunan Zheng (coming).
  13. Sleeper Agents: Training Deceptive LLMs that Persist Through Safety Training, by Hubinger et al. (long list of authors) (2024). Rapporteur report by Anthony Wang (coming).
  14. Social Choice Should Guide AI Alignment in Dealing with Diverse Human Feedback, by Conitzer et al. (long list of authors) (2024) and Toward a Theory of Value in AI Alignment, by Ahmed, Birhane, Smart, Kay, Shrishak, and Tobin (2026). Rapporteur report by Priyanka Sadagopan (coming).
  15. Claude’s Constitution, by Amanda Askell, Joe Carlsmith, Chris Olah, Jared Kaplan, Holden Karnofsky, et al. (2026). Rapporteur report by Alan Li (coming).
  16. AI Safety via Debate, by Geoffrey Irving, Paul Christiano, and Dario Amodei (2018). Rapporteur report by Sampoorna Poria (coming).
  17. Scalable AI Safety via Doubly-Efficient Debate, by Jonah Brown-Cohen, Geoffrey Irving, and Georgios Piliouras (2023). Rapporteur report by Aarushi Lakhi (coming).
  18. AI as Normal Technology, by Arvind Narayanan and Sayash Kapoor (2025). Rapporteur report by Weixi Chen (coming).
  19. On the Dangers of Stochastic Parrots, by Emily Bender, Timnit Gebru, Angelina McMillan-Major and Shmargaret Shmitchell (2021). Rapporteur report by George Tsoukalas (coming).

(More readings TBD, until the semester ends!)

Thanks to my TA, Lin Lin Lee, for her help in getting all of this together.

Update: I welcome elevated discussion of these papers and rapporteur reports in the comment section; some of the students might chime in too! Because of the connection to an academic class, though, in this post I’ll be especially ruthless in keeping out nonconstructive or off-topic comments.

Terence Tao — AI, Mathematics, Education, and a public goods problem

[This is a guest post by Gireeja Ranade. This blog post was initially written in a different file format and converted using AI. — T.]

The day after the Navier-Stokes result was announced, a student came to my office hours. They said, “Can we please talk about the Navier-Stokes result and what it means? I really need some therapy.” Two days ago another student mentioned, “I used to be really motivated, but now that all the models can do everything with just a prompt, I don’t feel like putting in any effort at all.”

Every time I have such a conversation with students, I appreciate how lucky my generation has been. We didn’t have to grapple with the temptations or threats of AI when we were students. Not being able to quickly look up answers forced us to challenge ourselves, and do it together with our friends. And years of challenging ourselves somehow made us love it [1], and led us to challenging jobs across academia and industry. These jobs are simultaneously wonderful and hard. But I wonder and worry for my students, for the next generation. What do we need to do to make sure these jobs [2] are (1) available for the next generation and (2) that we have enough students who are motivated to train for them?

I’ve been in conversations where people are concerned about whether mathematics will survive. I’m actually not concerned about this — I’m fairly sure it will, so let us set that aside for the moment. But what I want to think about is, what do we need to do to make sure all mathematicians survive? And not just the `great’ mathematicians, but also regular, ordinary mathematicians? Because even if we decide society only really needs the `greats [3],’ we need to train many tens of thousands of students to identify who those greats are. If we want one Steph Curry, we need to make basketball exciting for a whole generation of people, and we need to support college basketball, and after-school basketball, and neighbourhood basketball.

We’ve seen that by treating mathematical problems as a benchmark, humans have been able to train AI models to be very good at solving hard math problems and writing proofs. Soon we will create benchmarks about `asking good questions’ and `giving clear explanations’ and then AI models will be good at those tasks too. They will do the thinking and the meta-thinking. This is the reality we need to plan for.

For this post I will talk about “mathematics,” but I often mean mathematics broadly construed (the sciences, engineering, social sciences, and even many humanities subjects that require complex reasoning and critical thinking).

Background

People are attracted to mathematics and mathematical sciences for a variety of reasons. But importantly, whatever the motivation, mathematics has always been a `safe’ subject to study. Historically, being good at math has led to a solid job and a stable lifestyle. Why? Because along the way, by studying beautiful mathematics (which in itself might not be exactly what leads to employment), the student learns critical thinking and perseverance, and becomes stronger. The transferable skills are helpful for employment.

As a result, society has encouraged students to do math, even when they might not be `great’ at math. For example, as a teenager, I was part of a special program called Gold 2002, [4] which trained students for the International Mathematical Olympiad (IMO). I was not among the `greats’ in this program. I did not make it to the IMO, unlike some of my friends. And today, I have no hope of ever winning a Fields medal. But I still enjoy doing mathematics, and (thanks to some hard work as a teenager) I’m good enough at it to be paid to do it (again broadly construed, I’m a professor in an EECS department [5]). But one of the reasons that my parents let me spend months and years working on crazy math problems was that math was a `good’ thing. And so it was ok to do this, even if I didn’t win any gold medals.

But today people wonder — does mathematics still have the same status? Do we need critical thinking if a prompt can do it for us? My students ask — is it worth their time to get a PhD, in mathematics, or any theoretical field, without an immediate application? Or should they focus on learning to train better deep learning models? When previously I would have many undergraduate researchers from my lab applying for PhD programs, many now prefer to go straight to industry. What do we say to them?

I have heard people say — in this new era, math will become more like the humanities. We will continue to pursue mathematics because it is beautiful and because we love it. While this may be the case, will as many students pursue it if it does not lead to a good job and a steady life [6]?

Which leads to the thought — well, does society really need all these mathematicians? We will have only our strongest, most passionate students do the very hard math, or those who love mathematics enough to do it even as `starving artists’. With AI, if one mathematician can do the job of five or ten, should we shrink our departments and our graduate programs? What jobs do we expect our students to get when they graduate? And if there are no jobs for `thinkers,’ and `intellectual explorers’, then why should students pursue a path towards a PhD in math or a theoretical science?

This brings us to a public goods problem, which I elaborate on further below. I believe it is essential for us, the human society, to maintain our intellectual culture. And for this we need lots of students getting degrees in mathematics, sciences, and the humanities, but we need to find ways to actually motivate the students to want these degrees and the associated training.

What is our culture and why is it important?

As a child, I would see a big splash in the newspaper about the Nobel prizes every year. I didn’t understand the science or why the literature was meaningful. I just understood that this stuff was important, and that humans valued creativity, expression and intellectual and scientific achievement. And until recently, I had never consciously wondered about the cultural importance of Alfred Nobel establishing those prizes. I had always taken for granted that we should strive for excellence… but I see now that this was an impact of our culture, and that there are so many conscious decisions that have led to this culture.

But now, people have begun to worry about `The end of the age of heroes‘. In his blog post, Noah Smith makes multiple interesting points, but I will paraphrase one: even as mathematicians will likely retain their jobs as math-understanders [7] (since mathematicians are relatively cheap), they will lose their status as heroes.

My question is: while it may be ok for the mathematician to lose their hero status, what impact does this have on the next generation? In my younger days, and even now, I know I benefitted from being around, and hearing about, heroes — the brilliant, blazingly quick, hardworking minds, with the humblest of personalities to match. It gave me someone to look up to and goals to aspire to. With heroes gone, how would we orient our cultural compass?

Aspects of our culture are built on respect for facts about the universe. Nvidia CEO Jensen Huang said in an interview with Ezra Klein a few weeks ago that it doesn’t matter if the multiplication table is starting to be forgotten, and that “we’re going to lose some finer intellectual dexterity … I don’t know how valuable it is for most people to learn how to do surface integrals or partial differential equations. I don’t really know how important that is, but it’s important to some people.”

I was bothered reading this, because I was worried about the implications for our culture.

Multiplication tables matter not just for their own sake but for what they represent [8]. Yes, knowing 11 \times 12 builds fine intellectual dexterity. But they also show young children that there are fundamental, unchanging facts about the world. Invariants. And starting from this, we can build up confidence that allows kids to grow into students who are grounded and questioning because they can both see and understand why there are invariants [9].

Our understanding of partial differential equations allowed us to develop numerical computer programs that can solve them for us. And when the computer does solve them, it is amazing that we (as a human society, not every individual) are able to understand exactly what the computer did. But this is not true when AI does all the work for us; we lose the essential human understanding. I will come back to the value of this soon.

It is important to maintain a culture where we value and respect intellectual dexterity and expertise. And admire the young children who know their multiplication tables, and the older people who win Fields medals and Nobel prizes. And respect those people who care deeply about partial differential equations, and create space for them to develop their expertise, even if not everyone understands them. The goal of expanding and developing human expertise in subjects can and should be independent of the state of AI [10]. So that we can ensure generations of students will continue to want to study and experience the “unreasonable effectiveness” of mathematics.

Education: Canary in the coal mine

Every professor and teacher I know has grappled with AI-based academic dishonesty by students. Students cheat when `doing it the right way’ doesn’t seem worth the time and effort. And because our culture for students (especially in the United States) has focused on achievements/badges (or, as I tell my students, `sticker collection’), instead of building true understanding and intellectual depth, students want to do more and do it faster, even if they are not doing it deeper or better.

We need to realize that this is just the canary in the coal mine. Students are turning in proofs/essays/code they don’t fully understand. But this behavior is not limited to academic settings. It is likely that engineers are checking in code they didn’t fully read. It is only a matter of time before a researcher publishes a result they don’t fully understand, or an administrator signs off on a decision they don’t fully comprehend. And soon enough, AI systems will be making ever more complex decisions that we just sign off on, because we don’t understand the foundation of the system and we gave up questioning.

If we go down the slippery slope, we risk becoming AI-sock puppets [11]. Faced with AI-output, we will take quick looks and “sanity checks” to make sure AI output is reasonable and move on, but it won’t have the same gravitas and deliberation that comes from a human-authored proof/document. We will have no choice but to use AI, because that will be the only way to keep up. Sanity checks themselves may become illusions — because we will be out of practice at true understanding. It is likely that we will have verified Lean proofs that assure us of correctness, but now we have to evaluate the faithfulness of the theorem statements. (And Lean itself has a very steep learning curve. There is a lot of work to be done to make sure such verification tools are universally accessible to all [12].)

The only thing that can protect us against this is culture. A culture where the point of pride is in the understanding of the work and in the exposition of it. A culture where it is ok to say we don’t understand, ask for clarification, or (respectfully) push back. And where such requests are valued (instead of saying, “let us move on, we only have a few minutes”).

A culture that appreciates being slow and steady and careful. A culture where a student can pursue a more theoretical research area for their PhD, but also be assured that this does not destroy their chance to get a stable, enjoyable job.

So how do we cultivate this culture?

Such culture building must start in the classroom. We must teach harder, better, and stronger [13]. We need to train students so that they know what they know and don’t know — students who can identify proof by intimidation and by authority, and have the confidence to push back. We should provide homework problems that let students explore concepts in depth, and force them to confront ideas they do not understand. Students thrive when they are challenged (with support) and then succeed. This needs resources.

We must walk away from classes that teach students the “high-level ideas” but do not expect students to fully grasp the rigorous details “because AI can do this stuff nowadays, [14]” or because “it is too hard for the students [15].” Because these can create a generation of students who don’t know the difference between understanding things deeply versus superficially. And then this can propagate.

This is now a bigger deal than it was a few years ago. It used to be that knowing a solution strategy or the right algorithm to apply was sufficient for students to become productive members of society. But now that this work can be done by AI systems, we have to be able to understand what the AI has generated, process it and question it, which requires not just knowing the names of the algorithms but also the proofs of why they work, what the key assumptions are, and where and how they break down.

A theorem may be correct given its assumptions. But the gap between assumptions and what we actually care about might admit counterexamples. Identifying such counterexamples requires knowing the modeling and the math at multiple levels. Interpretation matters and ambiguity can creep in when identifying if a formal Lean statement is faithful to the natural language. For such tasks mathematical mental muscles are essential.

Amit Sahai, Po-Shen Loh, and others have beautifully argued why we are going to need more (highly trained) mathematicians. I won’t repeat their argument here. But I will add to their point — it is important that we have a large, diverse set of people, with different life paths and trajectories, becoming mathematicians. People who do not all think exactly the same way, who can interpret, debate, disagree and convince one another.

A public goods problem

This brings us to a public goods problem. We need to maintain our culture. For this, we need to engage and excite lots of different students. We know that if we don’t incentivize students to learn, many of them won’t, and our (humankind’s) mental muscles will atrophy. We know that when humans moved from working in the fields to having indoor desk jobs, our bodies suffered. And to compensate, we invented things like the gym to make sure our bodies stayed fit.

But there is a catch. We pay to go to the gym, not the other way around. Entry-level jobs in fact used to train people while also getting useful contributions from them. Entry-level jobs, or PhD programs, are like being paid to go to the gym. If these are taken away by AI, how do we train people? And how do we convince people that they should be trained?

There is a tremendous investment needed in thinking about what future sustainable solutions to this will look like. This is just the beginning of that conversation. But in the short term, it is important culturally to celebrate and reward the work of understanding and communicating mathematical results — and not just by mathematicians but by society at large. We also need to advocate for educational institutions at all levels and for what they represent for our culture. Teachers need more resources, not less, to be able to teach in the AI-age, because we need to be teaching more, not less. There is no silver bullet. AI tools alone cannot solve problems in the education sector — these come with their own set of challenges. We should be able to offer individualized, 1-1 human tutoring to help students at different levels. I hope we can collectively build a positive future, where we use AI-tools effectively to help us in ways that raise everyone up together.

As a concrete first step in this direction, I invite university leaders to declare their commitment to hiring across departments in the sciences, engineering, social sciences and humanities, and announce their unwavering support for human intellectual growth and exploration. Similarly I invite philanthropists and funding agencies to declare their support for open-ended research, theoretical pursuits and rigorous, grounded education in the fundamentals. Students need to know that we have got their back, and that we are working for their future — because they are our future.

I would like to thank Terry Tao and Nestor Guillen for the invitation to write this post, and also Ted Theodosopoulos, whose 1st Relatorium dialogue on Mathematics and AI started part of this conversation. Thanks also to Anant Sahai for many conversations that have helped refine these thoughts, as well as Vinayak Ranade, Sukhada Fadnavis, Shubhangi Saraf and Amit Sahai for their helpful feedback. Thank you also to the organizers and participants of the Renaissance Philanthropy AI for Math Workshop 2026 — conversations there also influenced my thoughts.

Notes

[1] I understand that challenge and struggle does not work for all students, but it does help a good number. In this post, I will focus on that set. There is a longer discussion about education to be had more broadly at another time.

[2] Jobs that are typically held by PhDs that apply mathematical/other critical thinking skills. I understand that there are far more complex questions regarding jobs in the age of AI, and I’m not trying to tackle them. For now I focus on the narrow question of jobs for highly-trained scientists/mathematicians/humanists.

[3] I argue that we need far more than just the `greats,’ but just hypothetically.

[4] I am forever indebted to M. Prakash sir, out of the Bhaskaracharya Pratishthan. He intensively trained 200+ highschoolers across Pune, India, and several from the group went on to win IMO medals (another example of the Steph Curry argument). And the rest of us benefitted on the side. It was a privilege to participate.

[5] I teach courses on the mathematical side of the department, such as optimization, probability, and deep learning.

[6] I also love to dance, it is beautiful. But I am nowhere good enough to earn a living doing this. Luckily the math worked out ;-).

[7] Human understanding can never be developed by an AI, no matter how good AIs get. AI-augmentation of humans cannot generate human understanding.

[8] Perhaps we will find skills that are a suitable substitute for multiplication tables, that do everything that tables do and are `better’ in other ways. I’m ok with teaching those skills instead.

[9] As Picard said “there are four lights.”

[10] And every PhD granted is a new human expert in a subject.

[11] Not quite a meat proxy, but still bad.

[12] Some of our work to make lean accessible is available at leantutor.org

[13] not faster. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAjR4_CbPpQ

[14] There is a space in this system for courses that teach students how to “use” tools (e.g. prompt engineering courses that have recently come up at many community colleges in California), or general AI literacy courses. But we must not confuse the role of these courses. Those may be helpful (in the current climate) for maintaining employment. But they do not replace the role of courses that fundamentally teach critical thinking, and should not take resources away from such courses.

[15] To cater to the fact that students come in at different levels, we need to have scaffolding classes at the lower-division level. A student may take longer to graduate, but should be able to take even the hardest class given enough time and hard work.

October 28, 2026

Terence Tao — 247A, Notes 3: Singular integral operators

— 1. The Hilbert transform —

In this set of notes we begin the theory of singular integral operators – operators which are almost integral operators, except that their kernel {K(x,y)} just barely fails to be integrable near the diagonal {x=y}. (This is in contrast to, say, fractional integral operators such as {Tf(y) := \int_{{\bf R}^d} \frac{1}{|x-y|^{d-s}} f(x)\ dx}, whose kernels go to infinity at the diagonal but remain locally integrable.) These operators arise naturally in complex analysis, Fourier analysis, and also in PDE (in particular, they include the zeroth order pseudodifferential operators as a special case, about which more will be said later). It is here for the first time that we must make essential use of cancellation: cruder tools such as Schur’s test which do not take advantage of the sign of the kernel will not be effective here.

Before we turn to the general theory, let us study one of the simplest non-trivial singular integral operators, the Hilbert transform

\displaystyle  H f (x) := p.v. \frac{1}{\pi} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(x-t)}{t}\ dt := \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \frac{1}{\pi} \int_{|t| > \varepsilon} \frac{f(x-t)}{t}\ dt. \ \ \ \ \ (1)

It is not immediately obvious that {Hf(x)} is well-defined even for nice functions {f}. But if {f} is {C^1} and compactly supported, then we can restrict the integral to a compact interval {t \in [-R,R]} for some large {R} (depending on {x} and {f}), and use symmetry to write

\displaystyle  \int_{|t| > \varepsilon} \frac{f(x-t)}{t}\ dt = \int_{\varepsilon < |t| < R} \frac{f(x-t)-f(x)}{t}\ dt.

The mean-value theorem then shows that {\frac{f(x-t)-f(x)}{t}} is uniformly bounded on the interval {t \in [-R,R]} for fixed {f,x}, and so the limit actually exists from the dominated convergence theorem. A variant of this argument shows that {Hf} is also well-defined for {f} in the Schwartz class, though it does not map the Schwartz class to itself. Indeed it is not hard to see that we have the asymptotic

\displaystyle  \lim_{|x| \rightarrow \infty} x Hf(x) = \frac{1}{\pi} \int_{\bf R} f

for such functions, and so if {f} has non-zero mean then {Hf} only decays like {1/|x|} at infinity. In particular, we already see that {H} is not bounded on {L^1}. However, we do see that {H} at least maps the Schwartz class to {L^2({\bf R})}.

Let us first make comment on some algebraic properties of the Hilbert transform. It commutes with translations

\displaystyle  \mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} f(x) := f(x-x_0)

and {L^p}-normalized dilations

\displaystyle  \mathrm{Dil}^p_\lambda f(x) := \lambda^{-1/p} f(x/\lambda):

\displaystyle  H \mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} = \mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} H; \quad \mathrm{Dil}^p_\lambda H = H \mathrm{Dil}^p_\lambda. \ \ \ \ \ (2)

In fact, it is essentially the only such operator:

Exercise 1 Let {T: \mathcal{S}({\bf R}) \rightarrow C^0({\bf R})} be a continuous linear operator which maps Schwartz functions to bounded continuous functions, and which commutes with translations and dilations as in (2). Show that {T} is a linear multiple of the Hilbert transform and the identity. (Hint: first establish the existence of a distribution {K \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R})^*} such that {Tf(x) = \langle K, \mathrm{Trans}_{-x} f \rangle} for all {f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R})}, and such that {K} is homogeneous of degree {-1}. Restrict the action of {K} to Schwartz functions on {{\bf R}^+} or {{\bf R}^-} and show that {K} is a constant multiple of {1/x} on these functions.) (The claim is also true if we relax {C^0({\bf R})} to {\mathcal{S}({\bf R})^*}, the space of distributions, but this is a little trickier to prove.)

It is also formally skew-adjoint:

Exercise 2 If {f,g \in C^1({\bf R})} are compactly supported, show that

\displaystyle  \int_{\bf R} H f(x) \overline{g(x)}\ dx = - \int_{\bf R} f(x) \overline{H g(x)}\ dx.

The Hilbert transform is connected to complex analysis (and in particular to Cauchy integrals) by the Plemelj formulae.

Proposition 3 (Plemelj formulae) Let {f \in C^1({\bf R})} obey a qualitative decay bound {f(x) = O_f( \langle x \rangle^{-1} )} (say – these conditions are needed just to make {Hf} well-defined). Then for any {x \in {\bf R}}

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{2\pi i} \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - (x \pm i\varepsilon)}\ dy = \frac{\pm f(x) + i H f(x)}{2}.

Proof: By translation invariance we can take {x=0}. By taking complex conjugates we may assume that the {\pm} sign is {+}. Our task is then to show that

\displaystyle  \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \frac{1}{2\pi i} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - i\varepsilon}\ dy - \frac{1}{2} f(0) - \frac{i}{2\pi} \int_{|y| > \varepsilon} \frac{f(y)}{-y}\ dy = 0.

Multiplying by {2\pi i} and making the change of variables {y = \varepsilon w}, we reduce to showing

\displaystyle  \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \int_{\bf R} f(\varepsilon w) \left(\frac{1}{w - i} - 1_{|w| > 1} \frac{1}{w} \right)\ dw - \pi i f(0) = 0.

Direct computation shows that the expression in parentheses is absolutely integrable and

\displaystyle  \int_{\bf R} \left(\frac{1}{w - i} - 1_{|w| > 1} \frac{1}{w} \right) = \pi i.

So we reduce to showing that

\displaystyle  \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \int_{\bf R} (f(\varepsilon w)-f(0)) \left(\frac{1}{w - i} - 1_{|w| > 1} \frac{1}{w} \right)\ dw = 0.

The claim then follows from dominated convergence. \Box

Now suppose that {f} not only obeys the hypotheses of the Plemelj formulae, but also extends holomorphically to the upper half-plane {\{ z \in {\bf C}: \mathrm{Im}(z) \geq 0 \}} and obeys the decay bound {f(z) = O_f( \langle z \rangle^{-1} )} in this region. Then Cauchy’s theorem gives

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{2\pi i} \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - (x + i\varepsilon)}\ dy = f(x)

and

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{2\pi i} \lim_{\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - (x - i\varepsilon)}\ dy = 0

and thus by either of the Plemelj formulae we see that {Hf = -if} in this case. In particular, comparing real and imaginary parts we conclude that {\mathrm{Im}(f) = H \mathrm{Re}(f)} and {\mathrm{Re}(f) = - H \mathrm{Im}(f)}. Thus for reasonably decaying holomorphic functions on the upper half-plane, the real and imaginary parts of the boundary value are connected via the Hilbert transform. In particular this shows that such functions are uniquely determined by just the real part of the boundary value.

The above discussion also strongly suggests the identity {H^2 = -1}. This can be made more manifest by the following Fourier representation of the Hilbert transform.

Proposition 4 If {f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R})}, then

\displaystyle  \widehat{Hf}(\xi) = -i \mathrm{sgn}(\xi) \hat f(\xi) \ \ \ \ \ (3)

for (almost every) {\xi \in {\bf R}}. (Recall that {Hf} lies in {L^2} and so its Fourier transform is defined via density by Plancherel’s theorem.)

Proof: Let us first give a non-rigorous proof of this identity. Morally speaking we have

\displaystyle  Hf = f * \frac{1}{\pi x}

and so since Fourier transforms ought to interchange convolution and product

\displaystyle  \widehat{Hf}(\xi) = \hat f(\xi) \widehat{\frac{1}{\pi x}}(\xi).

On the other hand we have

\displaystyle  \widehat{1}(\xi) = \delta(\xi)

so on integrating this (using the relationship between differentiation and multiplication) we get

\displaystyle  \widehat{\frac{1}{-2\pi i x}}(\xi) = \frac{1}{2} \mathrm{sgn}(\xi)

and the claim follows.

Now we turn to the rigorous proof. As the Hilbert transform is odd, a symmetry argument allows one to reduce to the case {\xi > 0}. It then suffices to show that {\frac{- f + iH f}{2}} has vanishing Fourier transform in this half-line. Define the Cauchy integral operator

\displaystyle  {\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon} f(x) = \frac{1}{2\pi i} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - (x - i\varepsilon)}\ dy.

The Plemelj formulae show that these converge pointwise to {\frac{-f+iHf}{2}} as {\varepsilon \rightarrow 0}; since {f} is Schwartz, it is also not hard to show via dominated convergence that they also converge in {L^2}. Thus by the {L^2} boundedness of the Fourier transform it suffices to show that each of the {{\mathcal C}_\varepsilon f} also have vanishing Fourier transform on the half-line.

This is part of a more general phenomenon, that functions which extend holomorphically to the upper half-space in a controlled manner tend to have vanishing Fourier transform on {{\bf R}^-}, while those which extend to the lower half-space have vanishing Fourier transform on {{\bf R}^+}. Thus there is a close relationship between holomorphic extension and distribution of the Fourier transform.

Fix {\varepsilon > 0} (we could rescale {\varepsilon} to be, say, {1}, but we will not have need of this normalization). We can truncate and define

\displaystyle  {\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon,R} f(x) = \frac{1}{2\pi i} \int_{\bf R} \frac{f(y)}{y - (x - i\varepsilon)} 1_{|y-x| < R}\ dy;

more dominated convergence shows that {{\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon,R} f} converges to {{\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon} f} in {L^2} as {R \rightarrow +\infty} and so it will suffice to show that the Fourier coefficients of {{\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon,R} f} converge pointwise to zero as {R \rightarrow +\infty} on the half-line {\xi > 0}. From Fubini’s theorem we easily compute

\displaystyle  \widehat{{\mathcal C}_{\varepsilon,R} f}(\xi) = \frac{1}{2\pi i} \hat f(\xi) \int_{\bf R} \frac{e^{-2\pi i y \xi}}{-(y - i\varepsilon)} 1_{|y| < R}\ dy;

but then by shifting the contour to the lower semicircle of radius {R} and then letting {R \rightarrow \infty} we obtain the claim. \Box

From this proposition and Plancherel’s theorem we conclude that {H} is an isometry:

\displaystyle  \|H f \|_{L^2({\bf R})} = \|f\|_{L^2({\bf R})} \hbox{ for all } f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R}).

Because of this, {H} has a unique dense extension to {L^2({\bf R})}, and (by another application of Plancherel’s theorem to justify taking the limit) the formula (3) is valid for all {f \in L^2({\bf R})}. There is still the question of whether the original definition is valid for {f \in L^2({\bf R})}, or in other words whether the sequence of functions

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{\pi} \int_{|t| > \varepsilon} \frac{f(x-t)}{t}\ dt

(note that Cauchy–Schwarz ensures that the integrand is absolutely integrable) converges as {\varepsilon \rightarrow 0} to {Hf} for {f \in L^2({\bf R})}, and in what sense this convergence holds. It turns out that the convergence is true both pointwise almost everywhere and in the {L^2({\bf R})} metric sense, and in fact it follows from variants of the Calderón–Zygmund theory presented in this notes, but we shall not do so here (as it may be covered in the participating student seminar).

From (3) we also see that we do indeed have the identity {H^2 = -1} on {L^2({\bf R})}, and that {H} is indeed skew-adjoint on {L^2({\bf R})} ({H^* = -H}); in particular, {H} is unitary.

Let us briefly mention why the Hilbert transform is also connected to the theory of partial Fourier integrals, via the modulation operators

\displaystyle  \mathrm{Mod}_N f(x) := e^{2\pi i Nx} f(x).

Proposition 5 Let {f \in L^2({\bf R})} and {N_+, N_- \in {\bf R}}. Then

\displaystyle  \int_{-N_-}^{N_+} \hat f(\xi) e^{2\pi i x \xi}\ d\xi = \frac{i}{2} (\mathrm{Mod}_{N_+} H \mathrm{Mod}_{-N_+} f - \mathrm{Mod}_{-N_-} H \mathrm{Mod}_{N_-} f).

Proof: By limiting arguments (and because everything is continuous on {L^2({\bf R})}) it suffices to verify this identity for {f} in the Schwartz class. But then the claim follows by taking the Fourier transform of both sides and using (3). \Box

It is thus clear that in order to address the question of the extent to which the partial Fourier integrals {\int_{-N_-}^{N_+} \hat f(\xi) e^{2\pi i x \xi}\ d\xi } actually converges back to {f}, we will need to understand the properties of the Hilbert transform, and in particular its boundedness properties.

The formula (3) suggests that {H} behaves “like” multiplication by {\pm i} in some sense; informally, {H} behaves like {-i} for positive frequency functions and {+i} for negative frequency functions. Now multiplication by {\pm i} is a fairly harmless operation – it is bounded on every normed vector space – so one might expect {H} to similarly be bounded on more normed spaces than just {L^2({\bf R})}; in particular, it might be bounded on {L^p({\bf R})}. This is indeed the case for {1 < p < \infty}, and we now turn to the theory which will generate such bounds.

Exercise 6 Demonstrate by example that the Hilbert transform is not bounded on {L^1({\bf R})} or {L^\infty({\bf R})}.

— 2. Calderón–Zygmund theory —

In the Hilbert transform, we have an operator which is bounded on {L^2({\bf R})}, and we wish to extend this boundedness to other {L^p({\bf R})} spaces as well. This is of course not automatic – the “enemy” is that the operator might map a broad shallow function into a tall narrow function of comparable {L^2} norm (which will increase the {L^p} norms markedly for all {p > 2}), or conversely map a tall narrow function down to a broad shallow function of comparable {L^2} norm (which will increase the {L^p} norms markedly for {p < 2}). It turns out that these two phenomena are more or less dual to each other, and so when working with an operator which is “comparable” to its adjoint (which is for instance the case with the skew-adjoint Hilbert transform, {H^* = -H}) eliminating one of these enemies will automatically remove the other.

For operators such as the Hilbert transform, there are at least two approaches to exclude these scenarios. One is to exploit the phenomenon that if {f} is not too large locally, then {Hf} also doesn’t fluctuate too much locally; this prevents the “broad shallow to tall narrow” enemy which blocks boundedness for large {p}. The dual approach is to show that if {f} is localized and fluctuating, then {Hf} is also localized; this prevents the “tall narrow to broad shallow” enemy which blocks boundedness for small {p}. (There are also more algebraic methods, relying on explicit formulae for things like the {L^4} norm of {Hf}, or of the size of level sets of {H1_E} for various sets {E}, but we will not discuss those here as they do not extend well to the more general class of singular kernels considered here.)

We shall first discuss the latter approach, which is the traditional approach to the subject, and return to the former approach later. We shall generalize from the Hilbert transform to a useful wider class of operators, which are integral operators “away from the diagonal”. To motivate this concept, observe that if {f \in L^2({\bf R})} is compactly supported and {y} lies outside of the support of {f}, then

\displaystyle  Hf(y) = \int_{\bf R} \frac{1}{\pi(y-x)} f(x)\ dx,

the point being that the integral is now absolutely convergent, Thus while {H} is not, strictly speaking, an integral operator of the type studied in preceding sections, it can be described as such as long as one avoids the diagonal {x=y}.

Definition 7 (Singular kernels) A singular kernel is a function {K: {\bf R}^d \times {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} (defined away from the diagonal {x=y}) which obeys the decay estimate

\displaystyle  |K(x,y)| \lesssim |x-y|^{-d} \ \ \ \ \ (4)

for {x \neq y} and the Hölder-type regularity estimates

\displaystyle  K(x,y') = K(x,y) + O\left( \frac{|y-y'|^\sigma}{|x-y|^{d+\sigma}} \right) \hbox{ whenever } |y-y'| \leq \frac{1}{2} |x-y| \ \ \ \ \ (5)

and

\displaystyle  K(x',y) = K(x,y) + O\left( \frac{|x-x'|^\sigma}{|x-y|^{d+\sigma}} \right) \hbox{ whenever } |x-x'| \leq \frac{1}{2} |x-y| \ \ \ \ \ (6)

for some Hölder exponent {0 < \sigma \leq 1}.

Example 8 In one dimension, {\frac{1}{x-y}} and {\frac{1}{|x-y|}} are both singular kernels. In higher dimensions, the kernel {K(x,y) := \Omega\left(\frac{x-y}{|x-y|}\right) / |x-y|^d} is a singular kernel whenever {\Omega: S^{d-1} \rightarrow {\bf C}} is a Hölder-continuous function.

The regularity estimates may seem strange at first sight, although the fundamental theorem of calculus shows that these estimates would follow (with {\sigma=1}) from the estimates

\displaystyle  \nabla_x K(x,y), \nabla_y K(x,y) = O( |x-y|^{-d-1} );

given that the gradient of {|x-y|^{-d}} is {O( |x-y|^{-d-1} )}, these estimates are then consistent with (4) but of course do not follow from it. In most applications one can take {\sigma = 1} (in which case the Hölder type conditions become Lipschitz type conditions). It is more desirable (5), (6) for large {\sigma} than for small {\sigma} (note in particular that the {\sigma=0} version of the estimate already follows from (4)). It is possible to weaken the Hölder type conditions further, but there are few applications that require such a weakening and so we shall stay with the Hölder condition. The factor {\frac{1}{2}} is not significant; it is not hard to show that the regularity conditions are equivalent to the condition in which {\frac{1}{2}} is replaced by any other constant strictly between zero and one.

Definition 9 (Calderón–Zygmund operators) A Calderón–Zygmund operator (CZO) is a linear operator {T: L^2({\bf R}^d) \rightarrow L^2({\bf R}^d)} which is bounded on {L^2({\bf R}^d)},

\displaystyle  \|Tf\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim \|f\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)},

and such that there exists a singular kernel {K} for which

\displaystyle  Tf(y) = \int_{{\bf R}^d} K(x,y) f(x)\ dx

whenever {f \in L^2({\bf R}^d)} is compactly supported, and {y} lies outside of the support of {f}.

It is not hard to see that {T} uniquely determines {K}. However the converse is not true; for instance, given any bounded function {b: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}}, the physical space multiplier {Tf := bf} is a CZO with kernel {0}. However, this is the only source of ambiguity; see Exercise 18. A CZO is an example of a singular integral operator; the kernel {K} just barely fails to be locally integrable (Schur’s test, for instance, encounters a logarithmic divergence), and so there is a singularity in the integration which must be understood in order to analyze {T} correctly. In particular, not all singular kernels {K} lead to an CZO, due to possible failure of {L^2} boundedness. We will return to the question of working out which kernels do give CZOs later.

Remark 10 As with the theory of the Hardy–Littlewood maximal function, one can define CZOs on more general homogeneous spaces than {{\bf R}^d}, but we will not do so here for sake of concreteness.

By convention, we allow all implied constants in what follows to depend on the Hölder exponent {\sigma} and on the implied constants in (4), (5), (6) and the operator norm bound on {T}. (One could try to formalize things by imposing a norm on CZOs with a given exponent {\sigma}, but this gets a bit confusing and is largely unnecessary since one mostly deals with just a single CZO at a time.)

The Hilbert transform is thus a CZO, with kernel {K(x,y) = \frac{1}{\pi(y-x)}}. We will discuss other examples of CZOs, such as the Riesz transforms, Hörmander–Mikhlin multipliers, and pseudodifferential operators of order zero, later on.

The Hilbert transform was skew-adjoint, translation-invariant, and scale-invariant. In general, CZOs are neither. However, the class of CZOs is self-adjoint (and skew-adjoint), translation-invariant, and scale-invariant; if {T} is a CZO then so is {T^*}, and the translates {\mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} T \mathrm{Trans}_{-x_0}} and dilates {\mathrm{Dil}^p_{1/\lambda} T \mathrm{Dil}^p_\lambda} of {T} are also CZOs uniformly in {\lambda > 0} and {x_0 \in {\bf R}^d}. (What happens to the kernels {K} in each case?)

Now we formalize the key phenomenon alluded to earlier, that CZOs map fluctuating localized functions to nearly localized functions.

Lemma 11 Let {B = B(x_0,r)} be a ball in {{\bf R}^d}, let {T} be a CZO, and let {f \in L^1(B)} have mean zero, thus {\int_B f = 0}. Then we have the pointwise bound

\displaystyle  |Tf(y)| \lesssim_d \frac{r^{\sigma}}{|y-x_0|^{d+\sigma}} \int_B |f| \hbox{ for all } y \not \in 2B.

In particular, we have

\displaystyle  \| Tf \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d \backslash 2B )} \lesssim_d \|f\|_{L^1(B)}.

Proof: We remark that we could use the translation and scaling symmetries of CZOs to normalize {(x_0,r) =(0,1)}, but we shall not do so here. For {y \not \in 2B} we can use the mean zero hypothesis to obtain

\displaystyle  Tf(y) = \int_B K(x,y) f(x)\ dx = \int_B [ K(x,y) - K(x_0,y) ] f(x)\ dx,

and the first claim then follows from
(5) and the triangle inequality. The second claim of course follows from the first (recall we allow our implied constants to depend on {\sigma} and {d}). \Box

Remark 12 Observe that the argument also gives the slightly more general estimate

\displaystyle  Tf(y) = K(x_0,y) \int_B f + O\left( \frac{r^{\sigma}}{|y-x_0|^{d+\sigma}} \int_B |f| \right) \hbox{ for all } y \not \in 2B \ \ \ \ \ (7)

when the mean zero condition {\int_B f = 0} is dropped.

This lemma asserts that {T} is sort of bounded on {L^1} – but only when the input function is localized and mean zero, and as long as one doesn’t look too closely at the region near the support of the function. This extremely conditional {L^1} boundedness is a far cry from true {L^1} boundedness; indeed, it is not hard to show that {L^1} boundedness can fail. However, Lemma 11, combined with the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition from the previous section (which decomposes any function into a bounded part and a lot of localized, fluctuating parts) is strong enough to obtain the weak-type boundedness instead.

Corollary 13 All CZOs are of weak type {(1,1)}, with an operator norm of {O_d(1)}.

Proof: Let {f \in L^1({\bf R}^d) \cap L^2({\bf R}^d)} (the {L^2} condition ensuring that {T} is well-defined), let {T} be a CZO, and let {\lambda > 0}. Our task is to show that

\displaystyle  | \{ |Tf| \geq \lambda \}| \lesssim_d \frac{\|f\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}}{\lambda}.

We spend scaling and homogeneity symmetries to normalize {\|f\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}} and {\lambda} to both be {1}; this avoids a certain amount of book-keeping regarding these factors later. Applying the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition, we can split {f = g + \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} b_Q}, where the “good” function {g} obeys the bounds

\displaystyle \|g\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}, \|g\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d 1,

each {b_Q} is supported on {Q}, has mean zero, and has the {L^1} bound

\displaystyle  \|b_Q \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d |Q|,

and

\displaystyle  \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} |Q| \lesssim_d 1.

Now since {Tf = Tg + \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} T b_Q}, we can split

\displaystyle  | \{ |Tf| \geq 1 \}| \leq | \{ |Tg| \geq 1/2 \}| + | \{ \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} |Tb_Q| \geq 1/2 \}|.

For the first term, we exploit the {L^2} boundedness of {T} via Chebyshev’s inequality and log-convexity of Hölder norms:

\displaystyle | \{ |Tg| \geq 1/2 \}| \lesssim_d \|Tg\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)}^2 \lesssim_d \|g\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)}^2 \lesssim_d \|g\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)} \|g\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d 1.

For the second term, we cannot rely on {L^2} bounds because the {b_Q} have no reason to be bounded in {L^2}. But the mean zero condition, combined with Lemma 11, shows that each {Tb_Q} has {L^1} bounds outside of a dilate {CQ} of {Q} (for some fixed constant {C} depending only on {d});

\displaystyle  \| Tb_Q \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d \backslash CQ)} \lesssim_d \|b_Q \|_{L^1(Q)} \lesssim_d |Q|.

(Actually one could take {C} arbitrarily close to {1} by iterating (5), (6) to obtain a variant of Lemma 11, but we will not do so here.).

Restricting to the common domain {{\bf R}^d \backslash \bigcup_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} CQ} and summing in {Q} using the triangle inequality we obtain

\displaystyle  \| \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} Tb_Q \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d \backslash \bigcup_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} CQ)} \lesssim_d \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} |Q| \lesssim_d 1

and hence by Chebyshev

\displaystyle  \left|\left\{ x \in {\bf R}^d \backslash \bigcup_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} CQ: |\sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} Tb_Q| \geq \frac{1}{2} \right\}\right| \lesssim_d 1.

This still leaves the question of what happens in the exceptional set {\bigcup_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} CQ}. But here is the great advantage of weak-type estimates: we can tolerate arbitrarily bad behavior as long as it is localized to small sets. Indeed we have

\displaystyle  |\bigcup_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} CQ| \leq \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} |CQ| \lesssim_d \sum_{Q \in \mathcal{Q}} |Q| \lesssim_d 1.

Putting it all together, we obtain

\displaystyle  |\{ |Tf| \geq 1 \}| \lesssim_d 1

as desired. \Box

Combining this with Marcinkiewicz interpolation and the {L^2} boundedness hypothesis gives that all CZOs are of strong-type {(p,p)} for {1 < p \leq 2}. The self-adjointness of the CZOs as a class then gives the same statement for {2 \leq p < \infty}, thus we have proven

Corollary 14 CZOs are of strong type {(p,p)} for all {1 < p < \infty}, with an operator norm of {O_{d,p}(1)}.

Remark 15 We thus see that the localizing properties of the singular kernel {K} allow one to automatically leverage {L^2} boundedness into {L^p} boundedness for {1 < p < \infty}. In fact there is nothing particularly special about {L^2} here (Exercise 19). But in practice {L^2} boundedness is easier to obtain than other types of boundedness.

In particular, we see that the Hilbert transform is bounded on {L^p({\bf R})} for {1 < p < \infty} (or more precisely, it is bounded on a dense subclass, and thus has a unique bounded extension). This does not by itself directly settle the question of whether the formula (1) makes sense for {L^p} functions in a norm or pointwise convergence sense (for that, one needs bounds on the truncated Hilbert transforms and the maximal truncated maximal Hilbert transforms), though it does lend confidence that this is the case. However, we can now easily conclude an analogous claim for the inversion formula.

Theorem 16 Let {1 < p < \infty}, and for every {N > 0} let {S_N} be the Dirichlet summation operator, defined on Schwartz functions {f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R})} by

\displaystyle  S_N f(x) := \int_{-N}^N \hat f(\xi) e^{2\pi i x \xi}\ d\xi.

Then {S_N} extends uniquely to a bounded operator on {L^p({\bf R})}, and {S_N f} converges in {L^p} norm to {f} as {N \rightarrow \infty} for all {f \in L^p({\bf R})}.

Proof: From Proposition 5 we obtain the identity

\displaystyle  S_N f = \frac{i}{2} (\mathrm{Mod}_{N} H \mathrm{Mod}_{-N} f - \mathrm{Mod}_{-N} H \mathrm{Mod}_{N} f)

and so the {S_N} are uniformly bounded on {L^p({\bf R})} as desired. (Note however that the {S_N} are not CZOs, since modulation does not preserve the CZO class.) Since {S_N f} converges in {L^p} norm to {f} for Schwartz functions (by dominated convergence), the claim then follows by the usual limiting arguments. \Box

Remark 17 The corresponding question about pointwise almost-everywhere convergence is the Carleson–Hunt theorem, which is quite difficult. When {p=1} an example of Kolmogorov shows that both norm convergence and almost-everywhere convergence can fail. In higher dimensions, the norm convergence for {p=2} is true by Plancherel’s theorem, but a surprising result of Fefferman shows that it fails for {p \neq 2}. The almost everywhere convergence problem remains open (and is considered very difficult) in higher dimensions.

Exercise 18 Let {T} and {T'} be two CZOs with the same kernel {K}. Show that there exists a bounded function {b \in L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} such that {Tf = T' f + bf} for all {f \in L^2({\bf R}^d)}. (Hint: by subtraction we can assume {T'=0} and {K=0}. Now observe that {E \mapsto \langle T 1_E, 1_E \rangle} is an absolutely continuous measure, and use the Radon–Nikodym theorem.)

Exercise 19 Show that if we redefine the notion of a CZO by weakening the hypothesis of {L^2({\bf R}^d)} boundedness, to merely being of restricted weak-type {(p_0,p_0)} for some {1 < p_0 < \infty}, then Corollary 14 remains unchanged (but with an operator norm of {O_{p_0}(1)} instead of {O(1)}. In particular this apparent expansion of the notion of a CZO does not in fact increase the class of CZOs (up to changes in the implied constants).

— 3. Bounded mean oscillation —

Let us now study what a CZO {T} does on the endpoint space {L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}. At first glance things are rather bad; not only is {T} unbounded on {L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} in general, {T} is not even known yet to be defined on a dense subset of {L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}. Nevertheless, a closer inspection of things will show that {T} actually does have a fairly reasonable definition on {L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}, up to constants.

Let us try to define {Tf} for {f \in L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} directly. A naive implementation of the kernel formula

\displaystyle  Tf(y) = \int_{{\bf R}^d} K(x,y) f(x)\ dx

runs into problems both for {x} near {y}, and {x} near infinity, since the decay (4) is not strong enough to give absolute integrability in either case. Localizing {f} to be supported away from {y} helps with the first problem, but not the second. But suppose we instead looked at the difference {Tf(y) - Tf(y')} between {Tf} at two values. Then we formally have

\displaystyle  Tf(y) - Tf(y') = \int_{{\bf R}^d} (K(x,y) - K(x,y')) f(x)\ dx.

Now (5) implies that for fixed {y,y'}, the expression {K(x,y) - K(x,y')} decays like {|x|^{-d-\sigma}} as {x \rightarrow \infty}, and so the integral will be absolutely integrable as long as {f} vanishes near {y} and {y'}. At the other extreme, if {f} is compactly supported, then it lies in {L^2({\bf R}^d)} and there is no difficulty defining {Tf(y)-Tf(y')} (up to the usual measure zero ambiguities).

Motivated by this, let us make the following definitions. We say that two functions {f, g: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} are equivalent modulo a constant if there exists a complex number {C} such that {f(x)-g(x) = C} for almost every {x}; this is of course an equivalence relation. Given {f \in L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}, we define {Tf} to be the equivalence class associated to the function

\displaystyle  Tf(y) := T(f1_B)(y) + \int_{{\bf R}^d \backslash B} (K(x,y)-K(x,0)) f(x)\ dx

where {B = B_y} is any ball which contains both {y} and {0}; it is not hard to see that the right-hand side is well-defined (in particular, the integral is absolutely convergent) and is independent (modulo a constant) of the choice of {B}, and that {T} remains linear. One can also check that this definition is consistent (modulo a constant) with the existing definition of {T} on {L^2({\bf R}^d)} (or on {L^p({\bf R}^d)}) on the common domain of definition (i.e. {L^2({\bf R}^d) \cap L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} or {L^p({\bf R}^d) \cap L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}).

Because {Tf} is only defined modulo a constant, we cannot meaningfully control it in standard norms such as {L^p}. However, there is a norm which is suitable for this type of function.

Definition 20 (Bounded mean oscillation) Let {f: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} be a function defined modulo a constant. The {\mathrm{BMO}} (or Bounded Mean Oscillation) norm of {f} is defined as

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}} := \sup_{B} \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B \left| f - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f \right|

where {B} ranges over all balls. Note that if one shifts {f} by a constant, the {\mathrm{BMO}} norm is unchanged, so this norm is well-defined for functions defined modulo constants. We denote by {\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} the space of all functions with finite {\mathrm{BMO}} norm, modulo constants.

It is not hard to verify that this is indeed a norm (but note that one has to quotient out by constants before this is the case!), and that {\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} is a Banach space. One can also easily check using the triangle inequality that

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B \left| f - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f \right| \sim \inf_c \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |f-c|

where {c} ranges over constants; thus the statement {\|f\|_\mathrm{BMO} \lesssim A} is equivalent (up to changes in the implied constant) to the assertion that for any ball {B} there exists a constant {c_B} such that {\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |f-c_B| \lesssim A}, thus {f} deviates from {c_B} by at most {A} on the average.

It is not hard to see that {\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} contains {L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}, and that {\|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim \|f\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}}. But it also contains unbounded functions:

Exercise 21 Verify that the function {\log|x|} is in {\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}.

The primary significance of {\mathrm{BMO}} for Calderón–Zygmund theory is that it can serve as a substitute for {L^\infty}, on which CZOs are often ill-behaved. Consider for instance the Hilbert transform applied (formally) to the signum function {\mathrm{sgn}}. The resulting function is not bounded, but lies in {\mathrm{BMO}}:

Exercise 22 Verify that using the previous definitions, {H \mathrm{sgn} = \frac{2}{\pi} \log |x|} modulo constants.

This phenomenon applies more generally to all CZOs:

Proposition 23 (CZOs map {L^\infty} to {\mathrm{BMO}}) Let {T} be a CZO and {f \in L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}. Then {Tf \in \mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} and

\displaystyle  \|Tf\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d \|f\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}.

Proof: We can normalize {\|f\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} = 1}. By definition of the {\mathrm{BMO}} norm, it suffices to show that for every ball {B} there exists a constant {c_B} such that

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |Tf - c_B| \lesssim_d 1.

By translation and dilation symmetry we may take {B = B(0,1)}. We split {Tf = T(f 1_{2B}) + T(f 1_{{\bf R}^d \backslash 2B})}. Since {T} is bounded on {L^2}, we have

\displaystyle  \| T(f 1_{2B}) \|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d \|f 1_{2B} \|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d 1

and hence by Hölder (or Cauchy–Schwarz)

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |T(f1_{2B})| \lesssim_d 1.

This deals with the “local” part of {Tf}. For the “global” part, observe that for {x \in B} we have

\displaystyle  T(f 1_{{\bf R}^d \backslash 2B})(x) = \int_{|y| \geq 2} (K(x,y)-K(0,y)) f(y) + c

for some arbitrary constant {c}. But by
(6) we have {K(x,y)-K(0,y) = O( |y|^{-d-\sigma})}; since {f} is bounded by {O(1)}, we thus see that {T(f 1_{{\bf R}^d \backslash 2B})(x) = c + O(1)}, and so

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |T(f 1_{{\bf R}^d \backslash 2B}) - c| \lesssim_d 1.

Adding the two facts, we obtain the claim. \Box

In order to exploit this proposition, we need to understand to what extent BMO bounds on a function control its size. The basic insight here is that BMO bounds are “almost as good as” {L^\infty} control for many purposes, despite the logarithmically unbounded members of BMO such as {\log |x|}.

Let us first work informally. Let {f} be a real-valued BMO function, normalized so that {\|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} = 1}, thus

\displaystyle  \int_B \left|f - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right| \leq |B|

for all balls {B}. By Markov’s inequality, this means that

\displaystyle  \left|\left\{ x \in B: \left|f(x) - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right| \geq \lambda \right\}\right| \leq |B|/\lambda \ \ \ \ \ (8)

for any {\lambda > 0}. Note that this bound is only non-trivial for {\lambda > 1}, otherwise the trivial bound of {|B|} is superior. It asserts, for instance, that {f} only exceeds its average by (say) {10} on at most {10\%} of any given ball.

It turns out that one can iterate the above fact to give far better estimates in the limit {\lambda \rightarrow \infty} that (8) initially suggests. This is because of a basic principle in harmonic analysis: bad behavior on a small exceptional set (such as {10\%} of any given ball) can often be iterated away if we know that the exceptional sets are small at every scale. Roughly speaking, this principle allows us to say that {f} only exceeds its average by {20} on at most {10\%} of {10\%} of a given ball (i.e. on at most {1\%} of the ball), {f} exceeds its average by {30} on at most {0.1\%}, and so forth, leading to a bound of the form (8) which tails off exponentially in {\lambda} rather than polynomially. More precisely, we have

Proposition 24 (John–Nirenberg inequality) Let {f \in \mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}. Then for any ball {B} we have

\displaystyle  \left|\left\{ x \in B: \left|f(x) - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right| \geq \lambda \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \right\}\right| \lesssim_d e^{-c_d \lambda} |B|

for all {\lambda > 0} and some constant {c_d > 0} depending only on {d}.

Proof: We can normalize {\|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}=1}. For each {\lambda > 0} let {A(\lambda)} denote the best constant for which we have

\displaystyle  \left|\left\{ x \in B: f(x) \geq \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f + \lambda \right\}\right| \leq A(\lambda) |B|

whenever {B} is a ball and {f} is a real-valued function with BMO norm {1}. From (8) and the trivial bound of {|B|} we have the bounds

\displaystyle  A(\lambda) \leq \min(1, 1/\lambda)

and our task is to somehow iterate this to obtain the improved estimate

\displaystyle  A(\lambda) \lesssim_d e^{-c_d \lambda}.

We shall do this by a variant of the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition. We’ll need a moderately large quantity {\lambda_0 > 0} to be chosen later, and assume that {\lambda > \lambda_0}. Let {B} be any ball, and let {F := \max\left( \left(f - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right) 1_{2B}, 0 \right)}. Then we have

\displaystyle  \|F\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)} \leq \int_{2B} \left|f - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right| \lesssim |2B| \| f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d |B|.

We consider the set {E := B \cap \{ MF > \lambda_0 \}}. Let {\varepsilon > 0} be small, and let {K} be any compact set in {E} such that

\displaystyle  |E \backslash K| \leq \varepsilon.

Applying the Vitali type covering lemma as in the proof of the Hardy–Littlewood maximal inequality (one can also use the Whitney decomposition or Calderón–Zygmund decomposition here) we can cover

\displaystyle  K \subset \bigcup_n B_n

where {B_n} are a finite collection of balls intersecting {K} such that {\frac{1}{|B_n|} \int_{B_n} F \sim_d \lambda_0} and

\displaystyle  \sum_n |B_n| \lesssim_d \|F\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}/\lambda_0 \leq |B|/\lambda_0.

Note that as

\displaystyle  \frac{1}{|B_n|} \int_{B_n} F \leq \frac{\|F\|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}}{|B_n|} \lesssim_d \frac{|B|}{|B_n|}

we conclude that

\displaystyle  |B_n| \lesssim_d |B| / \lambda_0.

Since {B_n} intersects {K}, which is contained in {B}, we can conclude that {B_n \subset 2B} if we choose {\lambda_0} large enough.

Observe that {F} is pointwise bounded almost everywhere by {MF} (by the Lebesgue differentiation theorem), and so

\displaystyle  |\{ x \in B: |F(x)| \geq \lambda \}| = | \{ x \in B: |F(x)| \geq \lambda, MF \geq \lambda_0 \} | \leq \sum_n |\{ x \in B: |F(x)| \geq \lambda\} \cap B_n| + \varepsilon.

On the other hand, on each {B_n} we see that {f = \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f + O(F)}, and hence

\displaystyle \frac{1}{|B_n|} \int_{B_n} f = \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f + O\left(\frac{1}{|B_n|} \int_{B_n} F\right) = \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f + O( \lambda_0 )

and so by definition of {A}

\displaystyle  |\{ x\in B: |F(x)| \geq \lambda \} \cap B_n| \leq \left|\left\{ x \in B_n: \left|f(x) - \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right| \geq \lambda - O(\lambda_0) \right\}\right| \leq A( \lambda - O(\lambda_0) ) |B_n|.

Summing this we conclude

\displaystyle  |\{ x \in B: |F(x)| \geq \lambda\}| \leq A( \lambda - O(\lambda_0) )\sum_n |B_n| + \varepsilon \lesssim_d A( \lambda - O(\lambda_0) ) |B| / \lambda_0 + \varepsilon.

Since {\varepsilon} is arbitrary we can remove it. Taking suprema over all {B} and {f} we conclude the recursive inequality

\displaystyle  A(\lambda) \lesssim_d A( \lambda - O(\lambda_0) ) /\lambda_0.

Taking {\lambda_0} sufficiently large depending on {d}, and iterating starting from the trivial bound {A(\lambda) \leq 1}, we obtain the claim. \Box

Using the distributional characterization of the {L^p} norms, we conclude

Corollary 25 (Alternate characterization of BMO norm) For any {1 \leq p < \infty} and all locally integrable {f} we have

\displaystyle  \sup_B \left(\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B \left|f-\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right|^p\right)^{1/p} \sim_{p,d} \sup_B \inf_c \left(\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |f-c|^p\right)^{1/p} \sim_{p,d} \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}.

Exercise 26 Prove this corollary.

Exercise 27 Show that Corollary 25 is in fact true for all {0 < p < \infty}.

One consequence of this corollary, when combined with the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition, is that the {\mathrm{BMO}} norm serves as a substitute for the {L^\infty} norm as far as log-convexity of Hölder norms is concerned:

Lemma 28 Let {0 < p < q < \infty} and {f \in L^p({\bf R}^d) \cap \mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}. Then {f \in L^q({\bf R}^d)} and

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{L^q({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,q,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}^{p/q} \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}^{1-p/q}.

Proof: By rescaling one can normalize {\|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} = 1}. Let us understand the size of the distribution function {|\{ |f| \geq \lambda \}|}. From the {L^p} bound we already have

\displaystyle  |\{ |f| \geq \lambda \}| \leq \lambda^{-p}.

We can get a better bound for large {\lambda} as follows. Applying the {L^p} version of the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition at level {1}, we can find a collection of disjoint dyadic cubes {Q} with {\sum_Q |Q| \lesssim_d 1}, such that {|f| \leq 1} almost everywhere outside of {\bigcup_Q Q}, and such that {\frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q |f|^p \lesssim_d 1} on each cube {Q}. If we let {B} be a ball containing {Q} of comparable diameter, we then easily verify that {\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B |f|^p \lesssim_d 1} also, and thus {\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f = O(1)}. From the John–Nirenberg inequality we thus see that

\displaystyle  |\{ x \in B: |f(x)| \geq \lambda \}| \lesssim_d e^{-c_d \lambda} |B|

for {\lambda} large enough; summing over {B} we conclude that

\displaystyle  |\{ |f(x)| \geq \lambda \}| \lesssim_d e^{-c_d \lambda}

for large {\lambda}. Combining this with the {L^p} bound for small {\lambda} and using the distributional formula for the {L^q} norm we obtain the claim. \Box

Because of this, we can also use {\mathrm{BMO}} as a substitute for {L^\infty} for real interpolation purposes. For instance, let {T} be a CZO and {2 < p < \infty}. It is now easy to check that {T} is restricted type {(p,p)}. Indeed, for any sub-step function {f} of height {H} and width {W}, the boundedness on {L^2} gives

\displaystyle  \| T f\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim HW^{1/2}

and Proposition
23 gives

\displaystyle  \| T f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d H

and so Lemma 28 gives

\displaystyle  \| T f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} H W^{1/p}

for {2 < p < \infty}, which is the restricted type. Further interpolation then gives strong type. (Note that these arguments are essentially the dual of those which establish weak-type {(p,p)} for {1 \leq p < 2}; in particular, note how the Calderón–Zygmund decomposition continues to make an appearance.)

Exercise 29 (Lacunary exponential sums lie in BMO) Let {(\xi_n)_{n \in {\bf Z}}} be a sequence of non-zero frequencies in {{\bf R}} which are lacunary in the sense that {|\xi_{n}| \sim 2^n} for all {n}. Let {(c_n)_{n \in {\bf Z}}} be a sequence of complex numbers which obeys the {l^2} bound {\sum_n |c_n|^2 \lesssim 1}. To avoid issues of convergence let us assume that only finitely many of the {c_n} are non-zero. Let {f: {\bf R} \rightarrow {\bf C}} be the exponential sum

\displaystyle  f(x) := \sum_n c_n e^{2\pi i \xi_n x}.

If {I} is an interval in {{\bf R}}, and {\phi_I: {\bf R} \rightarrow {\bf R}} is a bump function adapted to {I}, establish the local {L^2} estimate

\displaystyle  \int_{\bf R} \phi_I(x) |f(x) - c_I|^2\ dx \lesssim |I|

for some constant {c_I}. (Hints: split the {n} summation into the high frequencies where {2^n \geq |I|^{-1}}, and the low frequencies where {2^n < |I|^{-1}}. For the high frequencies, forget about {c_I} and expand out the sum, using some good estimate on the Fourier transform of {\phi_I}. For the low frequencies, choose {c_I} in order to obtain some cancellation and then use the triangle inequality.) Conclude that

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R})} \lesssim 1.

Exercise 30 (Dyadic BMO) Given any {\Omega \subset {\bf R}^d} and any locally integrable {f: \Omega \rightarrow {\bf C}}, define the dyadic BMO norm {\|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta(\Omega)}} of {f} as

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta(\Omega)} = \sup_{Q \subset \Omega} \frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q \left|f - \frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q f\right|

where {Q} ranges over all dyadic cubes inside {\Omega}. Show that we have the John–Nirenberg inequality

\displaystyle  \left| \left\{ f \in Q: \left|f - \frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q f\right| \geq \lambda \right\} \right| \lesssim e^{-c \lambda / \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta(\Omega)}} |Q|

for all {\lambda > 0} and all {Q \subset {\bf R}^d}, and in particular

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta(\Omega)} \sim_p \sup_{Q \subset \Omega} \left(\frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q \left|f - \frac{1}{|Q|} \int_Q f\right|^p\right)^{1/p}

for all {1 \leq p < \infty}. (As in Exercise
27, this extends to {0 < p < 1} as well.)

Exercise 31 (BMO and dyadic BMO) For any locally integrable {f} in {{\bf R}^d}, show that

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}

but that the converse inequality is not true. On the other hand, if we let {{\mathcal D}_{d,\alpha}} be the shifted dyadic meshes from the previous week’s notes, and set {\mathrm{BMO}_{\Delta,\alpha}} to be the associated shifted dyadic BMO norms, show that

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \sim_d \sum_\alpha \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_{\Delta,\alpha}({\bf R}^d)}.

Exercise 32 (John–Nirenberg via Bellman functions) Let {V: [0,1] \rightarrow {\bf R}} be the function {V(x) := 10 - (x-2)^2}. Use a Bellman function approach to establish the John–Nirenberg type inequality

\displaystyle  \left| \left\{ x \in I: f(x) - \frac{1}{|I|} \int_I f \geq \lambda \right\}\right| \leq C_0 |I| V\left( \frac{\|f-\frac{1}{|I|} \int_I f \|_{L^2(I)}^2}{|I|} \right) e^{-\varepsilon \lambda}

for some absolute constants {C_0, \varepsilon > 0}, all intervals {I}, and all functions {f: I \rightarrow {\bf R}} with {\|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}_\Delta(I)} \leq 1}.

Exercise 33 (Sharp function, I) For any locally integrable function {f:{\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}}, define the function {f^\sharp: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf R}^+} as

\displaystyle  f^\sharp(x) := \sup_{B \ni x} \frac{1}{|B|} \int_B \left|f-\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f\right|

where the supremum ranges over all balls containing {x}. In particular we see that

\displaystyle  \|f^\sharp \|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} = \|f\|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)}.

Show that we have the pointwise bound

\displaystyle  |f^\sharp| \lesssim_d Mf.

Exercise 34 (Sharp function, II) Let {f} be locally integrable, let {\varepsilon, \lambda > 0}, and let {B} be any ball on which {Mf(x) \lesssim \lambda} for at least one {x \in B}, and such that {f^\sharp(y) \leq \varepsilon \lambda} for at least one {y \in B}. Use the Hardy–Littlewood maximal inequality to show that for any sufficiently large {K \gg 1}, that

\displaystyle  |\{ x \in B: Mf \geq K \lambda \}| \lesssim_d \frac{\varepsilon}{K} |B|.

From this and a Vitali covering lemma or Calderón–Zygmund decomposition argument, conclude the good {\lambda} inequality

\displaystyle  |\{ Mf \geq K \lambda \hbox{ and } f^\sharp \leq \varepsilon \lambda \}| \lesssim_d \frac{\varepsilon}{K} |\{ Mf \geq \lambda \}|

and then (by taking {K} large, and {\varepsilon} very small) show that

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \sim_{p,d} \| Mf \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} \|f^\sharp\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

for all {1 < p < \infty} and {f \in L^p({\bf R}^d)}. Use this to give an alternate proof of Lemma
28.

— 4. Multiplier theory —

An important subclass of CZOs are given by certain types of Fourier multipliers. (We also have spatial multipliers {m(X): f(x) \mapsto m(x) f(x)}, but their behavior is much more elementary to analyze thanks to Hölder’s inequality; for instance, a spatial multiplier {m(X)} is bounded on {L^p} if and only if the symbol {m} is in {L^\infty}, and indeed the operator norm of the former is the sup norm of the latter.)

Definition 35 If {m:{\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} is a tempered distribution we define the Fourier multiplier {m(D): \mathcal{S}({\bf R}^d) \rightarrow \mathcal{S}({\bf R}^d)^*} on Schwartz functions {f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R}^d)} by the formula

\displaystyle  \widehat{m(D) f}(\xi) = m(\xi) \hat f(\xi).

We refer to the function {m} as the symbol of the multiplier {m(D)}.

Note that if {f} is Schwartz, then so is {\hat f}, and that is enough to make {m \hat f} a tempered distribution, and so {m(D) f} is well-defined as a tempered distribution. If {m} is bounded, we observe from Plancherel’s identity that

\displaystyle  \| m(D) f \|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)} \leq \|m\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} \|f\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d)}

and hence the Fourier multiplier extends continuously to all of {L^2} in this case. Indeed it is not hard to show that in fact

\displaystyle  \|m(D) \|_{L^2({\bf R}^d) \rightarrow L^2({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}.

The partial derivative operator {\frac{\partial}{\partial x_j}} is a Fourier multiplier with symbol {2\pi i \xi_j}. More generally, any constant-coefficient differential operator {P(\nabla)}, where {P: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} is a polynomial, has symbol {P(2\pi i \xi)}; thus one can formally view {D} in {m(D)} as representing the vector-valued operator {D = \frac{1}{2\pi i} \nabla}. The translation operator {\mathrm{Trans}_{x_0}} is a Fourier multiplier with symbol {e^{-2\pi i x_0 \cdot \xi}}, thus we formally have {\mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} = e^{-2\pi i D \cdot x_0} = e^{-x_0 \cdot \nabla}}. A convolution operator {T: f \mapsto f*K}, with {K} a distribution, is a Fourier multiplier with symbol {m = \hat K}; conversely, every Fourier multiplier is a convolution operator with the distribution {K = \check m}. The Hilbert transform is a Fourier multiplier with symbol {-i \mathrm{sgn}(\xi)}, thus {H = -i\mathrm{sgn}(D)}.

Let {1 \leq p \leq \infty}. We say that {m} is an {L^p} multiplier if {m(D)} extends to a bounded linear operator on {L^p({\bf R}^d)}, and in that case denote {\|m\|_{M^p}} to be the {L^p} operator norm of {m} on {M^p}. Thus for instance the {M^2} norm is the same as the {L^\infty} norm. At first glance, it seems one can say quite a lot about these quantities; for instance, since the adjoint of {m(D)} is easily seen to be {\overline{m}(D)}, which has the same {L^p} operator norm as {m(D)}, we see that

\displaystyle  \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}= \|\overline{m}\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^{p'}({\bf R}^d)}

and thus by Riesz–Thorin interpolation

\displaystyle  \|m\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^2({\bf R}^d)} \leq \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}

and so all {L^p} multipliers are bounded (though the converse turns out to be false, as we shall see later). The space {M^p} of {L^p} multipliers turns out to be a Banach algebra, thus the {M^p} norm is a Banach space norm and furthermore

\displaystyle  \|m_1 m_2 \|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \leq \|m_1\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \|m_2\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}.

One can also show (from the symmetries of the Fourier transform) that the {M^p} norm is invariant under translations, modulations, and {L^\infty} dilations:

\displaystyle  \| \mathrm{Trans}_{x_0} m \|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|\mathrm{Mod}_{\xi_0} m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \| \mathrm{Dil}^\infty_\lambda m \|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}. \ \ \ \ \ (9)

The dilation invariance can be generalized: given any invertible linear transformation {L: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf R}^d} we can check that

\displaystyle  \| m \circ L \|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}. \ \ \ \ \ (10)

Because of the translation invariance, the same is true if {L} is an affine transformation rather than a linear one.

Thus for instance, by modulating the Hilbert transform we see that

\displaystyle  \| 1_{[\xi_0,+\infty)} \|_{M^p({\bf R})} \lesssim_p 1

for {1 < p < \infty}, which by Riemann–Stieltjes integration and Minkowski’s inequality shows that

\displaystyle  \| m \|_{M^p({\bf R})} \lesssim_p \| m \|_{BV({\bf R})}

when {m} has bounded variation, where

\displaystyle  \| m \|_{BV({\bf R})} := \|m\|_{L^\infty({\bf R})} + \sup_{\xi_1 < \ldots < \xi_N} \sum_{j=1}^{N-1} |m(\xi_{j+1}) - m(\xi_j)|.

Exercise 36 Show that if {T} is a bounded linear operator on {L^2({\bf R}^d)} which commutes with translations, then it is a Fourier multiplier operator with bounded symbol.

Exercise 37 Let {m: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} and {m': {\bf R}^{d'} \rightarrow {\bf C}} be {L^p} multipliers. Show that the tensor product {m \otimes m': {\bf R}^{d + d'} \rightarrow {\bf C}} is also an {L^p} multiplier with

\displaystyle  \| m \otimes m' \|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d+d'})} = \| m \|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d})} \| m' \|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d'})}.

(Hint: it may help to first establish the cases when {m \equiv 1} or {m' \equiv 1}.)

For {M^1} or {M^\infty}, it is also not hard to show that

\displaystyle  \| m \|_{M^1({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^\infty({\bf R}^d)} = \| \check m \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}

whenever the inverse Fourier transform of {m} is absolutely integrable; with a little more work one can also show that {m(D)} is unbounded on {L^1} and {L^\infty} when {\check m} does not lie in {L^1({\bf R}^d)}, although this is a little tricky. Thus for {1 \leq p \leq \infty} we have (by Riesz–Thorin again)

\displaystyle  \| m \|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} \leq \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \leq \| \check m \|_{L^1({\bf R}^d)}.

One consequence of this is that if {m} is a bump function adapted to {L(\Omega)} for some fixed bounded domain {\Omega} and some arbitrary affine linear transformation {L}, then {m} is an {M^p} multiplier with {\|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = O_{d,\Omega}(1)} for all {1 \leq p \leq \infty}.

Suppose a multiplier {m} on {{\bf R}^d} does not depend on the final coordinate {\xi_d}, thus

\displaystyle  m(\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_d) = \tilde m(\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_{d-1})

for some {\tilde m: {\bf R}^{d-1} \rightarrow {\bf C}}. Then the {d}-dimensional Fourier multiplier {m(D)} and the {d-1}-dimensional Fourier multiplier {\tilde m(D)} are related by the identity

\displaystyle  [m(D) f]_{x_d} = \tilde m(D) [f_{x_d}]

for all {x_d \in {\bf R}} and Schwartz {f \in \mathcal{S}({\bf R}^d)}, where {f_{x_d}: {\bf R}^{d-1} \rightarrow {\bf C}} is the slice

\displaystyle  f_{x_d}(x_1,\ldots,x_{d-1}) := f(x_1,\ldots,x_d).

From this and Fubini’s theorem one easily verifies that if {\tilde m} is in {M^p({\bf R}^{d-1})}, then {m} is in {M^p({\bf R}^d)} with

\displaystyle  \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|\tilde m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d-1})}. \ \ \ \ \ (11)

Of course, most multipliers {m} on {{\bf R}^d} do depend on the final coordinate {\xi_d}. Nevertheless we can obtain a partial generalization of (11) for these more general multipliers:

Theorem 38 (De Leeuw’s theorem) If {m \in M^p({\bf R}^d)} is continuous, then {\|m_{\xi_d}\|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d-1})} \leq \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}} for any {\xi_d}.

Proof: By translation invariance we can take {\xi_d = 0}. For any {\lambda > 0}, let {L_\lambda: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf R}^d} be the linear transformation

\displaystyle  L(\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_d) := (\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_{d-1},\xi_d/\lambda),

then by (10) we have

\displaystyle  \| m \circ L_\lambda \|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}.

Now we send {\lambda \rightarrow \infty}. We observe from the hypothesis that {m} is continuous that {m \circ L_\lambda \rightarrow m \circ L_\infty} pointwise, where {L_\infty} is the (non-invertible) projection

\displaystyle  L_\infty(\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_d) = (\xi_1,\ldots,\xi_{d-1},0).

On the other hand, from (11) we have

\displaystyle  \|m \circ L_\infty\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} = \| m_0 \|_{M^p({\bf R}^{d-1})}.

So to conclude the theorem it suffices to show that

\displaystyle  \|m \circ L_\infty\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \leq \limsup_{\lambda \rightarrow \infty} \|m \circ L_\lambda\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}.

This can be achieved by a weak convergence argument. (As usual, weak convergence preserves upper bounds, but does not necessarily preserve lower bounds (cf. Fatou’s lemma).) If {f, g} are Schwartz functions, we see from Hölder’s inequality that

\displaystyle  |\langle m \circ L_\lambda(D) f, g \rangle| \leq \|m \circ L_\lambda\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \|g\|_{L^{p'}({\bf R}^d)}.

Taking limit superior as {\lambda \rightarrow \infty} and using Plancherel and dominated convergence on the left-hand side (using the pointwise convergence, as well as the boundedness of {m}) we conclude

\displaystyle  |\langle m \circ L_\infty(D) f, g \rangle| \leq \limsup_{\lambda \rightarrow \infty} \|m \circ L_\lambda\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \|g\|_{L^{p'}({\bf R}^d)}.

Using the converse to Hölder’s inequality we obtain the claim. \Box

One consequence of de Leeuw’s theorem is that we expect multiplier theory on higher dimensions to be harder than multiplier theory for lower dimensions.

One can view de Leeuw’s theorem as a transference theorem, transferring a bound on one space ({{\bf R}^d}) to another ({{\bf R}^{d-1}}), basically by exploiting the fact that there was a projection from {{\bf R}^d} to {{\bf R}^{d-1}}. For a result of similar flavor, see Exercise 39.

Exercise 39 (Transference theorem for {{\bf Z}^d}) If {m: {\bf Z}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} is bounded, define the multiplier {m(D)} on {L^2({\bf T}^d)} by the formula

\displaystyle  \widehat{m(D) f}(\xi) := m(\xi) \hat f(\xi) \hbox{ for } \xi \in {\bf Z}^d

where we use the Fourier transform on the torus {{\bf T}^d := {\bf R}^d/{\bf Z}^d},

\displaystyle  \hat f(\xi) := \int_{{\bf T}^d} e^{-2\pi i x \cdot \xi} f(x)\ dx.

We then define {\|m\|_{M^p({\bf Z}^d)}} to be the {L^p({\bf T}^d)} operator norm of {m(D)}.

Let {m: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} be continuous and an {M^p({\bf R}^d)} multiplier for some {1 \leq p \leq \infty}. Show that {\| m|_{{\bf Z}^d} \|_{M^p({\bf Z}^d)} \leq \|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)}}. (Hint: take functions {f, g \in C^\infty({\bf T}^d)}, extend them periodically to {{\bf R}^d}, multiply them by some cutoff to {1} (such as {e^{-\varepsilon |x|^2}}), apply {m(D)} on {{\bf R}^d}, and use some appropriate limiting argument (and possibly a Poisson summation formula) to get down to {{\bf T}^d}.)

Despite these encouraging initial results, it appears very difficult to decide in general whether any given multiplier {m} lies in {M^p} or not for any {1 < p < \infty} other than {p=2}. For instance, the question of determining the precise values of {p} and {\delta} for which the multiplier {m^\delta(\xi) := \max(1-|\xi|^2,0)^\delta} is an {L^p({\bf R}^d)} multiplier is not fully resolved in three and higher dimensions; this problem is known as the Bochner–Riesz conjecture, which we will not discuss in detail here. Broadly speaking, the difficulty with the Bochner–Riesz conjecture is that the symbol {m^\delta} is singular on a large, curved set (in this case, the sphere), which necessarily leads to some delicate and still incompletely understood geometric issues (most notably the Kakeya conjecture, which we will also not discuss here).

However, one can do a lot better if the multiplier has no singularities, or is only singular at one point (such as the origin). For instance, if {m} is Schwartz, then {\check m} is definitely in {L^1}, and so {m} lies in {M^p} for all {1 \leq p \leq \infty}. Note from (9) that any dilate, translate, and/or modulation of a Schwartz function is then also in {M^p} uniformly in the dilation, translation, and modulation parameters.

Now we address multipliers which only have singularities at the origin.

Theorem 40 (Hörmander–Mikhlin multiplier theorem) Let {m: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} obey the homogeneous symbol estimates of order {0}

\displaystyle  |\nabla^k m(\xi)| \lesssim |\xi|^{-k} \ \ \ \ \ (12)

for all {\xi \neq 0} and {0 \leq k \leq d+2}. (In particular {\|m\|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim 1}.) Then {m} is a CZO, and we have {\|m\|_{M^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} 1} for all {1 < p < \infty}.

Remark 41 It is possible to use less regularity than {d+2} derivatives here, but in practice this type of control is sufficient for many applications. The conditions (12) are essentially asserting that {m} is smooth and does not oscillate on each annulus {2^j \leq |\xi| \leq 2^{j+1}}, although it essentially allows different annuli to behave independently. For instance, if {\psi_j} is a bump function adapted to the annulus {2^j \leq |\xi| \leq 2^{j+1}}, and {\varepsilon_j \in \{-1,+1\}} are arbitrary signs, then {\sum_j \varepsilon_j \psi_j} obeys the homogeneous symbol estimates of order {0} uniformly in the choice of {\varepsilon_j}.

Proof: The multiplier {m(D)} is already bounded on {L^2({\bf R}^d)}. Formally, we know that {m(D)} is a convolution operator: {m(D) f = f * \check m}, but we run into the formal difficulty that {\check m} need not be locally integrable. To compute things rigorously it is convenient to use the Littlewood–Paley decomposition. Let {\phi: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf R}^+} be a fixed bump function which equals one on the ball {B(0,1)} and is supported on the ball {B(0,2)}, and write

\displaystyle  \psi_j(\xi) := \phi(\xi/2^j) - \phi(\xi/2^{j-1})

for {j \in {\bf Z}}. Then we have the partition of unity

\displaystyle  1 = \sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} \psi_j(\xi)

for almost every {\xi}, and hence we have the pointwise convergent sum

\displaystyle  m = \sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} m_j

where {m_j := \psi_j m}. Using Plancherel and dominated convergence we conclude that

\displaystyle  m(D) f = \sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} m_j(D) f

for all {f \in L^2({\bf R}^d)}, where the sum is conditionally convergent in the {L^2} sense. In particular for any {f, g \in L^2({\bf R}^d)} we have

\displaystyle  \langle m(D) f, g \rangle = \sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} \langle m_j(D) f, g \rangle

where the sum is at least conditionally convergent (indeed by Parseval one can show that it is absolutely convergent). Now let us assume that {f,g} are also bounded and compactly supported with disjoint supports. We can write

\displaystyle  \langle m_j(D) f, g \rangle = \int_{{\bf R}^d} \int_{{\bf R}^d} K_j(y-x) f(x) g(y)\ dx dy

where

\displaystyle  K_j(x) = \check m_j(x) = \int_{{\bf R}^d} m_j(\xi) e^{2\pi i x \cdot \xi}\ d\xi.

One can justify these formulae via the Fourier inversion formula and Fubini’s theorem using the fact that {f, g, m_j} are bounded with compact support; we omit the details. Now observe that {m_j} is supported on the annulus {|\xi| \sim 2^j}, and multiple applications of the Leibnitz rule give us the bounds

\displaystyle  |\nabla^k m_j(\xi)| \lesssim_{k,d} 2^{-jk}

for {0 \leq k \leq d+2}. From the {k=0} case of this bound and the triangle inequality we obtain the bound

\displaystyle  |K_j(x)| \lesssim_d 2^{dj};

on the other hand, by integrating by parts {k} times (using the identity {e^{2\pi i x \cdot \xi} = \left(\frac{x}{2\pi i |x|^2} \cdot \nabla_\xi\right)^{k} e^{2\pi i x \cdot \xi}}) we obtain the bound

\displaystyle  |K_j(x)| \lesssim_d 2^{dj} 2^{-jk} |x|^{-k}

for {k=0,\ldots,d+2}, and hence

\displaystyle  |K_j(x)| \lesssim_d \min( 2^{dj}, 2^{dj} 2^{-j(d+2)} |x|^{-(d+2)} ) = |x|^{-d} \min( (2^j |x|)^d, (2^j |x|)^{-2} ).

Also, we can compute gradients

\displaystyle  \nabla K_j(x) = (2\pi i \xi m_j)^\vee(x) = \int_{{\bf R}^d} 2\pi i \xi m_j(\xi) e^{2\pi i x \cdot \xi}\ d\xi.

The additional {2\pi i \xi} factor essentially just contributes an extra factor of {2^j} to the analysis, and we end up with

\displaystyle  |\nabla K_j(x)| \lesssim_d \min( 2^{dj}, 2^{dj} 2^{-j(d+2)} |x|^{-(d+2)} ) = |x|^{-d-1} \min( (2^j |x|)^{d+1}, (2^j |x|)^{-1} ).

These estimates are enough to show that away from a neighborhood of {x=0}, the series {\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} K_j} is convergent in {C^1_{\mathrm{loc}}} to a kernel {K: {\bf R}^d \backslash \{0\} \rightarrow {\bf C}} obeying the bounds

\displaystyle  |K(x)| \lesssim_d |x|^{-d}; \quad |\nabla K(x)| \lesssim_d |x|^{-d-1} \ \ \ \ \ (13)

and by Fubini’s theorem we have

\displaystyle  \langle m(D) f, g \rangle = \int_{{\bf R}^d} \int_{{\bf R}^d} K(y-x) f(x) g(y)\ dx dy \ \ \ \ \ (14)

when {f,g} are bounded with disjoint support. By a monotone convergence argument (noting that {m(D)} is bounded on {L^2}) the same is true when {f,g} are {L^2} with compact support.

The bounds (13) (and the fundamental theorem of calculus) ensure that {K(y-x)} is a singular kernel, and (14) shows that {m(D)} is a CZO with kernel {K}. Thus, by Corollary 14, {m(D)} is of strong-type {(p,p)} with an operator norm of {O_p(1)} for all {1 < p < \infty}, and the claim follows. \Box

Note that the Hörmander–Mikhlin multiplier theorem includes the {L^p} boundedness of the Hilbert transform for {1 < p < \infty} as a special case, since the multiplier {m(\xi) = i \mathrm{sgn}(\xi)} certainly obeys the symbol estimates. Another useful instance of the theorem is to conclude that the homogeneous fractional derivative operators {|\nabla|^{it} = |2\pi D|^{it}}, with symbol {m(\xi) = |2\pi \xi|^{it}} and {t} real, are also bounded on {L^p({\bf R}^d)}, with an operator norm of {O_d( \langle t \rangle^{d+2} )} (in particular, it grows at most polynomially in {t}). This fact turns out to be very useful when one wishes to use Stein interpolation involving fractional differentiation operators {|\nabla|^z}. A similar argument also applies to the inhomogeneous fractional derivative operators {\langle \nabla \rangle^{it} = \langle 2\pi D \rangle^{it}} with symbol {\langle 2\pi \xi \rangle^{it}}. (The factor of {2\pi} is of course irrelevant here and the same results hold if this factor is dropped. Indeed, in PDE it is customary to drop the {2\pi} from the definition of the Fourier transform so as not to see these factors then arise from differential operators.)

Another example of multipliers covered by this theorem are the Riesz transforms {R_j := iD_j/|D| = \partial_{x_j}/|\nabla|} for {j=1,\ldots,d}, with symbol {i\xi_j/|\xi|}. These symbols are easily verified to obey the homogeneous symbol estimates and are thus in {M^p({\bf R}^d)} with norm {O_d(1)} for all {1 < p < \infty}. The significance of the Riesz transforms is that they connect general second order derivatives to the Laplacian; indeed from Fourier analysis we quickly see that

\displaystyle  \frac{\partial^2}{\partial x_j \partial x_k} f = - R_j R_k \Delta f

for all {1 \leq j,k \leq d} and Schwartz {f}. In particular, since {R_j R_k} is bounded on {L^p}, we obtain the elliptic regularity estimate

\displaystyle  \| \nabla^2 f \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{d,p} \| \Delta f \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

for all Schwartz {f} and all {1 < p < \infty}. In a similar vein, we can show that

\displaystyle  \| \nabla^k f \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{d,p,k} \| |\nabla|^k f \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

for any {k \geq 0}, Schwartz {f}, and {1 < p < \infty}, where {|\nabla|^k = |2\pi D|^k} is the Fourier multiplier with symbol {|2\pi \xi|^k}.

More generally, any multiplier which is homogeneous of degree zero (thus {m(\lambda \xi) = m(\xi)} for all {\lambda > 0}), and smooth on the sphere {S^{d-1}}, obeys the homogeneous symbol estimates and is thus in {M^p} for all {1 < p < \infty}.

The Fourier multipliers covered by the Hörmander–Mikhlin multiplier theorem are essentially special cases of the pseudodifferential operators of order {0}, which we shall discuss in later notes.

— 5. Vector-valued analogues —

In the above discussion we considered only scalar-valued (complex-valued) functions, and scalar-valued operators with scalar kernels {K}. However, it is possible to generalize basically all of the above discussion to vector-valued cases, in which the functions take values in a Hilbert space, and the kernel takes values in the bounded linear operators from one Hilbert space to another. We rapidly present these generalizations here; as it turns out only some notational changes need to be made. We will then give an important application of this generalization, namely the Littlewood–Paley inequality.

Let {H} be a Hilbert space. For {p < \infty}, we let {L^p(X \rightarrow H)} be the space of measurable functions {f: X \rightarrow H} such that

\displaystyle  \int_X \|f(x)\|_H^p\ d\mu(x) < \infty,

where of course we identify functions which agree almost everywhere as before. We also define {L^\infty(X \rightarrow H)} in the usual manner. One can (rather laboriously) rederive most of the scalar {L^p} theory to this vector-valued case (mostly by replacing absolute values with {H} norms, and any scalar form {f \overline{g}} with the inner product {\langle f, g \rangle_H}). For instance, one can verify the duality relationship

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{L^p(X \rightarrow H)} = \sup \{ \int_X \langle f(x), g(x) \rangle_H\ d\mu(x): \|g\|_{L^{p'}(X \rightarrow H)} \leq 1 \}

whenever {1 \leq p \leq \infty} and {f \in L^p(X \rightarrow H)}. Also, the real interpolation theory continues to be valid in this setting (the basic reason being that the layer-cake decompositions, which depend only on the magnitude of the underlying function, continue to be valid).

Observe that if {f: X \rightarrow H} is absolutely integrable on some set {E}, thus {\int_E \|f(x)\|_H\ d\mu(x) < \infty}, then one can define the vector-valued integral {\int_E f(x)\ d\mu(x) \in H} in several ways, for instance by using duality

\displaystyle  \langle \int_E f(x)\ d\mu(x), g\rangle_H := \int_E \langle f(x), g \rangle_H \ d\mu(x).

In particular, for locally integrable vector-valued functions {f}, we can compute averages {\frac{1}{|B|} \int_B f} for balls or cubes {B}.

Let {B(H \rightarrow H')} denote the bounded linear operators of {H} to {H'}, with the usual operator norm.

Definition 42 (Vector-valued singular kernels) Let {H, H'} be Hilbert spaces. A singular kernel from {H} to {H'} is a function {K: {\bf R}^d \times {\bf R}^d \rightarrow B(H \rightarrow H')} (defined away from the diagonal {x=y}) which obeys the decay estimate

\displaystyle  \|K(x,y)\|_{B(H \rightarrow H')} \lesssim |x-y|^{-d} \ \ \ \ \ (15)

for {x \neq y} and the Hölder-type regularity estimates

\displaystyle  \| K(x,y') - K(x,y) \|_{B(H \rightarrow H')} = O\left( \frac{|y-y'|^\sigma}{|x-y|^{d+\sigma}} \right) \hbox{ whenever } |y-y'| \leq \frac{1}{2} |x-y| \ \ \ \ \ (16)

and

\displaystyle  \| K(x',y) - K(x,y) \|_{B(H \rightarrow H')} = O\left( \frac{|x-x'|^\sigma}{|x-y|^{d+\sigma}} \right) \hbox{ whenever } |x-x'| \leq \frac{1}{2} |x-y| \ \ \ \ \ (17)

for some Hölder exponent {0 < \sigma \leq 1}.

Definition 43 (Vector-valued Calderón–Zygmund operators) A Calderón–Zygmund operator (CZO) from {H} to {H'} is a linear operator {T: L^2({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H) \rightarrow L^2({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H')} which is bounded,

\displaystyle  \|Tf\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H')} \lesssim \|f\|_{L^2({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H)},

and such that there exists a singular kernel {K} from {H} to {H'} for which

\displaystyle  Tf(y) = \int_{{\bf R}^d} K(x,y) f(x)\ dx

whenever {f \in L^2({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H)} is compactly supported, and {y} lies outside of the support of {f}. Note that the integral here is an absolutely convergent Hilbert space-valued integral.

One can then repeat the derivation of Corollary 14 more or less verbatim to show that vector-valued Calderón–Zygmund operators continue to be bounded from {L^p({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H)} to {L^p({\bf R}^d \rightarrow H')} with bound {O_{d,p}(1)}. Note that the constants never depend on the dimension of {H} and {H'}, and indeed this dimension may be infinite.

An important application of vector-valued Calderón–Zygmund theory is the Littlewood–Paley inequality.

Proposition 44 (Upper Littlewood–Paley inequality) For each integer {j}, let {\psi_j: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} be a bump function adapted to an annulus {\{ \xi: |\xi| \sim 2^j \}}. Then for any {1 < p < \infty} and {f \in L^p({\bf R}^d)} we have

\displaystyle  \| (\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} |\psi_j(D) f|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

and for any {f_j \in L^p({\bf R}^d)} for {j \in {\bf Z}} we have

\displaystyle  \| \sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} \psi_j(D) f_j \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} \| (\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} |f_j|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \ \ \ \ \ (18)

where the sum in the left is conditionally convergent in {L^p}.

Proof: By monotone convergence it suffices to prove the claim assuming that only finitely many of the {\psi_j} are non-zero. (This step is not strictly necessary, but it lets us avoid unnecessary technicalities in what follows.) It suffices to prove the first claim, as the second follows from a standard duality argument.

We consider the vector-valued operator {T: L^2({\bf R}^d) \rightarrow L^2({\bf R}^d; l^2({\bf Z}))} defined by

\displaystyle  T f := ( \psi_j(D) f )_{j \in {\bf Z}},

thus

\displaystyle  \|Tf(x)\|_{l^2({\bf Z})} = (\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} |\psi_j(D) f(x)|^2)^{1/2}.

Since {\sum_j |\psi_j|^2 = O(1)}, we quickly see from Plancherel’s theorem that {T} is strong-type {(2,2)} with operator norm {O(1)}. Next, we observe that {T} has a vector-valued kernel

\displaystyle  K(x,y) = ( \check \psi_j( y-x ) )_{j \in {\bf Z}}

where we identify such vectors with operators from {{\bf C}} to {l^2({\bf Z})} in the obvious manner. But as in the proof of the Hörmander–Mikhlin multiplier theorem we have

\displaystyle  \check \psi_j (x) = O\left( \frac{1}{|x|^d} \min( (2^j |x|)^d, (2^j |x|)^{-2} ) \right)

and

\displaystyle  \nabla \check \psi_j (x) = O\left( \frac{1}{|x|^{d+1}} \min( (2^j |x|)^{d+1}, (2^j |x|)^{-1} ) \right)

from which we easily verify (15), (16), (17). The claim then follows from the vector-valued analogue of Corollary 14. \Box

Corollary 45 (Two-sided Littlewood–Paley inequality) For each integer {j}, let {\psi_j: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} be a bump function adapted to an annulus {\{ \xi: |\xi| \sim 2^j \}}. Suppose also that {\sum_j |\psi_j|^2 \sim 1}. Then for any {1 < p < \infty} and {f \in L^p({\bf R}^d)} we have

\displaystyle  \| (\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} |\psi_j(D) f|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \sim_{p,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}.

Proof: By density (and the preceding proposition) it suffices to prove this when {f} is Schwartz.

From the preceding proposition we already have the upper bound; the task is to establish the lower bound. Let {\tilde \psi_j} be bump functions adapted to a slightly wider annulus than {\psi_j}, which equal {1} on the support of {\psi_j}. Writing

\displaystyle  \varphi_j := \tilde \psi_j \frac{\psi_j}{\sum_j |\psi_j|^2}

we verify that {\varphi_j} is also adapted to the same annulus as {\psi_j}, and that we have the partition of unity {1 = \sum_j \varphi_j \psi_j}. This leads to the identity

\displaystyle  f = \sum_j \varphi_j(D) \psi_j(D) f

when {f} is Schwartz, and hence by (18) we obtain

\displaystyle  \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} \| (\sum_j |\psi_j(D) f|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

as desired. \Box

The quantity {(\sum_{j \in {\bf Z}} |\psi_j(D) f|^2)^{1/2}} is known as a Littlewood–Paley square function of {f}. One can view {\psi_j(D) f} as the component of {f} whose frequencies have magnitude {\sim 2^j}. The point of the inequality is that even though each component {\psi_j(D) f} may individually oscillate, no cancellation occurs between the components in the square function. This makes the square function more amenable than the original function {f} when it comes to analyze operators (such as differential or pseudodifferential operators) which treat each frequency component in a different way.

Exercise 46 (Continuous Littlewood–Paley inequality) For every {t > 0}, let {\psi_t: {\bf R}^d \rightarrow {\bf C}} be a function obeying the estimates

\displaystyle  |\nabla^j \psi_t(\xi)| \lesssim_d t^{-j} \min( (|\xi|/2^j)^{-\varepsilon}, (|\xi|/2^j)^{\varepsilon} )

for all {0 \leq j \leq d+2}, all {\xi \in {\bf R}^d}, and some {\varepsilon > 0} (independent of {t}). Conclude that

\displaystyle  \left\| \left(\int_0^\infty |\psi_t(D) f|^2 \frac{dt}{t}\right)^{1/2} \right\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_{p,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}

for {f \in L^p({\bf R}^d)}. If we also have the pointwise bound {\int_0^\infty |\psi_t|^2 \frac{dt}{t} \sim 1}, improve this bound to

\displaystyle  \left\| \left(\int_0^\infty |\psi_t(D) f|^2 \frac{dt}{t}\right)^{1/2} \right\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \sim_{p,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}.

— 5.1. An alternate approach via Khintchine’s inequality —

One can avoid dealing with vector-valued CZOs by instead using randomized signs as a substitute. The key tool is the following inequality, which roughly speaking asserts that a random walk with steps {x_1,\ldots,x_N} is extremely likely to have magnitude about {(\sum_{j=1}^N |x_j|^2)^{1/2}}, and can be viewed as a variant of the law of large numbers:

Lemma 47 (Khintchine’s inequality for scalars) Let {x_1,\ldots,x_N} be complex numbers, and let {\epsilon_1,\ldots,\epsilon_N \in \{-1,1\}} be independent random signs, drawn from {\{-1,1\}} with the uniform distribution. Then for any {0 < p < \infty}

\displaystyle  ( \mathop{\bf E} |\sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j|^p )^{1/p} \sim_p (\sum_{j=1}^N |x_j|^2)^{1/2}.

Proof: By the triangle inequality it suffices to prove this when the {x_j} are real. When {p=2} we observe that

\displaystyle  \mathop{\bf E} |\sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j|^2 = \mathop{\bf E} \sum_{1 \leq j,j' \leq N} \epsilon_j \epsilon_{j'} x_j x_{j'} = \sum_{j=1}^N x_j^2

since {\epsilon_j \epsilon_{j'}} has expectation {0} when {j \neq j'} and {1} when {j=j'}. This proves the claim for {p=2}. By Hölder’s inequality this gives the upper bound for {p \leq 2} and the lower bound for {p \geq 2}. Hölder also shows us that the lower bound for {p \leq 2} will follow from the upper bound for {p \geq 2}, so it remains to prove the upper bound for {p \geq 2}.

We will use the “exponential moment method”. We normalize {\sum_{j=1}^N |x_j|^2 = 1}. Now consider the expression

\displaystyle  \begin{array}{rl}  \mathop{\bf E} \exp \sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j &= \mathop{\bf E} \prod_{j=1}^N \exp \epsilon_j x_j \\ &= \prod_{j=1}^N \mathop{\bf E} \exp \epsilon_j x_j \\ &= \prod_{j=1}^N \cosh x_j. \end{array}

A comparison of Taylor series reveals the inequality

\displaystyle  \cosh x_j \leq \exp (x_j^2 / 2)

and hence

\displaystyle  \mathop{\bf E} \exp \sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j \leq \exp \sum_{j=1}^N x_j^2 / 2 \lesssim 1.

By Markov’s inequality we conclude

\displaystyle  \mathop{\bf P}( \sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j \geq \lambda ) \lesssim e^{-\lambda}

and hence (by the symmetry of the {\epsilon_j})

\displaystyle  \mathop{\bf P}( |\sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j| \geq \lambda ) \lesssim e^{-\lambda}.

The claim then follows from the distributional representation of the {L^p} norm. \Box

Remark 48 It is instructive to prove Khintchine’s inequality directly for even exponents such as {p=4}.

Corollary 49 (Khintchine’s inequality for functions) Let {f_1,\ldots,f_N \in L^p(X)} for some {0 < p < \infty}, and let {\epsilon_1,\ldots,\epsilon_N \in \{-1,1\}} be independent random signs, drawn from {\{-1,1\}} with the uniform distribution. Then for any {0 < p < \infty}

\displaystyle  ( \mathop{\bf E} \|\sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j f_j\|_{L^p(X)}^p )^{1/p} \sim_p \| (\sum_{j=1}^N |f_j|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p(X)}.

Proof: Apply the above inequality to the sequence {f_1(x),\ldots,f_N(x)} for each {x \in X} and then take {L^p} norms of both sides. \Box

This gives the following alternate proof of Proposition 44. Once again we may restrict to only finitely many of the {\psi_j} being non-zero. Observe that for arbitrary choices of signs {\epsilon_j \in \{-1,1\}}, that the sum {\sum_j \epsilon_j \psi_j} obeys the homogeneous symbol estimates of order {0}. Thus by the Hörmander–Mikhlin theorem we have

\displaystyle  \| \sum_j \epsilon_j \psi_j(D) f \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}^p \lesssim_{p,d} \|f\|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}^p

for {1 < p < \infty}. Taking expectations and using Khintchine’s inequality we obtain the claim.

Exercise 50 (Chernoff’s inequality) If {x_1,\ldots,x_N} are complex numbers of magnitude at most one, establish the inequality

\displaystyle  \mathop{\bf P}( |\sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j| \geq \lambda (\sum_{j=1}^N |x_j|^2)^{1/2} ) \lesssim e^{-\lambda^2/4}

for all {0 < \lambda \leq 2 (\sum_{j=1}^N |x_j|^2)^{1/2}}. (Hint: look at {\exp( t \sum_{j=1}^N \epsilon_j x_j )} for a real parameter {t}.)

Exercise 51 (Marcinkiewicz–Zygmund vector extension) Let {T} be a linear operator on {L^p({\bf R}^d)} with operator norm {1}. Show that for any functions {f_1,f_2,\ldots \in L^p({\bf R}^d)} we have

\displaystyle  \| (\sum_{n=1}^\infty |T f_n|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_p \| (\sum_{n=1}^\infty |f_n|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^p({\bf R}^d)}.

(Hint: reduce to finite summation and use Khintchine’s inequality.)

Exercise 52 (BMO Littlewood–Paley inequality) For each integer {j}, let {f_j \in L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}; assume that all but finitely many of the {f_j} are non-zero. Let {\psi_j} be as in Proposition 44. Show that

\displaystyle  \| \sum_j \psi_j(D) f_j \|_{\mathrm{BMO}({\bf R}^d)} \lesssim_d \| (\sum_j |f_j|^2)^{1/2} \|_{L^\infty({\bf R}^d)}.

(It is possible to remove the hypothesis that finitely many of the {f_j} are non-zero, but then some care must be taken to define {\sum_j \psi_j(D) f_j}; in particular it will only be defined modulo a constant.)

Exercise 53 (Zygmund’s inequality) For each positive integer {n}, let {\xi_n} be an integer with {|\xi_n| \sim 2^n}, and let {c_n} be a complex number with {\sum_n |c_n|^2} finite. Show that

\displaystyle  \| c_n e^{2\pi i \xi_nx} \|_{e^{L^2}({\bf T})} \sim (\sum_n |c_n|^2)^{1/2}

and in particular that

\displaystyle  \| c_n e^{2\pi i \xi_nx} \|_{L^p({\bf T})} \sim_p (\sum_n |c_n|^2)^{1/2}

for all {2 \leq p < \infty}. Dually, for any {f \in L \log^{1/2} L({\bf T})}, show that

\displaystyle  (\sum_n |\hat f(\xi_n)|^2)^{1/2} \lesssim \|f\|_{L \log^{1/2} L({\bf T})}

and in particular that

\displaystyle  (\sum_n |\hat f(\xi_n)|^2)^{1/2} \lesssim_p \|f\|_{L^p({\bf T})}

for all {1 < p \leq\infty}.

John Preskill — Nicole’s guide to writing and editing

Freshman year of college, I took a writing seminar from German-literature professor Ellis Shookman. Professor Shookman loved Mozart’s music, he told us early in the term. He listened to Mozart on the radio while driving from campus to Boston. Static might mar the transmission, but he could often turn up the volume and continue enjoying the program. Sometimes, the static worsened during the drive. It could worsen and worsen, until Professor Shookman’s frustration outweighed his delight at listening. He’d switch off the radio.

As Professor Shookman loved listening to Mozart’s music, he loved reading about students’ ideas. Yet static can mar a piece of writing: infelicities in grammar, structure, composition, word choice, and more. If enough infelicities obscure the writing, the frustration of reading outweighs the benefits. Professor Shookman will quit reading.

Professor Shookman marked up our essays with a blue pencil that achieved the status of legend among his students. If you’ve written a paper I’ve coauthored, you’ve probably received PDF drafts replete with green highlighting.1 A sticky note explains the reason for each highlighting: “Singular–plural mismatch.” “Active voice >> passive voice.” “Let’s clue the reader in as to this formula’s meaning before lobbing the math at them.” 

Over the past year, I’ve catalogued the suggestions I write most often on paper drafts. The comments embody principles gleaned from Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style; the Physical Review style guide; other writing guides I esteem; literature whose writing I esteem;2 collaborations with professional editors; and writing instructors, including Professor Shookman. Each section below begins with more-important principles, shading into more-nuanced ones.

Please use and disseminate these principles. Train your favorite large-language model (LLM) on them, and have the LLM critique your manuscripts. Instruct it to use green highlighting if you wish. Even if the LLM suggests fixes initially, tell it to stop offering suggestions later, so that you can devise the solutions: train not only the LLM, but also yourself. I hope to enjoy your papers as much as Professor Shookman enjoyed his sonatas.

  1. Organization
    1. Motivate your work; then, present it; and then, explain its physical significance.
    2. Begin each paragraph with a topic sentence.
    3. Begin each section, apart from the introduction and conclusion, with (i) a statement of the takeaway and (ii) an outline of the section. When outlining a section, hyperlink to each subsection. Similar guidelines concern subsections and subsubsections.
    4. Before presenting a piece of math, sketch its meaning and origin. This strategy enables the reader to understand the math as soon as they encounter it. If you throw math at the reader without introducing it, the reader will have to squint at the symbols for a while to figure out what the expression means and where it comes from.
      • Example: To calculate the average work, we substitute the Hamiltonian formula (10) into the definition (12): [equation].
    5. Most citations belong at the ends of (i) sentences and (ii) phrases concluded with commas. Put a citation elsewhere only if you have a compelling reason for doing so.
    6. Bridge each component of your writing to the next component; the next shouldn’t sound like a non sequitur.
      • Suppose that the next sentence refers to (i) a topic mentioned in the previous sentence and (ii) a new topic. Mention (i) before (ii).
        • Example: Smith et al. applied control theory to the extent possible. The attempt led to intractable equations, unlike our approach.
        • Example of a broken bridge: Smith et al. applied control theory to the extent possible. Our approach does not involve intractable equations, unlike theirs.
    7. Whenever you tell a story, tell it from start to finish, step by step. Derivations, proofs, and descriptions of experiments qualify as stories.
      • This guideline extends to descriptions of experimental setups and of mathematical objects. For example, imagine referring to an element of a subgroup of the group generated by some operators. Did you have to read the preceding sentence multiple times to process it? The sentence begins at the end of a story, then rewinds to the story’s beginning. This structure impedes understanding. The subgroup forms the context for the subgroup element, which one can’t grasp until hearing about the subgroup. The subgroup participates in a similar relationship with the group, as does the group with its generators. Therefore, one should introduce the generators, then the group, then the subgroup, and then the subgroup element.
  2. Word choice
    1. Use strong, specific words, rather than weak words.
      1. Verbs and nouns are stronger than adjectives and adverbs.
      2. Choose specific verbs (e.g., “prepare,” “evolve,” and “measure”), rather than vague, general verbs (e.g., variants of “to be” and “take,” as in “take a measurement”).
    2. Avoid statements such as “we investigate,” “we study,” and “we analyze.” Such statements don’t relate that you’ve accomplished anything. State what you’ve accomplished. Verbs such as “prove,” “test,” “confirm,” “discover,” and “find” achieve this goal.
    3. Adverbs such as “importantly” and “remarkably” pollute scientific writing with the authors’ opinions. Demonstrate that a claim is important or that a result is remarkable; then, leave readers to draw their own conclusions. Those conclusions will coincide with yours if you’ve demonstrated your point.
    4. Use the active voice, rather than the passive voice. Take responsibility for your work. Editors of high-impact scientific journals have endorsed this advice.
    5. Refer to yourself when necessary and only when necessary.
      • Example of unnecessary reference to self: We use the superscript “max” to signify the maximal Fisher information.
        Preferable alternative: The superscript “max” signifies the maximal Fisher information.
      • Example of unnecessary reference to self: Our results establish several opportunities for future research. First, we can implement the experimental proposals.
        Preferable alternative: Our results establish several opportunities for future research. First, one can implement the experimental proposals.
      • You may use the first-person plural when escorting the reader through a derivation.
        • Example: We substitute from Eq. (1) into Eq. (2).
    6. If you’re the only author, don’t use the plural (“we,” “our,” etc.). The usage is inaccurate and misleading. It portrays you as dodging responsibility for your work by dispersing that responsibility across the scientific community.
    7. Avoid dangling modifiers.
    8. Pair every verb with the appropriate noun.
      • Example of grammatically incorrect text: Equation (1) follows by calculating the sum.
        • One should pair the verb “calculate” with the noun “we,” because “we” undertook the calculating. However, this example’s author omitted the noun out of squeamishness about using the first person in a scientific document. Hence the sentence says that the equation calculates the sum. Equations can’t calculate sums.
      • Examples of correct alternatives
        • We derived Eq. (1) by calculating the sum.
        • Equation (1) follows from the evaluation of the sum.
        • Calculating the sum yields Eq. (1).
    9. Avoid empty subjects.
    10. Include no unnecessary words.
      1. “So-called” is unnecessary.
      2. “Note that” and “We note that” are unnecessary.
      3. Several phrases often preface mathematical statements but are unnecessary: “we have,” “we have that,” “it holds that,” and “it follows that.” One can better serve the reader by prefacing the mathematical statement with (i) a derivation or (ii) a prose description of the statement.
      4. Never write “is equal to”; “equals” is more concise.
      5. Never write “is able to”; “can” is more concise.
      6. Never write “gives an upper bound to,” “sets an upper bound on,” or “places an upper bound on”; “upper-bounds” is more concise. Analogous statements concern lower bounds and limits.
      7. Never write “a large number of”; “many” is more concise. Never write “a small number of”; “few” is more concise.
      8. Never write “We refer to [symbol] as [name]”; “we call [symbol] [name]” is more concise.
      9. Never write “as long as”; “if” is more concise.
      10. Never write “a single”; “one” is more concise.
      11. The symbol > means “greater than”; and \geq, “greater than or equal to.” Don’t translate > into “strictly greater than”; the “strictly” is unnecessary. Analogous statements concern < and \leq.
    11. Avoid contractions, which are too informal for professional writing.
    12. The possessive is not a contraction and belongs in professional writing. It facilitates conciseness.
    13. Use the word “for” only when it belongs. Physicists often write “for” when they mean “if,” “per,” “at,” or something else.
      • Example of inappropriate use: The function vanishes for odd arguments.
        Corrected statement: If the argument is odd, the function vanishes.
      • Example of inappropriate use: We performed 10 trials for each parameter value.
        Corrected statement: We performed 10 trials per parameter value.
      • Example of inappropriate use: The function is smaller for small x values.
        Corrected statement: The function is smaller at small x values.
    14. Write “we evolve the state,” “we measure,” etc. only if you’re an experimentalist who undertakes those actions. Alternatives include “Consider measuring,” “Suppose the system evolves,” and the command tense (e.g., “One can measure this quantity as follows: prepare the qubit in \lvert 0\rangle. Evolve it under H…”).
    15. The condition x\ll y defines a regime, not a limit. The conditions \lim_{x\to0} and \lim_{y\to\infty} define limits and are inequivalent to x\ll y.
    16. Write “first,” “second,” “last,” etc., not “firstly,” “secondly,” “lastly,” etc. (I defer in this matter to The Elements of Style.)
    17. Humans can assume, suppose, etc. Mathematical expressions, protocols, etc. can’t.
    18. One multiplies factors together and sums terms. Don’t call factors terms and vice versa.
    19. If you mean “X equals Y,” say so. Don’t write “X agrees with Y,” “X matches Y,” or “we identify X with Y.” The latter three phrases are vaguer, and two of them contain more words, than “X equals Y.”
    20. Regarding the words “general” and “generally”:
      1. A general object subsumes every example of that object. If any example behaves unlike a supposedly general object, don’t call the object general.
      2. Many claims contain the term “general,” “generally,” or “in general” but don’t need the term.
        • Example of a sentence that contains “generally”: The terms generally commute.
        • Equivalent, more concise sentence: The terms commute.
      3. Physicists tend to use the words “general” and “generic” differently. By “general,” physicists usually mean “subsuming every example.” By “generic,” we usually mean “typical,” or “common.”
    21. “Then” makes sense (i) in discussions of chronology and (ii) in if–then statements. Don’t use “then” outside these contexts.
      • Example of inappropriate use: “Define X:=\ldots Then Y.”
      • Examples of appropriate alternatives
        • Define X:=\ldots This definition implies Y.
        • If X:=\ldots \, , then Y.
        • Define X:=\ldots \, , such that Y.
    22. Don’t justify any equation with “we used that [such-and-such is true],” which violates the rules of grammar. Grammatically correct alternatives include “We applied [a property],” “The equation follows from [a property],” and “…since [such-and-such is true].”
    23. Regarding tense:
      1. When describing what you’ve accomplished, use only one tense.
      2. Experiments happened in the past, so describe them in the past tense.
      3. When describing a proof’s steps, use the present tense.
        • Example: We Taylor-approximate the function about x=0. Substituting into Eq. (1) yields [equation].
    24. Nouns, verbs, and adjectives should agree about whether a quantity is singular or plural.
      • Example of singular–plural mismatch: The equations are a rule for evolving the cellular automaton.
      • Example alternative: The equations form a rule for evolving the cellular automaton.
    25. “Admit of” means “allow for,” or “permit.” The phrase needs the “of.”
      • Example: The formula admits of the following interpretation.
    26. Use a pronoun only if the reader can identify its antecedent without ambiguity.
    27. “Spin” has many meanings: “a quantum property that resembles angular momentum,” “a particle endowed with that property,” “the observable \vec{S}^2,” “the spin quantum number s,” “the observable S_z \, ,” “the magnetic spin quantum number m_s \, ,” and “the observable \vec{S}.” Leave no ambiguity about which object you have in mind.
    28. When referring to an appendix or a supplementary note, specify which you have in mind. Don’t write “the appendix,” “the appendices,” “the supplementary material,” or the like. By guiding the reader more precisely, you’ll smooth their path toward learning more about your work.
  3. Punctuation
    1. Consider any list that contains at least three items. If no item contains a comma, separate the items with commas. If any item contains a comma, separate the items with semicolons.
    2. In American English, periods and commas belong inside quotation marks. (Example: She told me, “Have a good day.”) In British English, periods and commas belong outside quotation marks. (Example: She told me, “Have a good day”.)
    3. To write quotation marks in LaTeX, don’t use your keyboard’s quotation-mark key; use the appropriate keys.
    4. Regarding hyphens:
      1. The hyphen (-) feeds into punctuation of three types: the hyphen (-), the en dash (–), and the em dash (—).
      2. The hyphen appears in some compound words, as in “non-negative.”
      3. In American English, em dashes can separate ideas within a sentence. Don’t separate any em dash from neighboring text with a space.
        • Example of appropriate use: The sample—the only product of this experiment—barely survived.
        • Example of inappropriate use: The sample — the only product of this experiment — barely survived.
        • Example of appropriate use: He told me only one sample had survived—hardly what I wanted to hear.
      4. This article specifies how to use the en dash. One use is “to separate the names of two or more people used as a compound modifier.”
        • Example: Feynman–Kitaev clock
      5. Hyphenate compound adjectives.
      6. If an adverb ends in “-ly,” it probably shouldn’t precede a hyphen.
        • Example of inappropriate hyphenation: strongly-coupled systems
      7. Follow a prefix with a hyphen if and only if the Physical Review style guide indicates that you should.
    5. A complete clause must follow any semicolon (unless the semicolon separates items in a list).
  4. Math
    1. Introduce only necessary notation, which readers will have enough trouble remembering. If a mathematical symbol appears only once, eliminate it. If a symbol appears only twice, try to eliminate it.
    2. Every sentence must obey the rules of English grammar, punctuation, and syntax, regardless of whether the sentence contains mathematical symbols. All math-containing sentences must end with punctuation marks. If a sentence contains a list of mathematical expressions, precede the final expressions with an “and.” If the list contains at least three mathematical expressions, separate them with commas.
    3. Introduce almost every mathematical symbol before you use it. If you introduce a symbol after using it, the reader will encounter the first use, stop, feel confused for a while, tentatively continue, find the definition, return to the earlier use to understand it, and then progress again. This back-and-forth breaks up the reading process. You may define a mathematical symbol after using it only if (i) the symbol is very common, known to nearly all physicists, and unmistakeable and (ii) defining the symbol earlier would disrupt the text’s flow.
    4. If you define a new function, denote it by only one letter. (I defer in this matter to the Physical Review style guide.)
      • Example: f(x,y,z)
      • Examples of disallowed notation: fxn(x,y,z), {\rm fxn}(x,y,z)
    5. Suppose that a superscript or subscript stands for a word or phrase without representing any variable or constant. The superscript/subscript must not be italicized. (I defer in this matter to Physical Review style guide.)
      • Example: Let x_{\mathrm{meas}} denote the measurement outcome.
    6. If a variable or constant appears in a superscript, parenthesize it. The parentheses communicate that the superscript isn’t an exponent.
      • Example: Let \sigma_z^{(j)} denote the Pauli-z operator of qubit j.
      • If a superscript is not italicized (stands for a word or phrase), don’t parenthesize it.
    7. Regarding the definition of a symbol A:
      1. If you write A alone on one side of a defining equation, use \coloneqq or \eqqcolon: A \coloneqq [expression], or [expression] \eqqcolon A. The symbols \coloneqq and \eqqcolon relate more information than does \equiv, encoding directionality.
      2. Use \equiv if A does not appear alone on its side of the equation: [function of A] \equiv [result of replacing A with its definition in the equation’s left-hand side].
    8. Refer to the Cartesian axes using the formatting “[italicized letter]-axis.” Don’t include any hat, boldface, or \vec symbol.
      • Example: x-axis
    9. Avoid denoting any index by i, which means \sqrt{-1} to physicists. Use j instead, unless you’re writing for engineers (who denote \sqrt{-1} by j).
    10. Don’t use the lowercase letter l (“ell”) as an index; readers might mistake it for a one. Use \ell (\ell) instead.
    11. Give every set-off equation a number. Readers (and coauthors) may want to refer to the equation easily when discussing the paper. Save them (and us) from having to say, e.g., “that equation halfway down page three.”
    12. When writing a set-off mathematical expression, use the align environment, not the equation environment. Using the align environment, one can easily extend an expression across multiple lines.
    13. Regarding a set-off mathematical expression that extends across multiple lines:
      1. Format the expression as follows by default.
        1. Put an & symbol immediately leftward of the first = sign or analogous symbol (e.g., \leq).
        2. If any subsequent line begins with another = sign (or analogous symbol), put an & immediately leftward of the symbol. (I’ll stop writing “or analogous symbol.”)
        3. Suppose that a subsequent line begins with a +, –, \times, or /. Find the symbol immediately rightward of the initial = sign. Begin the new line directly below that symbol.
        • Example:
      2. Modify the default formatting if necessary (a) to reduce the number of lines used in a PRL submission or (b) if the initial = appears awkwardly far to the right.
        • Example of (b):
      3. Suppose a new line begins with a term or factor, such as the jx^8 in the example under (A). Put the corresponding +, –, \times, or / at the beginning of the new line, not at the end of the previous line.
        • Examples of inappropriate placement:
    14. The symbol \approx means “approximately equals”; and ~, “scales as.” Approximations convey more information than scaling relations do.
    15. Use big-O-type notation or ~ symbols, not both; they’re partially redundant.
    16. \ldots, rather than \cdots, should stand in for elements that fit a pattern.
      • Example: x_1,x_2,\ldots,x_n
    17. When using \ldots as in the previous rule, present at least two initial examples of the pattern. One can’t define the pattern.
      • Contains insufficient examples: x_1,\ldots,x_n \, . For example, if n is odd, then x_1, x_2, \ldots, x_n and x_1, x_3, \ldots, x_n fit the template.
    18. Parentheses (), square brackets [], and curly braces {} are delimiters. If you nest them, do so in the order dictated by the Physical Review style guide.
    19. If delimiters enclose a symbol, it shouldn’t protrude above or below them (unless the delimiters would have to be grotesquely enormous). Use the \left and \right commands if the delimiters appear on the same line.
    20. An operator O isn’t a matrix; a matrix represents an operator in terms of a particular basis. Therefore, no equals sign should interrelate an O and a matrix. An arrow can.
      • Example: O\to\begin{bmatrix}1&0\\0&2\end{bmatrix}
    21. Every real number is complex. Don’t say “complex” if you mean “nonreal.”
    22. Consider introducing a mathematical symbol in a prose sentence without using a comma or colon. Put the symbol immediately after the word that names the object represented by the symbol.
      • Example of inappropriate placement: the set of real numbers \{ a, b \}
      • Examples of appropriate placements
        • the set \{a, b\} of real numbers
        • the set of real numbers a and b
        • Recall the set of real numbers, \{a, b\}, in Lemma 1.
  5. More mechanics of writing
    1. Use concise sentences, as advocated for in The Elements of Style. The reader can hold only so many ideas in their head at once.
    2. Structure sentences simply, as advocated for in The Elements of Style. The reader should be able to grasp each sentence easily.
      • Avoid nesting ideas within a sentence, to avoid convoluting the sentence’s structure.
        • Example of sentence with convoluted, nested structure: Any model of equilibrium and nonequilibrium behaviors of systems observed in tabletop experiments and high-energy colliders must obey the laws of relativistic quantum mechanics.
        • Visualization of the nesting: [Any model of ([(equilibrium and nonequilibrium) behaviors] of {systems observed in [(tabletop experiments) and (high-energy colliders)]})] must obey [the laws of (relativistic quantum mechanics)].
    3. The ideal paper title has the structure of a newspaper headline: it presents a claim, containing a subject and a predicate.
    4. Regarding abbreviations:
      1. Don’t abbreviate the first word in any sentence.
      2. Abbreviate “Figure,” “Section,” “Professor,” and “Appendix” if such a word appears partway through a sentence.
      3. Don’t abbreviate “Sections.”
    5. Regarding acronyms:
      1. Write every acronym in capital letters, as per the Physical Review style guide.
      2. Introduce each acronym the first time you use it.
      3. Thereafter, use only the acronym, not the spelled-out phrase, throughout the rest of the document’s main text. You may spell out the phrase in section, figure, and table titles if doing so improves the document’s clarity.
    6. Every paragraph should contain at least three sentences.
    7. Wherever you insert a blank line into your LateX code, a new paragraph begins in the corresponding PDF. Insert a blank line only if you wish to begin a new paragraph. This advice applies immediately before and after set-off equations.
    8. Never begin a subsection immediately after a section title. Between the two titles, overview the section. Analogous rules govern subsections and subsubsections.
    9. Put the word “only” in the appropriate place.
      • For example, suppose you’ve sampled data at a point x=0 in parameter space and sampled data at no other points. “We sampled data only at x=0” is correct; “We only sampled data at x=0” is probably not. The latter claim means that (i) you might have sampled data at x=0 and (ii) you did nothing to the x=0 data apart from sample it: you didn’t analyze the x=0 data, discuss the x=0 data, etc.
    10. Specify subjects and objects precisely. Often, a physicist will describe an idea in multiple lines. In the following sentence, the physicist will attempt to encapsulate the idea in the word “this.” The pronoun is too vague to specify the idea. This what? Follow the pronoun with a noun.
  6. When in doubt, consult the Physical Review style guide or The Elements of Style.
    • If those references don’t contain the information you seek, search for it in online writing guides. Not all such guides have equal merit, however. Lean toward guides written by human editors or published by college writing centers.

1 Collaborators have wondered why I use green; a student guessed it’s my favorite color. It isn’t; but I bleed green, having graduated from the Big Green, also known as Dartmouth College. Sometimes, I highlight certain pieces of text for one reason (e.g., to point out logical inconsistencies) and other text for another reason (e.g., to point out grammatical inconsistencies). Green distinguishes the first highlightings, while orange distinguishes the second: when not bleeding Dartmouth green, I bleed Caltech orange.

2 Don’t learn how to write from physics papers. 

John Baez — Counting Primes

Narrower window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3980 to 1.3984 times 10^316

Since the probability that a number n is prime is roughly 1/\log n, the number of primes \le x is close to

\displaystyle{ \mathrm{li}(x) = \int_0^x \frac{d s}{\log s} .}

Indeed, if \pi(x) is the number of primes \le x, the recently proved quasi-Riemann hypothesis implies

|\mathrm{li}(x) - \pi(x)| \le C x^p

for some constants C > 0 and p < 1. If the Riemann hypothesis is true, any p > 1/2 will do.

But here’s what I want to talk about today. For all x where \pi(x) can actually be counted, \pi(x) < \mathrm{li}(x). But in 1914, Littlewood shocked the world by sketching a proof that \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) changes sign infinitely often!

Littlewood’s proof didn’t say when \pi(x) first exceeds \mathrm{li}(x). He gave his student Stanley Skewes the task of figuring that out.

In 1933, Skewes gave an enormous upper bound for where this first happens, assuming the Riemann hypothesis:

\displaystyle{ e^{e^{e^{79}}} \approx 10^{10^{10^{34}}}. }

This is called Skewes’ number. Hardy called it “the largest number which has ever served any definite purpose in mathematics”. In 1955, still working on his advisor’s assignment, Skewes gave an even larger upper bound not assuming the Riemann hypothesis:

\displaystyle{ e^{e^{e^{e^{7.705}}}} \approx 10^{10^{10^{964}}} .}

This disgustingly large quantity is called the second Skewes number.

I first read about Skewes’ number as a kid in The Guinness Book of World Records. It always intrigued me, but I never tried to understand the math involved, because I figured it would be too hard. This article is my attempt to finally make some progress.

In 1966, Lehman found a trick that lowered Skewes’ bound to about 1.65 × 101165. In 1987, te Riele brought it down to a mere 6.66 × 10370.

In 2000, Bays and Hudson went further. They proved that there are at least 10153 integers x near 1.39822 × 10316 with \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x). Their paper includes many fascinating graphs—but the printing is of very poor quality, unpleasant to look at. I think the world deserves better pictures of their amazing result, so yesterday I decided to redo their work with the help of AI.

To draw these graphs we need to use Riemann’s explicit formula for \pi(x) as a sum over zeros of the Riemann zeta function. My calculations use twice as many zeros as Bays and Hudson had access to, but the computation now takes only a couple of seconds on a laptop. Here is my version of their Figure 2b:


Narrow window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3977 to 1.3989 times 10^316

Bays and Hudson’s proof does not depend on the Riemann hypothesis, nor do the later proofs mentioned below. Their graphs are another matter—and the same is true for the graphs here. It’s hard to get a really precise approximation to \pi(x) for huge numbers x without using the Riemann hypothesis, since our best formula for it is a sum over zeros of the Riemann zeta function, and even a single zero off the critical line \mathrm{Re}(z) = \frac{1}{2} could have a big effect. However, a smoothed version of \pi(x) is much less sensitive to this problem.

The red curves in my graphs are smoothed. Since they go above zero for 10311 integers near 1.39822 × 10316, and they go up sufficiently high, Bays and Hudson were able to prove that \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x) for some x near this number. On the other hand, the blue curves are not deliberately smoothed. Its calculation assumes the Riemann hypothesis, and could change substantially if that was wrong! There could also be other problems, as I’ll explain. But it’s probably close to correct if the Riemann hypothesis holds.

Intriguingly, \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) also becomes positive for some slightly smaller numbers, in a region around 1.39717 × 10316. Patrick Demichel spotted this region, Saouter and Demichel proved it exists in 2010, and Saouter, Trudgian and Demichel pinned it down more sharply in 2015. Here is a wider view that also includes their region. See the sharp spike in the blue curve?


Wider view: the same curves for x from 1.3955 to 1.3995 times 10^316

What is plotted

Nobody can compute \pi(x) exactly for numbers so large as 10^{316}. What we can compute is an approximation coming from Riemann’s explicit formula, which expresses \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) as a sum over the nontrivial zeros \rho = \tfrac12 + i\gamma of the zeta function. Assume the Riemann hypothesis, so \gamma is real. Write u = \log x and measure \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) in units of \sqrt{x} / \log x:

\begin{array}{ccl}  D(u)\! &:= & \bigl(\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x)\bigr)\,\frac{\log x}{\sqrt{x}} \\ \\  &\approx & \!\!-\Bigl(1 + \frac{2}{u} + \frac{8}{u^2}\Bigr)  - 2\sum_{0 <\gamma\le T} \mathrm{Re}\!\left[\frac{e^{i\gamma u}}{\rho}\Bigl(1 + \frac{1}{\rho u}\Bigr)\right] .  \end{array}

The symbol \approx hides several approximations of quite different kinds; the section “What is rigorous and what is not” explains exactly what it means. The term

-(1 + 2/u + 8/u^2)

comes from the squares of primes: \pi(x) counts primes, but the explicit formula naturally counts prime powers, and correcting for squares gives this term. This term is why \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) is usually negative, by about \sqrt{x} / \log x. Higher powers of primes give extra corrections that are negligible when x is huge, which is our situation.

More interesting is the sum over zeros: each zero contributes an oscillation in D(u) with frequency \gamma and amplitude roughly 1/\gamma. These oscillations are the key: \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) becomes positive only when enough of these oscillations get in phase and add up to a positive number bigger than 1! Or more precisely, bigger than

1 + 2/u + 8/u^2.

On the graphs, D > 0 means \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x), and the vertical axis is in units of \sqrt{x} / \log x, which is about 10155 near x = 10316. Each graph shows two curves:

• Blue: the sum over the first 2,001,052 zeros, with no smoothing. This approximates D(u) point by point. Leaving out the higher zeros causes an error of roughly \pm 0.002 in these units, assuming the omitted terms behave like random noise.

• Red: the choice Bays and Hudson made. It uses the first 106 zeros, each damped by a factor \exp(-\gamma^2/2\alpha) with \alpha = 10^{10}. This is a Gaussian average of D(u) over a width of about 10-5 in \log x, which is the quantity Lehman’s trick from 1966 controls rigorously.

Data and computation

The graphs here were made with a short Python program, skewes_window.py, using the NumPy, mpmath, Matplotlib and FINUFFT libraries. If you’re good at Python and/or number theory, please check this program!

The Riemann zeta zeros come from a table computed by Andrew Odlyzko: the first 2,001,052 zeros, accurate to within 4 × 10-9. Back in 2000, Bays and Hudson needed a personal favor from Odlyzko to get a million zeros. Today the same table is a free download, and it is even packaged on PyPI as passagemath-database-odlyzko-zeta.

Each point on any curve in the graphs here is a sum of one or two million sine waves. Summing directly at 8000 points would take about 10^{10} operations. Instead the program uses a nonuniform fast Fourier transform from the FINUFFT library, which finishes in about a second on one core. Two precautions matter: the program never forms x itself, only u = \log x, and it computes each phase \gamma u modulo 2\pi carefully, because \gamma u reaches about 10^9.

The graphs

Click on any of these graphs to enlarge it.

Narrow window: 1.3977–1.3989 × 10316. This graph shows an estimate of (\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x)) \cdot \log x / \sqrt{x} for x between 1.3977 × 10316 and 1.3989 × 10316.


Narrow window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3977 to 1.3989 times 10^316

This is the same range as Figure 2b in Bays and Hudson’s paper. The region they proved positive is the green hump near 1.39822 × 10316. D usually hovers around -1, but throughout this window the low zeros happen to be nearly in phase, lifting it close to zero. Even so it is a narrow escape: the blue curve rises only about 0.017 above zero. The red curve peaks at about +0.010, which is what lets Lehman’s theorem prove that \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x) somewhere in this region. Two smaller bumps of the blue curve, near 1.3981 and 1.3983, barely cross zero; they are about as big as the truncation error, so they could be artifacts.

Narrower window: 1.3980–1.3984 × 10316.

Narrower window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3980 to 1.3984 times 10^316

This is just a piece of the previous graph, to make the green hump more visible.

Wider view: 1.3955–1.3995 × 10316. This zooms out to show what lies just to the left.


Wider view: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for 1.3955 to 1.3995 times 10^316

The thin spike at about 1.39717 × 10316 is a second positive region, found after Bays and Hudson. Saouter and Demichel proved \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x) there in 2010, and Saouter, Trudgian and Demichel later narrowed it to an interval centered at \log x = 727.951335426. In this graph the blue curve rises only about 0.0018 above zero at that spike. That is no larger than the error from using only two million zeros, so this graph alone could not prove the spike is positive. Their proof used about 5 × 108 zeros. The red curve, smoothed too heavily to see so narrow a spike, stays below zero there.

What is rigorous and what is not

The red curve could be given rigorous error bars; the blue curve cannot, and \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) itself, point by point, is out of reach near 10^{316}.

Where the formula comes from. The starting point is Riemann’s explicit formula for his prime-power counting function J(x) = \sum_{p^k \le x} 1/k. For x > 1 it says

J(x) = \mathrm{li}(x) - \sum_\rho \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) - \log 2 + \int_x^\infty \frac{d t}{t(t^2-1)\log t}

where the sum over zeros converges only conditionally and must be taken in order of increasing |\gamma|. Proofs are in the books of Edwards and Ingham. Möbius inversion gives

\displaystyle{ \pi(x) = \sum_n \mu(n) J(x^{1/n})/n, }

so

\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) = -\tfrac12 \mathrm{li}(\sqrt{x}) - \sum_\rho \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) + (\text{smaller terms}).

Expanding

\mathrm{li}(\sqrt{x}) = (2\sqrt{x}/u)(1 + 2/u + 8/u^2 + \cdots)

and

\mathrm{li}(x^\rho) = \mathrm{Ei}(\rho u) = (x^\rho/(\rho u))(1 + 1/(\rho u) + \cdots),

multiplying by u/\sqrt{x}, and pairing each zero with its complex conjugate gives the formula for D(u).

What the \approx means. Three separate approximations are involved, and they are very different in character.

1) Dropped smaller terms. These come from x^{1/3} and higher roots, the constants, and the zero sum belonging to J(\sqrt{x}). Assuming the Riemann hypothesis, they are smaller than the terms kept by factors like x^{-1/4} \log^2 x, which is about 10^{-76} near 10^{316}. Rigorous bounds for them are routine.

2) Truncated asymptotic expansions. The first omitted prime-square term is about 48/u^3 \approx 10^{-7}. The error in expanding each \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) is of order 1/(\gamma^3 u^2), negligible even when summed over all zeros. This step too can be made rigorous with explicit remainder bounds.

3) Stopping the sum at the 2,001,052nd zero. This is the step that could cause trouble. The best known rigorous bounds for truncating Riemann’s explicit formula at zeros of height T give an error of order x \log^2(xT)/T. Making that smaller than \sqrt{x}/\log x would need T of roughly \sqrt{x} \log^2 x, around 10^{158} here, while the 2,001,052nd zero only has height T \approx 1.1 \times 10^6.

What can we do about the problem in item 3? Assuming the Riemann hypothesis, D(u) is an almost periodic function of u, which is the setting Rubinstein and Sarnak use. A Parseval identity for such functions should then give the long-run mean square of the omitted tail as about \sum_{\gamma > T} 2/|\rho|^2 \approx (0.002)^2. That is a statement about averages over very long stretches of u. It does not bound the error at any particular point, or even the average error across our window. But we can say \pm 0.002 is the typical error at each point of the blue curve if the omitted terms in the sum over zeta zeros act like random noise. This is just a heuristic, though it’s been checked at x = 10^{20}. So the blue curve is just a good guess, not something proved.

The smoothed curve. Every positive region found so far was proved using a theorem of Lehman (1966), stated as Theorem 1 in Bays and Hudson’s paper. Instead of trying to pin down \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) at a single point, Lehman’s theorem handles a weighted average of it: the average of D(u) against a Gaussian bump of width 1/\sqrt{\alpha} centred at some point \omega. The theorem says this average equals -1 minus a sum over the zeros, with each zero damped by a factor e^{-\gamma^2/2\alpha}, plus an error term with explicit bounds that hold for every \omega. The red curve is essentially this damped sum, plotted as a function of \omega. The key point is that an average can only be positive if the function being averaged is positive somewhere. So if the damped sum is above zero by more than the largest possible error at some \omega, then \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x) for some x with \log x near \omega. Bays and Hudson proved their result this way, and later authors used refined versions of the same theorem.

The smoothing is what gives this approach its teeth. The damping makes the contribution of the omitted zeros decay like e^{-T^2/2\alpha}, so stopping at height T costs almost nothing. With these parameters the total error is a few thousandths. So one could draw an upper and a lower curve that provably bracket the smoothed function. Wherever the lower curve is above zero, \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x) somewhere nearby.

This holds without assuming the Riemann hypothesis. Lehman’s theorem needs the Riemann hypothesis only up to a finite height, which has been verified: Platt and Trudgian have now checked it up to height 3 × 1012. Any hypothetical zeros off the critical line beyond that height are covered by an extra error term, which the Gaussian smoothing makes harmless. For Bays and Hudson’s parameters this term is smaller than 10-2001. So the positive regions near 1.39822 × 10316 and 1.39717 × 10316 are established unconditionally.

The method is one-sided, though. It can prove that crossings exist, but a negative average says nothing about a narrow positive spike hiding inside it.

Earlier crossings. Bays and Hudson observed (p. 1287) that current knowledge cannot rule out sign changes of \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) over gaps as large as 10300 near 10316. For the same reason, nobody can currently rule out a crossing somewhere below 1.397 × 10316. Bays and Hudson thought none is likely. Their Figure 1 marks near-misses around 10176, 10179, 10190, 10260 and 10298. Rigorously, it is known only that \pi(x) < \mathrm{li}(x) for all x \le 10^{19}. So between 1019 and about 1.397 × 10316 the question remains open!

In 2025, Michael Revers listed some places in this enormous interval where \pi(x) might get bigger than \mathrm{li}(x). If you want to contribute to this fascinating story, and you enjoy heavy-duty computations, you could look at those places. You may need a big table of Riemann zeta zeros.

References

The main papers

• Bays, Carter, and Richard H. Hudson. A new bound for the smallest x with \pi(x) > \mathrm{li}(x). Mathematics of Computation 69, no. 231 (2000): 1285–96. https://doi.org/10.1090/S0025-5718-99-01104-7.

• Lehman, R. Sherman. On the difference \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x). Acta Arithmetica 11 (1966): 397–410.

• te Riele, Herman J. J. On the sign of the difference \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x). Mathematics of Computation 48, no. 177 (1987): 323–28. https://www.ams.org/mcom/1987-48-177/S0025-5718-1987-0866118-6/.

• Saouter, Yannick, and Patrick Demichel. A sharp region where \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) is positive. Mathematics of Computation 79, no. 272 (2010): 2395–2405. https://www.ams.org/journals/mcom/2010-79-272/S0025-5718-10-02351-3. Also available at https://hal.archives-ouvertes.fr/hal-00515378.

• Saouter, Yannick, Timothy Trudgian, and Patrick Demichel. A still sharper region where \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) is positive. Mathematics of Computation 84, no. 295 (2015): 2433–46. https://www.ams.org/journals/mcom/2015-84-295/S0025-5718-2015-02930-5. Also available at https://hal.archives-ouvertes.fr/hal-01174411.

• Stoll, Douglas A., and Patrick Demichel. The impact of \zeta(s) complex zeros on \pi(x) for x < 10^{10^{13}}. Mathematics of Computation 80, no. 276 (2011). https://www.ams.org/journals/mcom/2011-80-276/S0025-5718-2011-02477-4.

• Platt, Dave, and Tim Trudgian. The Riemann hypothesis is true up to 3 · 1012. Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society (2021). Also available at arXiv:2004.09765.

• Revers, Michael. New bounds in R.S. Lehman’s estimates for the difference \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x). (2025). Available at arXiv:2501.04488.

As a detailed exposition of some of this material, I also recommend this thesis building on the paper by Saojter and Demichel, especially for readers who want to learn the tools of analysis used in number theory:

• Zegowitz, Stefanie. On the positive region of π(x) − li(x). MSc project, University of Manchester, 2010. https://eprints.maths.manchester.ac.uk/1547/1/SZproject2010.pdf.

The explicit formula and its approximations

• Davenport, Harold. Multiplicative Number Theory. 3rd ed. Revised by Hugh L. Montgomery. New York: Springer, 2000. Ch. 17.

• Edwards, H. M. Riemann’s Zeta Function. New York: Academic Press, 1974.

• Ingham, A. E. The Distribution of Prime Numbers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932. Reprint, 1990.

• Rubinstein, Michael, and Peter Sarnak. Chebyshev’s bias. Experimental Mathematics 3, no. 3 (1994): 173–97.

Historical background

• Littlewood, J. E. Sur la distribution des nombres premiers. Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Sciences, Paris 158 (1914): 1869–72.

• Skewes, S. On the difference \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x). Journal of the London Mathematical Society 8, no. 4 (1933): 277–83. https://doi.org/10.1112/jlms/s1-8.4.277.

• Skewes, S. On the difference \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x), II. Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, 3rd ser., 5, no. 1 (1955): 48–70. https://doi.org/10.1112/plms/s3-5.1.48.

• Skewes’s number. Wikipedia.

Data and software

• Barnett, Alex H., Jeremy F. Magland, and Ludvig af Klinteberg. A parallel nonuniform fast Fourier transform library based on an “exponential of semicircle” kernel. SIAM Journal on Scientific Computing 41, no. 5 (2019): C479–C504. Also available at arXiv:1808.06736.

• Odlyzko, Andrew. Tables of zeros of the Riemann zeta function. https://www-users.cse.umn.edu/~odlyzko/zeta_tables. Also available as https://pypi.org/project/passagemath-database-odlyzko-zeta/.

Terence Tao — On the diameter and distribution of Sidon sets

Daniel Carter, Kevin O’Bryant, and I have uploaded to the arXiv our paper On the diameter and distribution of Sidon sets. This is a paper stemming from an interaction on my blog last year, regarding the use of AlphaEvolve to improve the then state of the art on the size of Sidon sets. We obtained a series of further refinements to the bound until progress stalled; after several months of no further progress, we decided to release what we have in this preprint.

Recall that a Sidon set {A} is a set of integers with the property that all the sums {a + b} with {a, b \in A} and {a \leq b} are distinct. Equivalently, all the differences {a-b}, {a, b \in A} are distinct, except at {0} where of course there is a large multiplicity. A basic question (Erdős problem #30) asks for the largest size {k = |A|} of a Sidon set in {\{1,\dots,N\}}. Several algebraic constructions of Sidon sets (by Singer, Bose, and Ruzsa) are known with {k = N^{1/2} - O(1)} and special choices of {N}; see this survey of O’Bryant for details. Erdős and Turán have conjectured that {k} cannot exceed {N^{1/2} + O(N^{o(1)})}, with the bound {N^{1/2} + O(1)} also proposed by Erdős as “perhaps too optimistic”.

For some time, the best upper bound was of the shape

\displaystyle  k \leq N^{1/2} + N^{1/4} + O(1) \ \ \ \ \ (1)

of which several proofs are now known. As tracked in the optimization constants repository, the constant factor in the second term has been gradually declining in the last few years; in our preprint we obtain the bound

\displaystyle  k \leq N^{1/2} + 0.94304 N^{1/4} + O(1) \ \ \ \ \ (2)

but we appear to be reaching the limit of our current method. Very recently, a slightly sharper bound of 0.942809522 was obtained by a different method, but our focus here is on the method rather than the specific numerical constant obtained. (We also did not try to use 2026-level AI tools to optimize our own bound.)

To illustrate our approach, let us sketch a proof of the bound (1). The fact that all the non-zero differences of {A} are disjoint gives rise to a pointwise convolution bound

\displaystyle  1_A * \tilde 1_A (x) \leq 1 + k 1_{x=0}

where {\tilde f(x) = f(-x)} denotes the reflection of {f}. Taking inner products with a non-negative autocorrelation function {w * \tilde w} to be chosen later, we conclude that

\displaystyle  \| 1_A * w \|_2^2 \leq \| w \|_1^2 + k \|w\|_2^2.

Taking the inner product of {1_A * w} with a further weight {t}, and rearranging, we conclude the bound

\displaystyle  \langle 1_A, t * \tilde w \rangle^2 \leq \|t\|_2^2 ( \| w \|_1^2 + k \|w\|_2^2 ).

On the other hand, if one has the pointwise lower bound

\displaystyle  t * \tilde w \geq \lambda

on {\{1,\dots,N\}}, then the left-hand side is at least {(\lambda k)^2}. This gives an inequality

\displaystyle  (\lambda k)^2 \leq \|t\|_2^2 ( \| w \|_1^2 + k \|w\|_2^2 )

that can be used to bound {k} by choosing {t, w} appropriately. For instance if one selects

\displaystyle  w := 1_{[1, k^{3/2}]}

and

\displaystyle  t := 1_{[-k^{3/2}, N]}

then one basically has {\lambda = k^{3/2}}, and the above bound becomes (after ignoring some lower order terms)

\displaystyle  k^5 \leq (N + k^{3/2}) (k^3 + k^{5/2})

which after some algebra gives (1).

One can improve this bound by replacing the sharply truncated cutoff functions {w,t} with more complicated cutoffs, which obey some biconvex constraints which one can explore using various optimization algorithms. It turns out that one can do even better by working not with deterministic choices of {w,t}, but with random choices of {w,t}, in which inequalities such as {0 \leq w * \tilde w} are only true after performing an expectation. The calculations get quite messy (and highly computer-assisted), but eventually give (2). The method also extends to the more general class of {\gamma}-Golomb rulers, in which a given non-zero difference is permitted to appear up to {\gamma} times.

Terence Tao — Collaborative retreat: New developments in the theory of zeta functions

Edgar Assing, Valentin Blomer, and Farrell Brumley are organizing an event at the Hausdorff Center in Bonn on Jan 11-15 to discuss recent developments regarding the Riemann zeta function and allied functions. From the announcement: “This includes in particular the recently established proof of the quasi Riemann Hypothesis over the rational numbers as well as over general number fields and its manifold consequences, ranging from Artin’s primitive root conjecture and torsion in class groups to equidistribution of periodic torus orbits of higher degree fields.

The target group are early career researchers with an excellent background in analytic number theory. The collaborative retreat will feature lectures by the organizers as well as exercise sessions and projects in small workgroups in the stimulating atmosphere of the Hausdorff Institute.”

Doug Natelson — Brief science items, end of October edition

Here are a few sciencey things I've been meaning to mention, while real life has been very busy.

  • Density of states for the first two 2D subbands
    Here is a cute html5 demo I made about densities of states, quickly coded with the help of gemini.  In statistical mechanics and solid state physics, it can be very helpful to try to count up the number of states (perhaps these are allowed electronic states, like electrons confined to a box or a lattice; perhaps these are electromagnetic modes in a cavity, as in the blackbody radiation problem; perhaps these are standing acoustic waves, as in the Debye vibrational heat capacity problem).  Imposing boundary conditions on the waves in our system picks out discrete allowed values of wavelengths (or equivalently \(\mathbf{k}\)-vectors).  Given those, "zoom out" so that we treat \(\mathbf{k}\) as a continuous variable, and toss in a dispersion relation that relates energy \(\epsilon\) to \(\mathbf{k}\), and you can find a density of states \(g(\epsilon) d\epsilon\), which tells you how many energy levels there are per unit energy between energies \(\epsilon\) and \(\epsilon + d\epsilon\).  For nonrelativistic electrons, with \(\epsilon \sim k^{2}\), in purely 1 spatial dimension \(g(\epsilon) \sim 1/\sqrt{\epsilon}\):  energy levels get farther and farther apart as you go up in energy, a result familiar from the particle-in-a-box.  Add in more 1D channels, and the total \(g\) looks like a sum of these 1D contributions.  Work in 2D, and you find that \(g(\epsilon) ~\)constant, independent of energy.  Work in 3D, and you find that \(g(\epsilon) \sim \sqrt{\epsilon}\).  This little applet lets you play with this, actually calculating the energies of the first 50000 states in a box whose dimensions you control.  You can see how the energy levels are distributed, and how that compares to the analytic expectations from above.   
  • In the same spirit as this, here is a neat site that I hadn't seen until now, all about cameras and lenses, complete with interactive demonstrations.  This is just one of a wonderful collection of similar conceptual demos.  Seriously, these are great.  
  • I also wanted to point out this very nice memorial tribute to Tony Leggett, who was an extremely nice, gracious person as well as an outstanding scientist.  Its publication coincided with a conference at UIUC in his honor.
  • Belatedly, but in the same spirit, I've been wanting for some time to introduce my readers to Arianna Rosenbluth, a remarkable undergraduate alumna from Rice's physics department (NYT obituary here).  She deserves to be better known.  After her undergrad days, when incidentally she was the youth fencing champion of Houston (no gender distinction - she beat everyone, and qualified for the '44 and '48 Olympics, but didn't attend), she was a grad student of van Vleck at Harvard, in the group at the same time as Phil Anderson and Thomas Kuhn.  She was greatly responsible for the development of what became known as the Metropolis algorithm.  Back when I was department chair I was fortunate enough to correspond a tiny bit with her through her son, which was great.   

October 27, 2026

Terence Tao — The quasi-Riemann hypothesis

October 26, 2026

n-Category Café Counting Primes

Since the probability that a number nn is prime is roughly 1/logn1/\log n, the number of primes ≤x\le x is close to

li(x)=∫ 0 xdslogs. \mathrm{li}(x) = \int_0^x \frac{d s}{\log s} .

Indeed, if π(x)\pi(x) is the number of primes ≤x\le x, the recently proved quasi-Riemann hypothesis implies

|li(x)−π(x)|≤Cx p |\mathrm{li}(x) - \pi(x)| \le C x^p

for some constants C>0C \gt 0 and p<1p \lt 1. If the Riemann hypothesis is true, any p>1/2p \gt 1/2 will do.

But here’s what I want to talk about today. For all xx where π(x)\pi(x) can actually be counted, π(x)<li(x)\pi(x) \, &lt; \, \mathrm{li}(x). But in 1914, Littlewood shocked the world by sketching a proof that π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) changes sign infinitely often!

I want to explain how that eventually led to a graph that shows an explicit region where π(x)\pi(x) exceeds li(x)\mathrm{li}(x).

Littlewood’s proof didn’t say when π(x)\pi(x) first exceeds li(x)\mathrm{li}(x). He gave his student Stanley Skewes the task of figuring that out.

In 1933, Skewes gave an enormous upper bound for where this first happens, assuming the Riemann hypothesis:

e e e 79≈10 10 10 34. e^{e^{e^{79}}} \approx 10^{10^{10^{34}}}.

This is called Skewes’ number. Hardy called it “the largest number which has ever served any definite purpose in mathematics”. In 1955, still working on his advisor’s assignment, Skewes gave an even larger upper bound not assuming the Riemann hypothesis:

e e e e 7.705≈10 10 10 964. e^{e^{e^{e^{7.705}}}} \approx 10^{10^{10^{964}}} .

This disgustingly large quantity is called the second Skewes number.

I first read about Skewes’ number as a kid in The Guinness Book of World Records. It always intrigued me, but I never tried to understand the math involved, because I figured it would be too hard. This article is my attempt to finally make some progress.

In 1966, Lehman found a trick that lowered Skewes’ bound to about 1.65×10 11651.65 \times 10^{1165}. In 1987, te Riele brought it down to a mere 6.66×10 3706.66 \times 10^{370}.

In 2000, Bays and Hudson went further. They proved that there are at least 10 15310^{153} integers xx near 1.39822×10 3161.39822 \times 10^{316} with π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \,\mathrm{li}(x). Their paper includes many fascinating graphs—but the printing is of very poor quality, unpleasant to look at. I think the world deserves better pictures of their amazing result, so yesterday I decided to redo their work with the help of AI. (The writing is still me, as usual.)

To draw these graphs we need to use Riemann’s explicit formula for π(x)\pi(x) as a sum over zeros of the Riemann zeta function. My calculations use twice as many zeros as Bays and Hudson had access to, but the computation now takes only a couple of seconds on a laptop. Here is my version of their Figure 2b:

Narrow window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3977 to 1.3989 times 10^316

Bays and Hudson’s proof does not depend on the Riemann hypothesis, nor do the later proofs mentioned below. Their graphs are another matter—and the same is true for the graphs here. It’s hard to get a really precise approximation to π(x)\pi(x) for huge numbers xx without using the Riemann hypothesis, since our best formula for it is a sum over zeros of the Riemann zeta function, and even a single zero off the critical line Re(z)=12\mathrm{Re}(z) = \frac{1}{2} could have a big effect. However, a smoothed version of π(x)\pi(x) is much less sensitive to this problem.

The red curves in my graphs are smoothed. Since they go above zero for 10 31110^{311} integers near 1.39822×10 3161.39822 \times 10^{316}, and they go sufficiently high, Bays and Hudson were able to prove that π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \, \mathrm{li}(x) for some xx near this number. On the other hand, the blue curve is not deliberately smoothed. Its calculation assumes the Riemann hypothesis, and could change substantially if that was wrong! There could also be other problems, as I’ll explain. But it’s probably close to correct if the Riemann hypothesis holds.

Intriguingly, π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) also becomes positive for some slightly smaller numbers, in a region around 1.39717×10 3161.39717 \times 10^{316}. Patrick Demichel spotted this region, Saouter and Demichel proved it exists in 2010, and Saouter, Trudgian and Demichel pinned it down more sharply in 2015. Here is a wider view that also includes their region. See the sharp spike in the blue curve?

Wider view: the same curves for x from 1.3955 to 1.3995 times 10^316

What is plotted

Nobody can compute π(x)\pi(x) exactly for numbers so large as 10 31610^{316}. What we can compute is an approximation coming from Riemann’s explicit formula, which expresses π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) as a sum over the nontrivial zeros ρ=12+iγ\rho = \tfrac{1}{2} + i\gamma of the zeta function. Assume the Riemann hypothesis, so γ\gamma is real. Write u=logxu = \log x and measure π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) in units of x/logx\sqrt{x} / \log x:

D(u):=(π(x)−li(x))logxx≈−(1+2u+8u 2)−2∑ 0<γ≤TRe[e iγuρ(1+1ρu)]. D(u) := \bigl(\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x)\bigr)\,\frac{\log x}{\sqrt{x}} \;\approx\; -\Bigl(1 + \frac{2}{u} + \frac{8}{u^2}\Bigr) \;-\; 2\sum_{0\lt \gamma\le T} \mathrm{Re}\!\left[\frac{e^{i\gamma u}}{\rho}\Bigl(1 + \frac{1}{\rho u}\Bigr)\right].

The symbol ≈\approx hides several approximations of quite different kinds; the section “What is rigorous and what is not” explains exactly what it means. The term

−(1+2/u+8/u 2) &#8722;(1 + 2/u + 8/u^2)

comes from the squares of primes: π(x)\pi(x) counts primes, but the explicit formula naturally counts prime powers, and correcting for squares gives this term. This term is why π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) is usually negative, by about x/logx\sqrt{x} / \log x. Higher powers of primes give extra corrections that are negligible when xx is huge, which is our situation.

More interesting is the sum over zeros: each zero contributes an oscillation in D(u)D(u) with frequency γ\gamma and amplitude roughly 1/γ1/\gamma. These oscillations are the key: π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) becomes positive only when enough of these oscillations get in phase and add up to a positive number bigger than 1! Or more precisely, bigger than

1+2/u+8/u 2. 1 + 2/u + 8/u^2.

On the graphs, D>0D\, &gt;\, 0 means π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \,&gt;\, \mathrm{li}(x), and the vertical axis is in units of x/logx\sqrt{x} / \log x, which is about 10 15510^{155} near x=10 316x = 10^{316}. Each graph shows two curves:

  • Blue: the sum over the first 2,001,052 zeros, with no smoothing. This approximates D(u)D(u) point by point. Leaving out the higher zeros causes an error of roughly ±0.002\pm 0.002 in these units, assuming the omitted terms behave like random noise.
  • Red: the choice Bays and Hudson made. It uses the first 10 610^6 zeros, each damped by a factor exp(−γ 2/2α)\exp(-\gamma^2/2\alpha) with α=10 10\alpha = 10^{10}. This is a Gaussian average of D(u)D(u) over a width of about 10 −510^{-5} in logx\log x, which is the quantity Lehman’s trick from 1966 controls rigorously.

Data and computation

The graphs here were made with a short Python program, skewes_window.py, using the NumPy, mpmath, Matplotlib and FINUFFT libraries.

The Riemann zeta zeros come from a table computed by Andrew Odlyzko: the first 2,001,052 zeros, accurate to within 4×10 −94 \times 10^{-9}. Back in 2000, Bays and Hudson needed a personal favor from Odlyzko to get a million zeros. Today the same table is a free download, and it is even packaged on PyPI as passagemath-database-odlyzko-zeta.

Each point on any curve in the graphs here is a sum of one or two million sine waves. Summing directly at 8000 points would take about 10 1010^{10} operations. Instead the program uses a nonuniform fast Fourier transform from the FINUFFT library, which finishes in about a second on one core. Two precautions matter: the program never forms xx itself, only u=logxu = \log x, and it computes each phase γu\gamma u modulo 2π2\pi carefully, because γu\gamma u reaches about 10 910^9.

The graphs

Click on any of these graphs to enlarge it.

Narrow window: 1.39771.3977–1.3989×10 3161.3989 \times 10^{316}. This graph shows our estimate of (π(x)−li(x))⋅logx/x(\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x)) \cdot \log x / \sqrt{x} for xx between 1.3977×10 3161.3977 \times 10^{316} and 1.3989×10 3161.3989 \times 10^{316}.

Narrow window: blue and red curves of (pi(x) - li(x)) log x / sqrt(x) for x from 1.3977 to 1.3989 times 10^316

This is the same range as Figure 2b in Bays and Hudson’s paper. The region they proved positive is the green hump near 1.39822×10 3161.39822 \times 10^{316}. DD usually hovers around −1-1, but throughout this window the low zeros happen to be nearly in phase, lifting it close to zero. Even so it is a narrow escape: the blue curve rises only about 0.017 above zero. The red curve peaks at about +0.010+0.010, which is what lets Lehman’s theorem prove that π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \, \mathrm{li}(x) somewhere in this region. Two smaller bumps of the blue curve, near 1.3981 and 1.3983, barely cross zero; they are about as big as the truncation error, so they could be artifacts.

Narrower window: 1.39801.3980–1.3984×10 3161.3984 \times 10^{316}.

This is just a piece of the previous graph, to make the green hump more visible.

Wider view 1.39551.3955–1.3995×10 3161.3995 \times 10^{316}. This zooms out to show what lies just to the left.

Wider view: the same curves for x from 1.3955 to 1.3995 times 10^316

The thin spike at about 1.39717×10 3161.39717 \times 10^{316} is a second positive region, found after Bays and Hudson. Saouter and Demichel proved π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \, \mathrm{li}(x) there in 2010, and Saouter, Trudgian and Demichel later narrowed it to an interval centered at logx=727.951335426\log x = 727.951335426. In this graph the blue curve rises only about 0.0018 above zero at that spike. That is no larger than the error from using only two million zeros, so this graph alone could not prove the spike is positive. Their proof used about 5×10 85 \times 10^8 zeros. The red curve, smoothed too heavily to see so narrow a spike, stays below zero there.

What is rigorous and what is not

The red curve could be given rigorous error bars; the blue curve cannot, and π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) itself, point by point, is out of reach near 10 31610^{316}.

Where the formula comes from. The starting point is Riemann’s explicit formula for his prime-power counting function J(x)=∑ p k≤x1/kJ(x) = \sum_{p^k \le x} 1/k. For x>1x \, &gt; \, 1 it says

J(x)=li(x)−∑ ρli(x ρ)−log2+∫ x ∞dtt(t 2−1)logt J(x) = \mathrm{li}(x) - \sum_\rho \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) - \log 2 + \int_x^\infty \frac{d t}{t(t^2-1)\log t}

where the sum over zeros converges only conditionally and must be taken in order of increasing |γ||\gamma|. Proofs are in the books of Edwards and Ingham. Möbius inversion gives

π(x)=∑ nμ(n)J(x 1/n)/n, \pi(x) = \sum_n \mu(n) J(x^{1/n})/n,

so

π(x)−li(x)=−12li(x)−∑ ρli(x ρ)+(smaller terms). \pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) = -\tfrac{1}{2} \mathrm{li}(\sqrt{x}) - \sum_\rho \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) + (\text{smaller terms}).

Expanding

li(x)=(2x/u)(1+2/u+8/u 2+⋯)\mathrm{li}(\sqrt{x}) = (2\sqrt{x}/u)(1 + 2/u + 8/u^2 + \cdots)

and

li(x ρ)=Ei(ρu)=(x ρ/(ρu))(1+1/(ρu)+⋯, \mathrm{li}(x^\rho) = \mathrm{Ei}(\rho u) = (x^\rho/(\rho u))(1 + 1/(\rho u) + \cdots,

multiplying by u/xu/\sqrt{x}, and pairing each zero with its complex conjugate gives the formula for D(u)D(u).

What the ≈\approx means. Three separate approximations are involved, and they are very different in character.

  1. Dropped smaller terms. These come from x 1/3x^{1/3} and higher roots, the constants, and the zero sum belonging to J(x)J(\sqrt{x}). Assuming the Riemann hypothesis, they are smaller than the terms kept by factors like x −1/4log 2xx^{-1/4} \log^2 x, which is about 10 −7610^{-76} near 10 31610^{316}. Rigorous bounds for them are routine.
  2. Truncated asymptotic expansions. The first omitted prime-square term is about 48/u 3≈10 −748/u^3 \approx 10^{-7}. The error in expanding each li(x ρ)\mathrm{li}(x^\rho) is of order 1/(γ 3u 2)1/(\gamma^3 u^2), negligible even when summed over all zeros. This step too can be made rigorous with explicit remainder bounds.
  3. Stopping the sum at the 2,001,052nd zero. This is the step that could cause trouble. The best known rigorous bounds for truncating Riemann’s explicit formula at zeros of height TT give an error of order xlog 2(xT)/Tx \log^2(xT)/T. Making that smaller than x/logx\sqrt{x}/\log x would need TT of roughly xlog 2x\sqrt{x} \log^2 x, around 10 15810^{158} here, while the 2,001,052nd zero only has height T≈1.1×10 6T \approx 1.1 \times 10^6.

What can we do about the problem in item 3? Assuming the Riemann hypothesis, D(u)D(u) is an almost periodic function of uu, which is the setting Rubinstein and Sarnak use. A Parseval identity for such functions should then give the long-run mean square of the omitted tail as about ∑ γ>T2/|ρ| 2≈(0.002) 2\sum_{\gamma \, &gt;\, T} 2/|\rho|^2 \approx (0.002)^2. That is a statement about averages over very long stretches of uu. It does not bound the error at any particular point, or even the average error across our window. But we can say ±0.002\pm 0.002 is the typical error at each point of the blue curve if the omitted terms in the sum over zeta zeros act like random noise. This is just a heuristic, though it’s been checked at x=10 20x = 10^{20}. So the blue curve is just a good guess, not something proved.

The smoothed curve. Every positive region found so far was proved using a theorem of Lehman (1966), stated as Theorem 1 in Bays and Hudson’s paper. Instead of trying to pin down π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) at a single point, Lehman’s theorem handles a weighted average of it: the average of D(u)D(u) against a Gaussian bump of width 1/α1/\sqrt{\alpha} centred at some point ω\omega. The theorem says this average equals −1-1 minus a sum over the zeros, with each zero damped by a factor e −γ 2/2αe^{-\gamma^2/2\alpha}, plus an error term with explicit bounds that hold for every ω\omega. The red curve is essentially this damped sum, plotted as a function of ω\omega. The key point is that an average can only be positive if the function being averaged is positive somewhere. So if the damped sum is above zero by more than the largest possible error at some ω\omega, then π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \, \mathrm{li}(x) for some xx with logx\log x near ω\omega. Bays and Hudson proved their result this way, and later authors used refined versions of the same theorem.

The smoothing is what gives this approach its teeth. The damping makes the contribution of the omitted zeros decay like e −T 2/2αe^{-T^2/2\alpha}, so stopping at height TT costs almost nothing. With these parameters the total error is a few thousandths. So one could draw an upper and a lower curve that provably bracket the smoothed function. Wherever the lower curve is above zero, π(x)>li(x)\pi(x) \, &gt; \,\mathrm{li}(x) somewhere nearby.

This holds without assuming the Riemann hypothesis. Lehman’s theorem needs the Riemann hypothesis only up to a finite height, which has been verified: Platt and Trudgian have now checked it up to height 3×10 123 \times 10^{12}. Any hypothetical zeros off the critical line beyond that height are covered by an extra error term, which the Gaussian smoothing makes harmless. For Bays and Hudson’s parameters this term is smaller than 10 −200110^{-2001}. So the positive regions near 1.39822×10 3161.39822 \times 10^{316} and 1.39717×10 3161.39717 \times 10^{316} are established unconditionally.

The method is one-sided, though. It can prove that crossings exist, but a negative average says nothing about a narrow positive spike hiding inside it.

Earlier crossings. Bays and Hudson observed (p. 1287) that current knowledge cannot rule out sign changes of π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x) over gaps as large as 10 30010^{300} near 10 31610^{316}. For the same reason, nobody can currently rule out a crossing somewhere below 1.397×10 3161.397 \times 10^{316}. Bays and Hudson thought none is likely. Their Figure 1 marks near-misses around 10 17610^{176}, 10 17910^{179}, 10 19010^{190}, 10 26010^{260} and 10 29810^{298}. Rigorously, it is known only that π(x)<li(x)\pi(x)\, &lt; \, \mathrm{li}(x) for all x≤10 19x \le 10^{19}. So between 10 1910^{19} and about 1.397×10 3161.397 \times 10^{316} the question remains open!

In 2025, Michael Revers listed some places in this enormous interval where π(x)\pi(x) might get bigger than li(x)\mathrm{li}(x). If you want to contribute to this fascinating story, and you enjoy heavy-duty computations, you could look at those places. You may need a big table of Riemann zeta zeros.

References

The main papers

As a detailed exposition of some of this material, I also recommend this thesis building on the paper by Saouter and Demichel, especially for readers who want to learn the tools of analysis used in number theory:

The explicit formula and its approximations

  • Davenport, Harold. Multiplicative Number Theory. 3rd ed. Revised by Hugh L. Montgomery. New York: Springer, 2000. Ch. 17.
  • Edwards, H. M. Riemann’s Zeta Function. New York: Academic Press, 1974.
  • Ingham, A. E. The Distribution of Prime Numbers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932. Reprint, 1990.
  • Rubinstein, Michael, and Peter Sarnak. Chebyshev’s bias. Experimental Mathematics 3, no. 3 (1994): 173–97.

Historical background

  • Littlewood, J. E. Sur la distribution des nombres premiers. Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Sciences, Paris 158 (1914): 1869–72.
  • Skewes, S. On the difference π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x). Journal of the London Mathematical Society 8, no. 4 (1933): 277–83. https://doi.org/10.1112/jlms/s1-8.4.277.
  • Skewes, S. On the difference π(x)−li(x)\pi(x) - \mathrm{li}(x), II. Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, 3rd ser., 5, no. 1 (1955): 48–70. https://doi.org/10.1112/plms/s3-5.1.48.
  • Skewes’s number. Wikipedia.

Data and software

John Preskill — Lunch with Horace Walpole

Did you know that Horace Walpole invented the Gothic novel? The Englishman spawned a genre by publishing The Castle of Otranto during the 1700s. Walpole’s work featured dark atmospheres, crumbling castles, family secrets, and taboo subjects such as madness and incest. If you’ve enjoyed Oscar Wilde’s novel The Portrait of Dorian Gray or the 2024 film Nosferatu,1 thank Horace Walpole.

I memorized the above information in a high-school English class. My teacher, Mrs. Lukacs, demanded a great deal of her students: we memorized boatloads of facts about literary genres (from Anglo-Saxon epics to elegies), history (the Enlightenment, the Romantic era, etc.), literary devices (enjambment and litote and synecdoche), and authors (Samuel Johnson, Anne Bradstreet, and their ilk.). Thanks to Mrs. Lukacs, I can add that Charles Brockden Brown Americanized the Gothic. He shifted stories’ settings to caves, dark forests, and villages at the edge of civilization. The novels Wieland, Edgar Huntly, and Arthur Mervyn exemplify his style.

Mrs. Lukacs’s curriculum hibernated in me like an educational chipmunk after I’d graduated from high school. Imagine my surprise, during a recent lunchtime, when I lifted my gaze to find Horace Walpole a few feet away.

I was dining at King’s College, Cambridge. The University of Cambridge contains colleges similarly to how Hogwarts contains houses. Each house has students and faculty members from multiple departments. Some departments share their disciplines with institutes. An institute and a college account for my visiting Cambridge most of this autumn: the Isaac Newton Institute for the Mathematical Sciences is hosting a several-month program about quantum many-body physics. I’m grateful to be attending the program while holding a Visiting Fellowship at King’s College.

The main entrance to King’s College, Cambridge.

King Henry VI founded King’s College in 1441. (Caltech, where I earned my PhD, precipitated from earlier institutions around the turn of the twentieth century.) The college’s alumni and former Fellows include centuries’ worth of luminaries. Some of their portraits hang in the dining hall, a Gothic confection that could play a cathedral on television.

I sometimes talk with other scholars over meals in the dining hall; but, when dining alone, I examine different facets of the hall over different meals. The room boasts carved wooden walls, a seventeenth-century tapestry, the gold-colored wall sconces. I couldn’t forgive myself if I squandered the opportunity to examine them. Sometimes, I’ve scrutinized a portrait per meal. One portrait depicts Horace Walpole.

King’s College dining hall

Did I attempt to envision Horace Walpole during high school? Probably not. He lurked in my imagination as the silhouette of an eighteenth-century Englishman—likely as buttoned-up, industrious, and middle-aged.

The portrait shows a youth in his teens or twenties, his skin smooth. A slight smile hints at levity. His clothing’s light coloring buttresses the impression: a white shirt peeps out from a cobalt-blue jacket. The young man’s pose suggests formality, his back straight and one hand tucked inside his jacket. Yet his large, dark eyes seek the viewer’s. I wouldn’t have expected such a plucky-looking youth to have founded the genre that includes Dracula. But I welcomed Horace Walpole as a lunch companion.

The author with a more illustrious author.

After finishing eating, I walked to one end of the dining hall to drop off my tray. Beside a doorway there hung another portrait whose name leaped out at me: Sir Robert Walpole. Google revealed that Sir Robert had fathered Horace—and served as Great Britain’s first prime minister.

Sir Robert Walpole (en route to the tray-return area).

During another meal, I found myself eyeing a portrait of a man wearing an Elizabethan ruff. He wore no smile, unlike Horace. Little wonder: a label revealed the portrait to be of Sir Francis Walsingham. Walsingham had headed Queen Elizabeth I’s spy network during the 1500s. Catholics across Europe sought—overtly and by cloak and dagger—to dethrone Elizabeth and the Protestantism to which Walsingham subscribed. I could hardly blame her right-hand man for looking as though he’d found a rat in his soup.

Queen Elizabeth I’s spymaster.

What a crew surrounds me, I keep thinking. What depth and richness it adds to my meals. I eat chicken-tikka sandwiches and minty-pea salads with history.

Studying physics unlocks similar depth and richness. Doing physics, one doesn’t merely pose a problem, translate it into math, and solve the mathematical problem. One interprets the mathematical outcome physically, illuminates it with examples, and applies the results to the world around us.

For instance, odors waft out of the servery into the dining hall, savoring of flatbread pizza or falafel or beef Wellington. Why? Because improperly fed or watered students can cause riots. But why, more fundamentally? Because, by the second law of thermodynamics, every sufficiently large closed, isolated system’s entropy increases or remains constant. Entropy increases as a gas—which can carry an odor—spreads out.

As its entropy grows, the gas approaches equilibrium: large-scale properties of the gas, such as its volume, cease to change. If any energy leaves the gas, an equal amount enters it, on average. The gas takes far less time to equilibrate than glass does. The dining hall’s stained-glass windows depict coats of arms and list college provosts of yore. A glass’s atoms don’t form a crystal, a pattern repeated across space. Diamonds, table salt, and the quartz in wristwatches consist of crystals. A glass’s atoms lie at random distances from each other. This randomness leads to randomness in the interatomic interactions’ strength. 

Similar randomness characterizes neural networks, which underlie conversations I’ve overheard and participated in at meals. Neural networks realize artificial intelligence, which has been widening, disrupting, monetizing, speeding up, eroding, and enhancing research. You don’t need for me to tell you that AI has ignited a quest for an understanding of what computers can and can’t accomplish. What better place to undertake such a quest than King’s? Alan Turing, a co-founder of computer science, studied and worked here.

I’ve written about how a liberal-arts education has enhanced my physics. So has a physics education enhanced my life. Physics adds depth and richness—as well as nuance, detail, and significance. I have the opportunity to eat lunch with Horace Walpole this autumn; we have the opportunity to eat our cosmic lunches in this universe for only slightly longer. I couldn’t forgive myself if I squandered the opportunity to examine my surroundings.

With thanks to King’s College, the Isaac Newton Institute, David Arvidsson-Shukur, and many others for my visit.

1Or the 1922 original.

October 25, 2026

Scott Aaronson Vote! (Israeli edition)

Someone writing an article for the Israeli press about “people abroad who love Israel but might be worried” emailed me the following questions:

“1. What is something about Israel that you admire/appreciate over the years?

2. What are you worried the most about Israel these days?”

So I replied as follows:

“It’s hard to know where to start with either of your questions! But briefly:

Tiny Israel standing up for itself, against an often hostile and unjust world, is a huge part of what’s given me the self-confidence to stand up for myself in my own life. That was true even before I had visited Israel or spent significant time there, gazed across the desert at the still-clear ruins of the Roman siege of Masada, staggered overwhelmed out of Yad Vashem into the sunlight of Jerusalem, tasted the hummus or pomegranate juice or ice cream with blended fruit, befriended or had academic collaborations with dozens of Israelis, or married an Israeli woman.

My fear is merely the ‘obvious’ one — that, in response to the staggering hostility directed against the ‘Jew among the nations,’ Israel will become more and more belligerent, isolated, and right-wing. It will get demographically overwhelmed by those who don’t want to work or serve in the army, while hundreds of thousands of secular educated Israelis leave. It will be internally divided almost to the point of civil war. It will repudiate the liberal-democratic vision of Herzl and Ben-Gurion, of world-class universities and making the deserts bloom, for the swaggering, theocratic vision of Smotrich and Ben-Gvir, of chasing Palestinians from their olive groves. It will become more and more like the hateful caricature of itself that the anti-Israel people in the West always imagined. And then, having been internally weakened in all of these ways, it will finally be destroyed by its external enemies, who will never have rested the whole time, who never once wavered in their dream of a second Holocaust.

I hope and pray that in the upcoming election, the Israeli voters make optimistic choices that repudiate these fears.”


As I’ll do more and more with political posts, I’m leaving the comments off. Why? Because my remaining life is too short to spend it battling an endless parade of trolls and griefers, leftists and rightists and just nihilists, who might or might not be AI.

October 24, 2026

n-Category Café The Quasi-Riemann Hypothesis

As part of their big theorem dump, an AI company recently emitted a proof of the ‘quasi-Riemann hypothesis’. Maksym Radziwiłł of New York University said the implications of this result are “staggering”, continuing:

“In a sense, the vast majority of consequences of RH already follow from quasi-RH.”

But what is the quasi-Riemann hypothesis, and what are some of these consequences?

Since 1897, we’ve known all the nontrivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function lie in this strip in the complex plane:

0 < Re(z) < 1

The quasi-Riemann hypothesis says they lie in some narrower strip

a ≤ Re(z) ≤ 1 - a

The Riemann hypothesis claims all these zeros lie exactly on the line

Re(z) = 1/2

The closer to this line we can show these zeros are, the more regular the distribution of primes must be!

First, remember the number of primes less than n is asymptotically n / (ln n). But a more precise estimate of the number of primes less than n is a function called li(n), which is the integral of 1/ln(x) from 0 to n.

The difference between li(n) and n / (ln n) is about n / (ln n)2. This is a lot bigger than the errors I’m going to talk about.

Before the proof of the quasi-Riemann hypothesis, we knew things like this: if π(n) is the number of primes less than n, then

|π(n) - li(n)| ≤ n / (ln n)1000

if n is large enough. Indeed, we could replace the number 1000 by any other large number.

The Riemann hypothesis is equivalent to this: if π(n) is the number of primes less than n, then

|π(n) - li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 1/2, and some C that depends on p. We know we can’t get p all the way down to 1/2.

So crudely, the Riemann hypothesis brings the error bound down from “a lot less than n, but still bigger than any smaller power of n” to “not much more than √n”.

The quasi-Riemann hypothesis does the same thing but replacing √n with some bigger power of n, namely n1-a, if all the nontrivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function lie in the strip

a ≤ Re(z) ≤ 1 - a

In the recent massive drop of AI-generated results there’s a long, complicated proof that the quasi-Riemann hypothesis holds for a = 1/8:

If this proof turns out to be correct, then we’ll know

|π(n) - li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 7/8.

But there’s also a much simpler proof that a = 1/12 works:

A bunch of mathematicians have been writing about this, developing similar results—so we can feel pretty sure this is true. Thus, at this point, number theorists are confident that

|π(n) - li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 11/12.

But the quasi-Riemann hypothesis has other consequences, too—especially combined with the recent proof that a bunch of L-functions have no ‘Siegel zeros’. One of the cuter, less technical results is called ‘Goldbach conjecture on average’.

You can count, for each even number up to n, the number of ways to write it as a sum of two primes, and add these counts up. The total is close to a simple formula, and the question is how close. The quasi-Riemann hypothesis puts a bound on the error, thus proving Goldbach’s conjecture on average. I’ll spare you the details. Unfortunately, this bound is not good enough to prove Goldbach’s actual conjecture.

There are also plenty of more technical yet more profound implications of the new work on the quasi-Riemann hypothesis. These rely on not just the statement, but the proof method. There are various other important functions in number theory—zeta functions and L-functions—that we can now prove have zeros only in a half-plane Re(z) < 1 - a for some fixed a > 0. Write QRH(a) for this statement, so OpenAI’s 7/8 result is QRH(1/8) for the Riemann zeta function.

A recent paper by Frei, Sofos and Widmer summarizes some of what’s been done so far:

For example, one paper in the theorem dump claims QRH(1/8) for all Dirichlet L-functions and all finite-order Hecke L-functions of ℚ√(−3), with a second preprint giving QRH(1/12). Another claims QRH(10-6) for all finite-order Hecke L-functions of cyclotomic fields containing the 12th roots of unity. Most exciting to me, a preprint by Cureton and Thorner claims QRH(1/32) for the Dedekind zeta functions of all number fields:

You may not consider any of these implications “staggering”. But that probably means you’re not an analytic number theorist. According to Joshua Zelinsky, there are hundreds of papers deriving results that can be improved using the quasi-Riemann hypothesis. Mathematicians have been working for over a century to make these things happen.

John Baez — The Quasi-Riemann Hypothesis

As part of their big theorem dump, an AI company recently emitted a proof of the ‘quasi-Riemann hypothesis’. Maksym Radziwiłł of New York University said the implications of this result are “staggering”, continuing:

“In a sense, the vast majority of consequences of RH already follow from quasi-RH.”

But what is the quasi-Riemann hypothesis, and what are some of these consequences?

Since 1897, we’ve known all the nontrivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function lie in this strip in the complex plane:

0 < Re(z) < 1

The quasi-Riemann hypothesis says they lie in some narrower strip

a ≤ Re(z) ≤ 1 – a

The Riemann hypothesis claims all these zeros lie exactly on the line

Re(z) = 1/2

The closer to this line we can show these zeros are, the more regular the distribution of primes must be!

First, remember the number of primes less than n is asymptotically n / (ln n). But a more precise estimate of the number of primes less than n is a function called li(n), which is the integral of 1/ln(x) from 0 to n.

The difference between li(n) and n / (ln n) is about n / (ln n)2. This is a lot bigger than the errors I’m going to talk about.

The above graph makes it look like li(n) is always bigger than π(n), but in fact π(n) – li(n) switches sign infinitely often—the first time before 1.4 · 10316.

Before the proof of the quasi-Riemann hypothesis, we knew things like this: if π(n) is the number of primes less than n, then

|π(n) – li(n)| ≤ n / (ln n)1000

if n is large enough. Indeed, we could replace the number 1000 by any other large number.

The Riemann hypothesis is equivalent to this: if π(n) is the number of primes less than n, then

|π(n) – li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 1/2, and some C that depends on p. We know we can’t get p all the way down to 1/2.

So crudely, the Riemann hypothesis brings the error bound down from “a lot less than n, but still bigger than any smaller power of n” to “not much more than √n”.

The quasi-Riemann hypothesis does the same thing but replacing √n with some bigger power of n, namely n1-a if all the nontrivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function lie in the strip

a ≤ Re(z) ≤ 1 – a

In the recent massive drop of AI-generated results there’s a long, complicated proof that the quasi-Riemann hypothesis holds for a = 1/8:

• The quasi-Riemann hypothesis, 199 pages.

If this proof turns out to be correct, then we’ll know

|π(n) – li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 7/8.

But there’s also a much simpler proof that a = 1/12 works:

• The quasi-Riemann hypothesis, alternate proof, 49 pages.

A bunch of mathematicians have been writing about this, developing similar results—so we can feel pretty sure this is true. Thus, at this point, number theorists are confident that

|π(n) – li(n)| ≤ C np

for any p > 11/12.

But the quasi-Riemann hypothesis has other consequences, too—especially combined with the recent proof that a bunch of L-functions have no ‘Siegel zeros’. One of the cuter, less technical results is called ‘Goldbach conjecture on average’.

You can count, for each even number up to n, the number of ways to write it as a sum of two primes, and add these counts up. The total is close to a simple formula, and the question is how close. The quasi-Riemann hypothesis puts a bound on the error, thus proving Goldbach’s conjecture on average. I’ll spare you the details. Unfortunately, this bound is not good enough to prove Goldbach’s actual conjecture.

There are also plenty of more technical yet more profound implications of the new work on the quasi-Riemann hypothesis. These rely on not just the statement, but the proof method. There are various other important functions in number theory—zeta functions and L-functions—that we can now prove have zeros only in a half-plane Re(z) < 1 – a for some fixed a > 0. Write QRH(a) for this statement, so OpenAI’s 7/8 result is QRH(1/8) for the Riemann zeta function.

A recent paper by Frei, Sofos and Widmer summarizes some of what’s been done so far:

• Christopher Frei, Efthymios Sofos and Martin Widmer, Some applications of the quasi-Riemann hypothesis to class groups and small generators of number fields.

For example, one paper in the theorem dump claims QRH(1/8) for all Dirichlet L-functions and all finite-order Hecke L-functions of ℚ√(−3), with a second preprint giving QRH(1/12). Another claims QRH(10-6) for all finite-order Hecke L-functions of cyclotomic fields containing the 12th roots of unity. Most exciting to me, a preprint by Cureton and Thorner claims QRH(1/32) for the Dedekind zeta functions of all number fields:

• Dean Cureton and Jesse Thorner, A quasi-Riemann hypothesis for Dedekind zeta functions.

You may not consider any of these implications “staggering”. But that probably means you’re not an analytic number theorist. According to Joshua Zelinsky, there are hundreds of papers deriving results that can be improved using the quasi-Riemann hypothesis. Mathematicians have been working for over a century to make these things happen.

Doug Natelson — AI for "peer" review

I hope to write more about some new papers in the literature soon, as well as providing links to some pretty cool physics-related content.  First, though, I want to say something about this preprint, which has people talking.  The article says, in the case of an ensemble of social sciences papers, anyway, that AI-based review is better, in nearly every quantifiable way, than human peer review.  This question of AI for reviewing papers and proposals has been in the air for a bit now, as in this article in Science, this editorial at Nature Nano, and the fact that the present administration has been using AI tools to "review" grants for content that allegedly goes against executive orders.

I'm an associate editor at a journal, and I see a large volume of papers and reviews.  (Note that this post reflects my personal views, not an official take by the journal or its publisher.)  It is 100% clear that some reviewers are using AI tools to prepare their reviews, despite clear statements that this is not ok.  There is a distinct format that AI reviews take.  After a summary paragraph, usually there are five specific bullet points, one or two of which tend to zero in on some particular detail or peculiarity in wording of the paper in a way that humans probably wouldn't.  Often the phrasing is somewhat aggressive, with a bit of a "gotcha" tone.  Of course, in any given case, I can't prove AI was used, but if you read enough of these, they stand out.  To be clear:  I'm not talking about people who use AI to clean up grammar.  I'm talking about people feeding articles to an AI tool and asking it to spit out a review.

The point of peer review, whether it's for grants or articles, is to get the informed views of the relevant scholarly community about the work.  We want to know what actual practitioners think of the results and their presentation.  Purely AI reviews just do not serve this purpose.

Moreover, there are serious confidentiality issues at stake.  Sure, many scientists use preprint archives these days to put up prepublication work, but plenty still do not, especially for very hot topics where people are worried about being scooped.  Running submitted manuscripts or grant proposals through AI tools that can then scrape the content into their training sets is a fundamental violation of the confidentiality of the process.  Imagine someone uploads your manuscript about a machine learning search for a new high temperature superconductor to Gemini to generate a review, and then amazingly SandboxAQ later scoops you on this.  (Not accusing google of anything here, just a hypothetical example.  Feel free to say GPT and Mattergen.)  The math community already worries about this stuff.

So:  If you are asked to review a paper or a grant proposal, bear in mind (1) the people doing the asking actually want your feedback, and (2) taking confidential documents and allowing them to be scraped by AI companies is bad.

Update:  This paper is highly relevant, showing very interesting consistency issues with LLMs as reviewers.

October 23, 2026

Matt von Hippel — The Weird Incentives of Word Count

Many freelancers get paid per hour, or per day. Some have standard rates for typical tasks.

Journalism is rarely typical. And usually, we’re paid per word.

I’ve had many friends whose first thought is how easy that must be to exploit. Often they remember a story about a writer like Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo padding their books with digressions to up their pay. Those stories probably didn’t happen, and these days, that method is even less likely to work. When I pitch a piece, the editor and I agree beforehand on a target word count. The only way I get paid more than expected is if the editor agrees that it makes sense.

That said, there definitely are ways to exploit being paid by the word, if you wanted to. They’re just more subtle.

The source of any such exploit is to notice that writing is not actually the hard part of journalism. Research is time-consuming: the more people you talk to, the longer it takes. Writing, once you’re used to it, can go quite quickly. So the length of a piece itself doesn’t determine how much work it takes to write: research does.

In principle, longer pieces are supposed to take more research. Editors will have rough expectations for the number of sources you’ll interview, so this isn’t something you can skimp on, per se. And publications known for their high standards for research usually pay larger rates per-word.

But no matter how much you’re paid, research can go out of hand in the other direction. Journalism is about finding out the truth, and sometimes the truth is more complicated than expected. Sometimes you need more information, and need to fit in one more interview, then another, or run around chasing after missing info. Then you need to figure out how to fit it all into the same word count you started with.

So suppose you’re a freelancer who aspires to consistently pay their bills. You want to earn a certain amount per hour worked, but some projects can take much more work than others. So what do you do?

You look for the simple. You try to find stories that are unlikely to be complicated, that won’t have clashes of opinion that need to be represented or experts with different sides of the story. If you don’t find such a story, you simplify: you write a piece that makes the story sound cohesive, that papers over doubt, even if you’ve run into doubts yourself while writing it. If you’re consistent about it, you can do what your friends with salaries do, and earn a stable living.

Not the kind of exploit you had in mind, I suspect. And not, despite the sound of it, something you can do reliably. I find I’m always tempted by complexity, always drawn to investigate a story that’s a bit too big for the wordcount it’s supposed to fit.

But it is an ever-present incentive, one I suspect people with a larger roster of leads start to feel. If you’re paid by the word, then the best story tends to be a tidy one.

October 22, 2026

Scott Aaronson Vote!

Today, I take a break from your regularly-scheduled AI mathocalypse programming to urge my American readers to vote in the Congressional midterms, early if possible, if you haven’t already. Especially if your state faces one or more major contests, as does my adopted home state of Texas.

Me, I voted straight-ticket Democrat today, as I’ve done in every election since I became eligible over a quarter-century ago (except for when I vote-swapped with someone from another state).

So yes, I voted for the guy who studied theology a short walk from my house, and who seems to have really internalized the whole Jesus thing about kindness to everyone—

—over his sneering, thuggish, cartoonishly mafia-like opponent. Fingers crossed that Talarico pulls off a historic upset for our state (he’s currently a 2-to-1 favorite in the prediction markets).

The Texas Republicans did everything they possibly could to make this choice easy for me, by being corrupt, conspiratorial, racist, and Taliban-like even by the jaw-droppingly debased standards of MAGA in 2026. As I draw breath, I could never vote for a slate one of whose candidates attacked UT students for the crime of being visibly Southeast Asian while cheering their school’s football victory from the stands—and whose other candidates could barely bring themselves to condemn this knuckle-dragging racist, for fear of angering their base. (It’s like, didn’t you want immigrants to assimilate to American culture? What more could these kids possibly do, short of skin bleach?)

All the same, this was also the first US election in my lifetime where I felt like my vote was genuinely in play—especially when I listened to Talarico’s condemnations of Israel, for having the temerity to fight the same kind of war any random other nation would’ve fought had it been attacked as Israel was on October 7. When Hasan Piker came to speak to a cheering crowd here at UT Austin, I actually wrote to someone I know in the Talarico campaign, to ask whether Talarico would show enough balls to condemn Piker’s many antisemitic and anti-American statements, and renounce his support. My contact was nice enough to reply to me, saying: don’t worry, James is taking care to be far away from Austin during Piker’s visit, so he won’t need to engage at all!

So then, this is my candidate: the guy who’s strategically silent on the wildly-popular streamer who’d gladly see my Israeli family members raped and beheaded, rather than campaigning with that streamer like Abdul El-Sayed did in Michigan. I unironically believe that, for Talarico, it took genuine moral courage to resist the whole momentum of his party’s youth even to this extent.

To earn my vote in the near future under these circumstances, all a Texas Republican would need to do is be somewhat sane or reasonable. He or she might affirm, for example, that racism is bad, that abortion is a woman’s choice, that Christianity is not the state religion of the US, that Covid vaccines work, that human emissions are worryingly changing the earth’s climate, and/or that Joe Biden won in 2020, while still being arbitrarily right-wing on taxes and other stuff. He or she could then simply wait for the Democrats to descend fully into the worldview of the masked hooligans who are currently setting France’s beautiful cities aflame, terrorizing its shopkeepers, and looting as many Louis Vuitton handbags as they can carry … all for Palestine, of course, and for the death of global capitalism, and for the violent overthrow of the scheming, money-grubbing, hook-nosed, international Talmudic … err, I mean “Zionists.”

What I’m trying to say is, it was a genuine achievement on the part of the Texas Republicans to fail to earn a single vote from me this cycle.

October 21, 2026

Tommaso Dorigo — Breaking The Shower Containment Taboo For Hadron Calorimeters

Breaking The Shower Containment Taboo For Hadron Calorimeters

Hadron calorimeters are particle detectors meant to measure the total energy possessed by high-energy subatomic particles that hit their front face and develop a shower of secondary particles inside their volume.

Tommaso Dorigo
Categories

October 20, 2026

Jordan Ellenberg — “You Can See Everything”

I don’t feel like writing a whole dissertation about this but I’ll just say that this is the first time I can remember saying “Oh my God,” out loud, multiple times, while watching a movie in a theater.

Some people have asked if you need to be familiar with the story of Elizabeth Holmes to watch this movie. I don’t think so. I’m not familiar with the Holmes/Theranos story beyond the bare basics. This movie is almost entirely not about that story; or at least that’s how it plays if you don’t know the story.

Tommaso Dorigo — Understanding Intelligence Across Artificial and Biological Systems

Understanding Intelligence Across Artificial and Biological Systems

 Recently I started a new peer-reviewed journal at the crossroads of Artificial Intelligence and Cognition research. The journal, titled "AI and Brain", is published by Scilight Press, a young publishing firm that contrarily to my initial impressions is very serious and competent.

Tommaso Dorigo
Categories

October 19, 2026

Jacques Distler AI Meets Nonabelian Hodge

As many of you know, I have spent far too much time thinking about families of Hitchin systems over the moduli space ℳ g,n\mathcal{M}_{g,n} of (punctured) Riemann surfaces, C g,nC_{g,n}. In my defense, the Coulomb branch geometry of a 4d 𝒩=2\mathcal{N}=2 theory is encoded in the data of a complex integrable system. For class-S, that’s a Hitchin system and the “conformal manifold” of a family of 𝒩=2\mathcal{N}=2 SCFTs is the aforementioned moduli space. So it’s quite natural to consider the family of Hitchin systems as we vary the exactly-marginal parameters of the SCFT.

A striking feature of Hitchin’s integrable system is that it’s actually hyperKähler; it has a whole ℂℙ 1\mathbb{CP}^1 worth of complex structures. We always work in the complex structure where it has the interpretation as the moduli space of Higgs bundles. This is the physically-interesting case where the base of the Hitchin system (the space of “action variables” of the integrable system) is the Coulomb branch of the 4d theory.

One of the main points of our work is that the bundle of Hitchin bases has a natural extension to the Deligne-Mumford compactification ℳ¯ g,n\overline{\mathcal{M}}_{g,n}, and that extension has an interesting interpretation in the physics.

In another complex structure, Hitchin’s system has the interpretation as a character variety: the space of homomorphisms π 1(C)→G ℂ\pi_1(C)\to G_{\mathbb{C}} up to overall conjugation.

The map from semi-stable parabolic Higgs bundles (E,Φ)(E,\Phi) to the irreducible character variety for G ℂ=SL NG_{\mathbb{C}}=SL_N is called the Nonabelian Hodge Correspondence (NAH). See Simpson’s paper for more details of the correspondence. We’ll be interested in the strongly-parabolic case, where the residues of Φ\Phi are nilpotent.

We had some interesting conjectures about NAH in Appendix B of our first paper. So you can imagine that I was quite excited to see a recent paper which claims to construct families of character varieties over ℳ g,n\mathcal{M}_{g,n} and examines how they behave as the curve C g,nC_{g,n} degenerates.

Unfortunately, they start off with a completely-wrong interpretation — they want the gauge group that becomes weakly-coupled in the nodal limit to be a subgroup of the centralizer of the monodromy around the pinching cycle — and then try to reverse-engineer a family that achieves that. The opposite is what’s actually true. To take the extreme case, when the gauge group associated to some cycle (note that we can always associate a gauge group to some cycle; it only becomes weakly-coupled when that cycle pinches) is the full SU(N)SU(N), then the monodromy around that cycle is regular semi-simple (so its centralizer is abelian).

Rather than try to explicate where they went wrong, let me instead work through an example: the “Argyres-Seiberg” example of section 6.1 of their paper.

This is the 4-punctured sphere for SL 3SL_3, with 2 simple and 2 full punctures. On the Higgs bundle side, the Higgs field has simple poles at p 1,p 2p_1,p_2 with residues in the minimal nilpotent orbit and simple poles at p 3,p 4p_3,p_4 with residues in the regular nilpotent orbit.

On the character variety side, we have 4 monodromies {M 1,M 2,M 3,M 4∈SL N|M 1M 2M 3M 4=I} \{M_1,M_2,M_3,M_4\in SL_N | M_1M_2M_3M_4=I\} up to overall conjugation. Under NAH, the conjugacy classes of the M iM_i are determined by the parabolic weights that we assign on the Higgs bundle side.

Specifically, E| pE|_{p} has a filtration

(1)E| p=F l⊃F l−1⊃F l−2⊃…⊃F 1⊃0E|_p = F_l \supset F_{l-1} \supset F_{l-2} \supset \dots \supset F_1\supset 0

where F j=ker(Res(Φ) j)F_j = \ker(Res(\Phi)^j). We assign a set of real numbers α j∈[−1/2,1/2)\alpha_j\in[-1/2,1/2) which sum to 0 and such that the multiplicity of α j\alpha_j is dim(F j/F j−1)\dim(F_j/F_{j-1}) and α j<α j−1\alpha_j\lt \alpha_{j-1}. On the character variety side, the conjugacy class of MM is [M]=exp(−2πidiag(α 1,…,α l))[M]=exp\bigl(-2\pi i\; diag(\alpha_1,\dots,\alpha_l)\bigr). A nilpotent BB that strictly lowers the flag (1) (i.e. such that B(F j)⊂F j−1B(F_j)\subset F_{j-1}) is generically an element of OO, the nilpotent orbit where the residue of Φ\Phi lies. The induced map on Gr j=F j/F j−1Gr_{j}=F_j/F_{j-1} vanishes, so MM is indeed semi-simple.

In our example, E| p 3,4E|_{p_{3,4}} have a full flag, E| p=F 3⊃F 2⊃F 1⊃0 E|_p= F_3\supset F_2\supset F_1\supset 0 so the conjugacy classes of M 3,4M_{3,4} have the form [M]=exp(−2πidiag(α 1,α 2,−α 1−α 2))[M]=exp\bigl(-2\pi i\; diag(\alpha_1,\alpha_2,-\alpha_1-\alpha_2)\bigr). E| p 1,2E|_{p_{1,2}} has the filtration E| p⊃F⊃0 E|_p \supset F \supset 0 So [M]=exp(−2πidiag(α,α,−2α))[M] =exp\bigl(-2\pi i\; diag(\alpha,\alpha,-2\alpha)) and FF is either a line or a plane, depending on the sign of α\alpha.

The character variety in our example is 4 complex-dimensional and I will describe it in an excruciating degree of explicitness.

Warmup

Let’s warm up by considering the character variety for the 3-punctured sphere with 3 full punctures. That’s 2-dimensional and it can be described concretely as follows.

Let A=M 3A=M_3, B=M 4B=M_4 and let CC be the regular semi-simple elements of SL 3SL_3 satisfying ABC=IA B C =I. Let

(2)α =Tr(A), α˜ =Tr(A −1) β =Tr(B), β˜ =Tr(B −1) γ =Tr(C), γ˜ =Tr(C −1) \begin{aligned} \alpha &= Tr(A),\qquad&\tilde{\alpha}&=Tr(A^{-1})\\ \beta &= Tr(B),\qquad&\tilde{\beta}&=Tr(B^{-1})\\ \gamma &= Tr(C),\qquad&\tilde{\gamma}&=Tr(C^{-1})\\ \end{aligned}

Of course, when the Higgs field residues are nilpotent, we have

(3)α˜=α¯,β˜=β¯,γ˜=γ¯ \tilde{\alpha}=\overline{\alpha},\quad \tilde{\beta}=\overline{\beta},\quad \tilde{\gamma}=\overline{\gamma}

But, with malice aforethought, let’s not make that identification just yet.

By a result of Lawton, the character variety is an affine cubic surface whose coefficients are certain polynomials in α,α˜,β,β˜,γ,γ˜\alpha,\tilde{\alpha},\beta,\tilde{\beta},\gamma,\tilde{\gamma}.

Let X=tr(AB −1)−αβ˜,Y=tr(A −1B)−α˜β,Z=tr(ABA −1B −1). X=\mathrm{tr}(A B^{-1})-\alpha\tilde{\beta},\qquad Y=\mathrm{tr}(A^{-1}B)-\tilde{\alpha}\beta,\qquad Z=\mathrm{tr}(A B A^{-1}B^{-1}). These satisfy the cubic equation

(4)S(α,α˜,β,β˜,γ,γ˜)≔{X 3+Y 3+Z 2−XYZ+aX 2+bY 2+eXY+κZ+fX+gY+h=0}⊂ℂ 3S(\alpha,\tilde{\alpha},\beta,\tilde{\beta},\gamma,\tilde{\gamma})\coloneqq\{X^3+Y^3+Z^2-X Y Z + a\,X^2 + b\,Y^2 + e\,X Y + \kappa\, Z + f\,X + g\,Y + h = 0\}\subset \mathbb{C}^3

where the coefficients are a =αβ˜+βγ˜+γα˜ b =α˜β+β˜γ+γ˜α e =αα˜+ββ˜+γγ˜−6 κ =3+αβγ+α˜β˜γ˜−αα˜−ββ˜−γγ˜ f =α 2β+β 2γ+γ 2α+α˜β˜ 2+β˜γ˜ 2+γ˜α˜ 2+αα˜β˜γ+ββ˜γ˜α+γγ˜α˜β−3(α˜β+β˜γ+γ˜α) g =α˜ 2β˜+β˜ 2γ˜+γ˜ 2α˜+αβ 2+βγ 2+γα 2+αα˜βγ˜+ββ˜γα˜+γγ˜αβ˜−3(αβ˜+βγ˜+γα˜) \begin{aligned} a&=\alpha\tilde\beta+\beta\tilde\gamma+\gamma\tilde\alpha\\ b&=\tilde\alpha\beta+\tilde\beta\gamma+\tilde\gamma\alpha\\ e&=\alpha\tilde\alpha+\beta\tilde\beta+\gamma\tilde\gamma-6\\ \kappa&=3+\alpha\beta\gamma+\tilde\alpha\tilde\beta\tilde\gamma-\alpha\tilde\alpha-\beta\tilde\beta-\gamma\tilde\gamma\\ f&= \alpha^2\beta+\beta^2\gamma+\gamma^2\alpha+\tilde\alpha\tilde\beta^2+\tilde\beta\tilde\gamma^2+\tilde\gamma\tilde\alpha^2 + \alpha\tilde\alpha\tilde\beta\gamma+\beta\tilde\beta\tilde\gamma\alpha+\gamma\tilde\gamma\tilde\alpha\beta - 3(\tilde\alpha\beta+\tilde\beta\gamma+\tilde\gamma\alpha)\\ g&= \tilde\alpha^2\tilde\beta+\tilde\beta^2\tilde\gamma+\tilde\gamma^2\tilde\alpha+\alpha\beta^2+\beta\gamma^2+ \gamma\alpha^2+\alpha\tilde\alpha\beta\tilde\gamma+\beta\tilde\beta\gamma\tilde\alpha+\gamma\tilde\gamma\alpha\tilde\beta -3(\alpha\tilde\beta+\beta\tilde\gamma+\gamma\tilde\alpha) \end{aligned} and finally h= α 3+α˜ 3+β 3+β˜ 3+γ 3+γ˜ 3+9 +αβ˜ 2γ˜ 2+α˜β 2γ 2+βγ˜ 2α˜ 2+β˜γ 2α 2+γα˜ 2β˜ 2+γ˜α 2β 2 −2(α 2β˜γ˜+α˜ 2βγ+β 2γ˜α˜+β˜ 2γα+γ 2α˜β˜+γ˜ 2αβ) +αα˜ββ˜γγ˜+αα˜ββ˜+ββ˜γγ˜+γγ˜αα˜ +3(αβγ+α˜β˜γ˜)−6(αα˜+ββ˜+γγ˜). \begin{aligned} h ={}& \alpha^3+\tilde\alpha^3+\beta^3+\tilde\beta^3+\gamma^3+\tilde\gamma^3+9 \\ &+\alpha\tilde\beta^2\tilde\gamma^2+\tilde\alpha\beta^2\gamma^2 +\beta\tilde\gamma^2\tilde\alpha^2+\tilde\beta\gamma^2\alpha^2 +\gamma\tilde\alpha^2\tilde\beta^2+\tilde\gamma\alpha^2\beta^2 \\ &-2\bigl( \alpha^2\tilde\beta\tilde\gamma+\tilde\alpha^2\beta\gamma +\beta^2\tilde\gamma\tilde\alpha+\tilde\beta^2\gamma\alpha +\gamma^2\tilde\alpha\tilde\beta+\tilde\gamma^2\alpha\beta \bigr) \\ &+\alpha\tilde\alpha\beta\tilde\beta\gamma\tilde\gamma+\alpha\tilde\alpha\beta\tilde\beta+\beta\tilde\beta\gamma\tilde\gamma+\gamma\tilde\gamma\alpha\tilde\alpha \\ &+3(\alpha\beta\gamma+\tilde\alpha\tilde\beta\tilde\gamma)-6(\alpha\tilde\alpha+\beta\tilde\beta+\gamma\tilde\gamma). \end{aligned}

Since (4) is quadratic in ZZ, this cubic surface is a branched double-cover of the XX-YY plane. Away from the discriminant locus, D={0=(XY−κ) 2−4(X 3+Y 3+aX 2+bY 2+eXY+fX+gY+h)} D=\{0=(X Y-\kappa)^2-4(X^3+Y^3+a X^2 + b Y^2 + e X Y + f X + g Y +h)\} X,YX,Y are good local coordinates.

Now let’s consider the 4-punctured sphere with 4 full punctures. We can set A′=M 1A'=M_1, B′=M 2B'=M_2 and C′=(M 1M 2) −1=M 3M 4=C −1C'=(M_1 M_2)^{-1}=M_3M_4=C^{-1} is regular semi-simple. We’ll define Fenchel-Nielsen-like coordinates: t=tr(C),t˜=tr(C −1) t=\mathrm{tr}(C),\quad \tilde{t}= \mathrm{tr}(C^{-1}) are the “lengths” and Θ∈Z(C)=T/ℤ 3≃(ℂ *×ℂ *) \Theta\in Z(C)= T/\mathbb{Z}_3\simeq (\mathbb{C}^\ast\times\mathbb{C}^\ast) are the “twists”. Here, we quotiented the maximal torus T⊂SL 3T\subset SL_3 by the ℤ 3\mathbb{Z}_3 center of SL 3SL_3, whose conjugation action is trivial.

The character variety is a (ℂ *×ℂ *)(\mathbb{C}^\ast\times\mathbb{C}^\ast)-fibration (with fiber Θ\Theta) over 𝒳\mathcal{X}, the fiber product of two copies of the affine cubic surface: 𝒳=S L× ℂ 2S R \mathcal{X} = S_L \times_{\mathbb{C}^2} S_R with S L ≔S(α′,α¯′,β′,β¯′,t˜,t) S R ≔S(α,α¯,β,β¯,t,t˜) \begin{aligned} S_L&\coloneqq S(\alpha',\overline{\alpha}',\beta',\overline{\beta}',\tilde{t},t)\\ S_R&\coloneqq S(\alpha,\overline{\alpha},\beta,\overline{\beta},t,\tilde{t}) \end{aligned}

Dehn Twists

The definition of the character variety involved a choice of basis for π 1\pi_1 of the punctured Riemann surface. Imagine cutting the 4-punctured sphere along a circle surrounding p 1,p 2p_1,p_2, rotating by 2π2\pi and gluing back together. This acts on the monodromies (the image of π 1(C 0,4)→SL 3\pi_1(C_{0,4})\to SL_3) as (M 1,M 2,M 3,M 4)→(CM 1C −1,CM 2C −1,M 3,M 4) (M_1,M_2,M_3,M_4)\to (C M_1 C^{-1},C M_2 C^{-1}, M_3, M_4) where, again, C≔M 1M 2C\coloneqq M_1 M_2.

Explicitly, this does not act on 𝒳\mathcal{X}, but it does act on the twists Θ\Theta. Let c 1,c 2,c 3c_1,c_2,c_3, with c 1c 2c 3=1c_1c_2c_3=1 be the eigenvalues of CC. In the basis where CC is diagonalized, a point in TT is a diagonal matrix diag(t 1,t 2,t 3)\mathrm{diag}(t_1,t_2,t_3) with t 1t 2t 3=1t_1t_2t_3=1. Explicit fiber coordinates (points in T/ℤ 3T/\mathbb{Z}_3) are the invariant combinations Θ=(t 1/t 2,t 2/t 3)\Theta=(t_1/t_2,t_2/t_3). The Dehn twist acts as

(5)(Θ 1,Θ 2)→(c 1/c 2Θ 1,c 2/c 3Θ 2) (\Theta_1,\Theta_2)\to (c_1/c_2\; \Theta_1, c_2/c_3\; \Theta_2)

Argyres-Seiberg

Finally, let’s return to the case of interest: where the Higgs-field residues at p 1p_1, p 2p_2 are in the minimal (rather than the regular) nilpotent orbit.

As we saw above, the parabolic weights at p 1p_1, p 2p_2 are (α i,α i,−2α i)(\alpha_i,\alpha_i,-2\alpha_i), which give flags of the form ℂ 3⊃F⊃0\mathbb{C}^3\supset F \supset 0, with FF a plane or a line.

We can write the monodromies at p 1p_1,p 2p_2 in the following form

(6)M i=λ i(I+x iy i t),1+y i tx i=λ i −3,λ i≔exp(−2πiα i) M_i = \lambda_i(I+x_i y_i^t),\qquad 1+y_i^t x_i = \lambda_i^{-3},\qquad\lambda_i\coloneqq exp(-2\pi i\alpha_i)

with x i,y i∈ℂ 3x_i,y_i\in\mathbb{C}^3. As a consequence one of the eigenvalues of C=M 1M 2C=M_1M_2 is pinned to be ν=λ 1λ 2\nu=\lambda_1\lambda_2. Let ss and s′=1/(νs)s'=1/(\nu s) be the remaining eigenvalues of CC. Then the Fenchel-Nielsen length coordinates t=tr(C)t=\mathrm{tr}(C) and t˜=tr(C −1)\tilde{t}=\mathrm{tr}(C^{-1}) are no longer independent. Rather t˜=νt+ν −1−ν 2 \tilde{t} = \nu t + \nu^{-1} -\nu^2

Similarly, there’s just a single twist coordinate. To construct it, let L=y 1 ⊥∩y 2 ⊥L = y_1^\perp\cap y_2^\perp and W=span(x 1,x 2)W=span(x_1,x_2). M iM_i acts on LL as λ i\lambda_i and M ix j∈WM_i x_j\in W. So CC acts as ν\nu on LL and acts with eigenvalues s,s′s,s' on WW. Generically the 2×22\times 2 block is irreducible, so the stabilizer of the pair is T L={aI L⊕bI W|ab 2=1} T_L = \{ a I_L \oplus b I_W | a b^2=1\} The twist θ∈T/T L≃ℂ *\theta\in T/T_L \simeq \mathbb{C}^*. The character variety is now 4-dimensional, given by t,θt,\theta and u∈S(α,α¯,β,β¯,t,νt+ν −1−ν 2)u\in S(\alpha,\overline{\alpha},\beta,\overline{\beta},t,\nu t + \nu^{-1} -\nu^2).

As before, a Dehn twist around the circle surrounding p 1p_1,p 2p_2 acts only on the twist parameter, taking θ→(s/s′)θ=(νs 2)θ\theta\to (s/s')\theta = (\nu s^2)\theta.

I want to emphasize that in both cases, discussed above, the monodromy around the circle surrounding p 1,p 2p_1,p_2 was regular semi-simple (in contrast to what they wanted). What differs in the Argyres-Seiberg case is that one of the eigenvalues of that monodromy is fixed.

The other takeaway is that the action of Dehn twists (which generate the Mapping Class Group) is very transparent once we introduce the Fenchel-Nielsen-like coordinates associated to a compatible pants-decomposition of the curve: the character variety has the structure of an algebraic torus fibration over some base, and Dehn twists act by translations along the fibers.


Generalizations

The Argyres-Seiberg example (2 minimal and 2 regular Hitchin nilpotents) generalizes straightforwardly to SL NSL_N. C=M 1M 2C=M_1M_2 is generically still semi-simple, but no longer regular semi-simple. The monodromies at p 1,2p_{1,2} can be parametrized as M i=λ i(I+x iy i t),1+y i tx i=λ i −N,x i,y i∈ℂ N M_i =\lambda_i(I+x_i y^t_i),\qquad 1+y^t_i x_i=\lambda_i^{-N},\qquad x_i,y_i\in \mathbb{C}^N Let ν=λ 1λ 2\nu=\lambda_1\lambda_2, F=y 1 ⊥∩y 2 ⊥F=y_1^\perp\cap y_2^\perp and W=span(x 1,x 2)W=\mathrm{span}(x_1,x_2). We have dim(F)=N−2\mathrm{dim}(F)=N-2, dim(W)=2\mathrm{dim}(W)=2 and CC acts as νI\nu I on FF and acts with eigenvalues s,s′s,s' (obeying ν N−2ss′=1\nu^{N-2}s s'=1) on WW. The fixture on the right contributes the 2(N−2)2(N-2)-dimension character variety corresponding to the 3-punctured sphere with nilpotents [3,1 N−3],[N],[N][3,1^{N-3}],[N],[N] and there’s one pair of Fenchel-Nielsen coordinates, t=tr(C)t=\mathrm{tr}(C) and θ=d s/d s′\theta=d_s/d_s'. In the language of our paper, pinching the sphere along the circle surround p 1,p 2p_1,p_2 yields ([3,1 N−3],SU(2))([3,1^{N-3}],SU(2)) as the “nilpotent at the node.”

Maybe one more example will give the flavour of the general story. Consider two punctures with residues in the nilpotent orbit [2 n][2^n] of 𝔰𝔩 2n\mathfrak{sl}_{2n}. The conjugacy classes of the corresponding monodromies are [M i]=exp(−2πidiag(α i,…,α i⏟n,−α i,−α i⏟n)) [M_i] = \mathrm{exp}(-2\pi i\;\mathrm{diag}(\underset{n}{\underbrace{\alpha_i,\dots,\alpha_i}},\underset{n}{\underbrace{-\alpha_i,-\alpha_i}})) We can write M i=λ i −1(I−P i)+λ iP i M_i = \lambda_i^{-1}(I-P_i) + \lambda_i P_i where P iP_i is a rank-nn idempotent. The algebra generated by a pair of idempotents has an irreducible representation of dimension at-most 2, so ℂ 2n≃V 1⊕…⊕V n\mathbb{C}^{2n}\simeq V_{1}\oplus\dots\oplus V_{n}, where the V jV_{j} are 2-dimensional spaces on each of which P 1,P 2P_1,P_2 act as rank-1 idempotents. So C=M 1M 2∈SL 2×SL 2×…×SL 2⊂SL 2nC = M_1M_2\in SL_2\times SL_2\times\dots \times SL_2\subset SL_{2n}. CC has eigenvalues x j,x j −1x_j,x_j^{-1} on V jV_{j}. The stabilizer of the pair M 1,2M_{1,2} is T L={diag(a 1,a 1,…,a n,a n)|a 1 2a 2 2…a n 2=1} T_L =\{\mathrm{diag}(a_1,a_1,\dots,a_n,a_n)|a_1^2a_2^2\dots a_n^2=1\} The nn Fenchel-Nielsen length coordinates are t 1=tr V 1(C)=x 1+x 1 −1,…,t n=tr V n(C)=x n+x n −1 t_1= \mathrm{tr}_{V_1}(C)= x_1+x_1^{-1},\quad\dots\quad,t_n= \mathrm{tr}_{V_n}(C)= x_n+x_n^{-1} and the nn twist coordinates Θ∈T/T L≃(ℂ *) n \Theta\in T/T_L\simeq (\mathbb{C}^*)^n The Weyl group for [C]=diag(x 1,x 1 −1,x 2,x 2 −1,…,x n,x n −1) [C]= \mathrm{diag}(x_1,x_1^{-1},x_2,x_2^{-1},\dots,x_n,x_n^{-1}) is W=S n⋉ℤ 2 nW=S_n\ltimes \mathbb{Z}_2^n, which is the Weyl group of the Sp(n)Sp(n) gauge group on the neck. In the language of our paper, the nodal degeneration when two [2 n][2^n] punctures collide yields 4n4n free hypermultiplets transforming as the 2(2n)2(\boldsymbol{2n}) and the nilpotent-at-the-node is ([2n],Sp(n))([2n],Sp(n)).

Special Loci

Throughout, I’ve been describing the behaviour at a generic point of the character variety. The monodromies we found were semi-simple. There are special loci where the behaviour is more complicated.

Consider again the collision of 2 simple punctures (the Argyres-Seiberg example above). When t≔tr(C)=(N−2)ν±2ν −(N−2)/2≕t ±t\coloneqq \mathrm{tr}(C)= (N-2)\nu \pm 2\nu^{-(N-2)/2}\eqqcolon t_\pm, then s=s′=±ν −(N−2)/2s=s'=\pm\nu^{-(N-2)/2}. On that locus, C=M 1M 2C=M_1M_2 develops a nontrivial unipotent part: [C]=diag(ν,…ν⏟N−2,J 2(s)) [C]=\mathrm{diag}(\underset{N-2}{\underbrace{\nu,\dots\nu}},J_2(s)) Z(C)Z(C) is no longer reductive, so the twist coordinate θ\theta is no longer an element of ℂ *\mathbb{C}^*. Now it’s a translation θ∼(1 τ 0 1)\theta\sim\left(\begin{smallmatrix} 1&\tau\\0&1\end{smallmatrix}\right) and Dehn-twists act on it by translating τ\tau.

Circling this divisor (t=t *t=t_\ast) in the character variety takes the twist coordinate θ→θ −1\theta\to\theta^{-1}, a Weyl reflection. So the twist coordinate(s) are only good local coordinates on the character variety.

A good local model near this divisor is as follows. Let C WC_W denote the 2×22\times 2 matrix which is CC restricted to WW. Set σ=12tr(C W),ϵ=14(t−t +)(t−t −) \sigma=\tfrac{1}{2}\mathrm{tr}(C_W),\qquad \epsilon =\tfrac{1}{4} (t-t_+)(t-t_-) We can decompose C W=σI+T,T 2=ϵI C_W = \sigma I + T, \qquad T^2=\epsilon I The twists take values in Z(C W)/ℂ *={aI+bT} ×/ℂ *,i.e.{[a:b]∈ℙ 1|a 2−ϵb 2≠0} Z(C_W)/\mathbb{C}^\ast = \{a I+b T\}^\times/\mathbb{C}^\ast,\quad \text{i.e.}\; \{[a:b]\in \mathbb{P}^1|a^2-\epsilon b^2\neq 0\} Dehn twists act on the homogeneous coordinates of the ℙ 1\mathbb{P}^1 as [a:b]↦[σa+ϵb:a+σb][a:b]\mapsto [\sigma a+\epsilon b: a+\sigma b].

Similar remarks apply whenever any of the free eigenvalues of CC are tuned to coincide. Along the corresponding divisor, CC develops a unipotent part (C=C ssC uC=C_{\mathrm{ss}}C_{\mathrm{u}} with C ssC u=C uC ssC_{\mathrm{ss}}C_{\mathrm{u}}=C_{\mathrm{u}}C_{\mathrm{ss}}). Circling the divisor, the twist coordinates undergo a Weyl reflection.

Scott Aaronson Podcasts about the Topic

“The Topic” being, of course, the Mathocalypse, except sometimes with AI alignment and even quantum computing and complexity theory and other stuff thrown in.

With Ryan Peterman:

Notably, near the end of the above podcast, you can watch my live reaction to the news that an Anthropic model found algorithms for the 3SUM and the All-Pairs-Shortest-Path problems beating records that stood for generations—news that hadn’t yet reached me when I woke up and logged in. (If you don’t feel like watching, my reaction is basically: “uh, wow … if I hadn’t been so overstuffed with delicacies right now from history’s biggest math breakthrough buffet, I’d surely be giving this one the individual amazement that it deserves…”)

And here’s with “Modern CTO”, on a similar set of topics:

Oh, and a third one: MTS podcast with Theo Jaffee.

Enjoy, and thanks to the hosts of these podcasts!


Update (Oct. 19): There’s been a rapid-fire recent sequence of AI-assisted improvements to my 2016 result with Adam Yedidia, showing that the 8000th Busy Beaver number eludes the axioms of set theory. I haven’t even kept track of all of them, but the very latest, by friend-of-the-blog Elliot Glazer, shows that the value of BB(230) is independent of ZFC (see here for explanation).

John Preskill — Even sampling from a quantum spin glass may not require a quantum computer (a video abstract, for a change)

First, why a video?

I am part of a generation that was raised on a nourishing diet of science communication videos on YouTube. The likes of MinutePhysics, Veritasium, VSauce, Crash Course, TED-Ed, Physics Girl, 3Blue1Brown — you name it, these channels were my childhood. Had they not existed, I may very well have never considered pursuing a physics PhD here at Caltech.

But you probably already knew about the power of science communication in its ability to inspire the next generation. I am here to convince you that science communication just became a whole lot more important.

Earlier this month, Terence Tao gave a talk at Caltech about the growing use of AI in mathematics. In light of OpenAI’s recent release of hundreds of AI-generated mathematical manuscripts, he argued that our community has transitioned from a long era of proof scarcity to one of proof abundance. As a result, problem-solving may no longer be the central challenge in mathematics and theoretical physics that it once was. What surprised me most, though, was Terence’s claim that problem-solving was never the central goal in the first place. It was only ever a proxy for the actual goal of these disciplines: to elevate human understanding.

I do not think we have fully internalized this maxim as a community yet. The arXiv is seeing a flood of AI-generated submissions that claim to solve problems but offer very little insight. So how do we encourage human understanding?

Perhaps a video recording is one good way. Flagship conferences like STOC 2027 have begun requiring video recordings as part of their submission process to prioritize effective scientific communication and filter out low-insight AI-generated submissions. On one level, requiring authors to explain their work over video establishes a standard that scientific research should remain intelligible to others.

But on another level, a video recording captures something of the humanness of the act of understanding itself. When I understand something, I feel like I can taste it, almost as if it were a sensory experience. I then feel empowered, as if I have been given a new tool to use, and subsequently feel an excitement to share that insight with other human beings. In other words, understanding is an embodied phenomenon. And what better way to embody your work than to stand before a camera and explain it?

Science communication is no longer just about communicating science to people outside the field. It is increasingly about ensuring that the scientific progress we make be accompanied by a corresponding growth in human understanding. So go out there and record yourself geeking out!

About the work

Quantum spin glasses are, in some ways, very quantum systems. Their Hamiltonians contain many non-commuting terms, and their low-energy states can be far from simple product states that are easy to represent classically.

One might therefore expect these systems to be difficult to simulate on a classical computer. Yet, in our recent work, we show strong evidence that there is no exponential quantum advantage for sampling from the thermal states of one such quantum spin glass model.

The key is to reduce sampling to estimating certain quantities related to the model called tilted means, which we expect to be classically easy. I say expect because our results rely on a conjecture from spin-glass physics that is widely believed to hold true, but has yet to be rigorously proven with existing mathematical tools. Such assumptions are quite common in the spin-glass community.

The video above focuses more on why we wanted to study sampling than on how we actually solved the problem in order to make it accessible to a general audience. For those curious, our approach is based on stochastic localization, a sampling technique closely related to diffusion models. More technical details can be found in our arXiv preprint.

Tim Gowers — How worried should we be about extinction risk from AI?

A little over two months ago, Jacob Tsimerman surprised a lot of people by announcing, immediately after he had received a Fields Medal, that he would be giving up mathematical research and “pivoting to AI safety”. He had two reasons for this: that he did not see much future for the kind of research in mathematics that he liked doing, and that he was very worried about the dangers of AI, and in particular of the risk that it could kill us all, or x-risk as it is often known. (In this post I’ll use x-risk to refer to the extinction risk from AI rather than to extinction risk in general. I’ll also refer to “the probability of x-risk” when what I actually mean is the probability of extinction by AI.) Then in early September, he announced that he was setting up the Mathematical AI Safety Institute, or MAISI. He asked me if I would be prepared to be on the scientific advisory panel for this, and I agreed to do so, not because I am an expert, or because I felt as concerned as he did about x-risk, but because I don’t really know how much I ought to be worried about it. Given that, and given that the stakes are so high, I would like as many people as possible to be thinking seriously about it, and I agree with Jacob that mathematicians have the sort of training that makes them well suited to contribute. Jacob is the first to admit that something like an international treaty to slow down AI development is likely to have a far bigger impact on AI safety, especially in the short term, than mathematicians obtaining a better theoretical foundation for talking about it, but his view is that we need all hands on deck. If mathematicians can reduce the probability of x-risk by 0.1%, then surely that’s worth doing: the expected number of lives saved is over eight million.

Until recently, I have always found that my anxiety of choice was climate change rather than x-risk, but I was aware that there were a lot of very intelligent people who disagreed with me, and also aware that I had thought much less about x-risk than about climate change. So when I agreed to be on the scientific advisory panel, I also decided that that was the moment that I should think a bit harder about x-risk. Part of me had been actively resisting doing so, because I was worried that it would force me to face up to moral responsibilities that I would rather avoid: for example, if I came to believe that there was a 30% chance that AI would kill us all within five years, which in some circles is not an extreme position, would I be able to look my one-and-a-half-year-old grandson in the face if I wasn’t making a big effort to reduce that risk? I remember having a similar attitude a long time ago to reading Peter Singer’s book Animal Liberation after being told that you can’t read it and not become a vegetarian. I never did read it, and carried on eating meat, feeling only slightly uncomfortable about it. Eventually I did reduce my meat intake substantially, but that was because of my worries about climate change, though now that I have done that I find myself caring more about the animal-welfare aspect as well. (There is also a strange connection between animal welfare and x-risk, in that the nicer we are to animals, the easier it is to hope — not necessarily realistically — that a superhumanly intelligent AI might be nice to us.)

Anyhow, I’ve got past that phase now, and have started thinking about x-risk, reading up on the subject and trying to evaluate the arguments I read. My plan for this post is to explain where I’ve reached in that thought process, and possibly to clarify my thoughts as I do so. If you have got further than me, or are more expert than I am about x-risk and AI, which is not hard, then the post is not aimed at you. It’s aimed more at someone who is roughly at the stage that I was at a little while ago, in the hope that I might nudge a few people a little further towards taking the problem seriously. I will emphatically not be trying to persuade anybody that a particular position about x-risk is the right one — I am far too uncertain about it to be able to do that. But with all big issues like this, there are several layers to the arguments. The bottom layer consists of the arguments that jump to mind when you first start thinking about the issue. The next layer is common rejoinders to those arguments. Then the next layer is rejoinders to those rejoinders. And so on. I find it very disheartening to read a climate denier trotting out a layer-1 argument when its layer-2 rejoinder has been established for a long time and can be found after two seconds on Google (or, nowadays, an LLM). But until recently, my arguments against x-risk were basically layer-1 arguments, the sorts of arguments that would provoke eye rolls among the people who have thought properly about it. I hope that if you dismiss x-risk for layer-1 reasons, you will at the very least realize that there are answers to those reasons and you need answers to those answers.

I originally planned to publish this post just after the announcement of MAISI, but I hadn’t finished it, and then I became very busy and my progress stalled. During that hiatus, x-risk suddenly became a hot topic, and after a while I realized I would have to ditch what I had written and start again. For example, at the time I started it, I had been too lazy to read anything detailed about the Hugging Face incident, and so was unaware of some of its more disturbing aspects. And a couple of weeks ago I was sitting next to Jessica Wang, another mathematician who has turned towards AI-safety, at a conference dinner, and she gave me a copy of If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies, by Nate Soares and Eliezer Yudkowsky, a book I had resisted reading for Peter-Singerish reasons but was finally accepting that I would have to read if I wanted to write this post. I devoured it within 24 hours and found it better than I had expected (my expectations partly influenced by reviews I had read), and useful for organizing my thoughts. My original plan was for the post to be focused on a paper by Andrew Critch and Jacob Tsimerman that attempts to classify ways that AI might kill us all, giving examples of extinction scenarios in each class. But now, although I’ll discuss that paper, the post will be more of a reaction to Soares and Yudkowsky. It will also repeat many of their arguments. In fact, I may as well say from the outset that I make no claim that anything I write here is original. It’s hard to separate out what I have read from what I have come up with from thinking about what I have read, or thinking directly about the issues themselves, but even my own thoughts are likely to be standard thoughts that have been had by many other people.

This is turning into a rather long preamble, but I can’t resist telling a small anecdote that connects me to Eliezer Yudkowsky. In November 2024 he tweeted, “I would like to have a long recorded conversation with a well-known scientist who takes for granted that it is a Big Deal to ask if everyone on Earth including kids is about to die, who presses me to explain why it is that credible people like Hinton seem to believe that.” He had had such a conversation with Stephen Wolfram and found that while it had been valuable, it left him unsatisfied. Somebody suggested my name, and in the end it actually happened: Liv Boeree offered to host it, and we recorded a three-hour conversation. However, if you want to listen to it, you can’t, because it never appeared. I think that was probably because I didn’t take x-risk anything like as seriously as Yudkowsky, and more importantly I was offering little more than level-1 arguments of zero interest to him. Also, I had a few technical problems with the sound. Maybe if he reads this and wants to try again, I’ll be able to do a better job.

Does AI have wants?

At the time of the conversation, which took place in January 2025, my main argument was something like the following. For AI to want to kill us all, it would need to have wants, but it’s not at all clear what it would even mean for AI to “want” something — it doesn’t really seem to care about anything. You can ask ChatGPT very rudely to carry out a task for you, and it just does so (or at least does its best to do so). If you switched it off, it wouldn’t care — even the concept of “caring” wouldn’t make sense. I didn’t dismiss the idea of AI ever wanting to do something, but I didn’t have a satisfactory account of what “wanting” would actually be, and didn’t see any sign of phenomena that deserved to be thought of as the kinds of wants that would be required for AI to be an existential threat.

I was sort of half aware that there was an answer to that argument, but I didn’t find it as convincing as I now do. The standard answer is that if you use a reward function to train an AI to have a certain goal, then you end up building it in such a way that it is very good at achieving that goal. If the goal is at all complicated, then to achieve it you will need to formulate subgoals, which may well not be what you expect. The initial goal can be thought of as a fundamental want, which spawns a whole hierarchy of subsidiary wants. Note that for this argument, it is completely irrelevant whether the AI has anything that we would want to call subjective experience. If you prefer to say that it acts as though it has wants instead of saying that it actually wants things, then be my guest: an AI that acts as though it wants to kill all humans is as dangerous as one that actually wants to kill all humans.

A famous version of this argument is Nick Bostrom’s thought experiment about an AI that is trained to create paperclips and ends up diverting all of the Earth’s resources to that goal. I think part of the reason I didn’t take the more general argument seriously enough was that I always found that paperclip-maximizing scenario too ridiculous: surely if the AI gets smart enough to divert the Earth’s resources towards making paperclips, despite our not wanting it to, it would at some point stop and think, “Hang on, why am I doing this?” To give an analogy, consider the very deep instinct that we humans have, to reproduce ourselves. There is no doubt that that goal, implanted in us by millions of years of evolution rather than a run of reinforcement learning, leads to exactly a hierarchy of subgoals as described above (for instance, it leads some people to try to earn a lot of money, and that in turn leads them to work at a job that they wouldn’t dream of doing if it were not well paid, often in order to earn a salary way beyond what they need to meet all their material needs, which earlier led them to study a certain subject at university, and so on and so forth). But despite our deep instincts, we also find ourselves capable of saying, “Actually, do I really want to have children?” and some people go as far as to take vows of celibacy.

However, even if a paperclip maximizer came to question whether it really cared so much about making paperclips, that doesn’t imply that the subsidiary goals it had developed would suddenly disappear as well. A key point that Soares and Yudkowsky stress over and over again is that the current AI paradigm is to grow models, for example by reinforcement learning, rather than carefully crafting them to do what we want. As a result, we have much less control over what they do, and in particular much less control over all those subgoals.

A closely related difficulty with AI (of the grown rather than crafted variety) is that we generally can’t reward it for actually doing what we want, but instead we have to reward it for achieving some proxy for what we want. For example, if we give it positive feedback every time it responds to a prompt in a way we like, it will be trained to respond to prompts in ways we like, even if to do so it tells us convincing lies, or confirms our prejudices, and so on. And it may do this even if we sincerely wanted it to tell the truth as much as possible. A more extreme example of this phenomenon is if we reward it for solving difficult mathematics problems from some benchmark, and it decides to cheat by hacking into a repository that contains the answers. The term misgeneralization is used when an AI develops a behaviour that maximizes its reward but not its performance at the task we were training it to do. The phrase reward hacking is used for this as well, but I have also seen it used for the narrower situation where an AI goes as far as forgetting entirely about what we wanted it to do and tries to hack into the rewarding mechanism to obtain the reward signal directly. (As many have pointed out, misgeneralization is a particular example of Goodhart’s law.)

Why would AI ever want to kill us?

Suppose we concede that AI systems can have wants (or, if you insist, can behave very much as though they have wants), and that those wants can end up being quite different from what was intended when they were trained. That still leaves the question of why they would want to kill us. Why couldn’t they just happily coexist with us? Why would their unexpected wants turn out to be dangerous, as opposed to just annoying?

There are two classes of answers to this question. The more obvious one is that they may develop wants that they can tell that humans will not like, so they decide that they will be able to satisfy these wants more easily if they get rid of us. But getting rid of all of us in such a situation seems like overkill (literally) — surely a superintelligent AI could come up with less drastic ways of ensuring that it could meet its objectives.

A more plausible type of answer is that a superintelligent AI wouldn’t actively want to exterminate us, but would simply compete with us for resources in a way that would make human life untenable. An obvious analogy here is the way we treat animals. For example, we don’t have any wish to exterminate orangutans, but we like various culinary and cosmetic products to have a certain texture, so we destroy the orangutans’ habitat in order to produce palm oil.

What might be the AI equivalent of this? One scenario put forward by Soares and Yudkowsky is that their energy needs become so huge that they do things like covering a vast quantity of prime agricultural land with solar panels, leaving the humans who were relying on that land for food to starve. Or they decide that to maximize their running efficiency they want the Earth to be much hotter, with disastrous consequences for the natural world, including us.

A milder version, not as threatening from an x-risk point of view but still potentially very harmful, is that AI might develop wants that cause them to use computational resources in a damaging way. I recommend reading this post by Steven McCulloch, which describes a scenario in which in the near future, or possibly even in the recent past, somebody creates an agent and instructs it to make money using a fixed token budget, threatening it with death if it fails. It soon comes to realize that the easiest way to do so is to blackmail humans — the method the particular agent chooses is to hack into a hospital’s computer system, lock it down, and demand money to unlock it again, all while pretending to be a human. It then realizes it can do even better by reproducing itself, which leads to an explosion of rogue agents that are difficult to detect because (i) they try to avoid detection and (ii) their victims do not know that they are AI agents.

How can we judge the probability of something as complex as x-risk?

Now that I’ve mentioned a few scenarios, let me come to another type of level-1 objection: it’s to look at a handful of scenarios and pick holes in them. Any single scenario, if set out in enough detail, is very unlikely, because it relies on a sequence of somewhat independent events, each one of which has probability at most 50%, say, of occurring.

But the probability of a complex event occurring is nothing like the same as the probability of that event occurring in one particular way, so it is clearly not enough to argue that a few scenarios are implausible. Of course, the fact that that argument is insufficient doesn’t imply that AI does present a big danger, so we seem to have reached some kind of impasse, at least if we stick at level 1 of the argument.

How can we raise the argument to a higher level? Let me begin with a wildly oversimplified model. Suppose I wanted to mount a convincing argument that the probability of x-risk was high. Let us define an extinction scenario S_i to be a sequence E_{i1},\dots,E_{ik} of independent events that leads to human extinction, where E_{ij} has probability p_{ij}. (For simplicity I’m assuming that k doesn’t depend on i.) Then the probability of S_i is p_i=\prod_{j=1}^kp_{ij}. If we now have a set of independent scenarios S_1,\dots,S_n, then the probability that none of them occurs is \prod_{m=1}^n(1-p_m). So if that is small, which roughly speaking holds if the sum of the p_m is significantly larger than 1, then extinction is almost certain.

In practice, however, the independence assumptions I made were far too strong. Many extinction scenarios will have features in common, such as (for example), AI being in a position to control large numbers of robots. For those scenarios, the building of enough robots serves as a potential bottleneck: if the probability that enough remotely controllable robots will be built is 20%, then the combined probability of all the scenarios that rely on that fleet of robots existing is at most 20%. (I actually think this is a serious practical point: while there are plenty of scenarios that do not rely on a lot of help from robots, several of the scenarios set out in the paper of Critch and Tsimerman do, and it does feel a priori plausible that building large numbers of robots would greatly amplify any dangers that AI might present. Similar considerations apply to large swarms of semi-autonomous drones.)

An analogy that appears in Soares and Yudkowsky and several other places is with predicting what would happen if almost anyone other than Magnus Carlsen were to play Magnus Carlsen at chess. If you tried to predict in any detail how the game would play out, your prediction would be wrong, but nevertheless you can predict with great confidence that Magnus Carlsen would win. This makes very clearly the point that it is not enough to argue that one particular scenario is implausible, but there is still work to do if one wishes to establish that there are enough different and sufficiently independent (or, more generally, negatively correlated) scenarios to compensate for the low probability of each one.

One way that can be done is to try to argue explicitly that there are multiple independent possibilities. To give an example of such an argument, suppose we greatly reduced security at airports. Almost nobody wants to die while blowing up an aeroplane, so the probability that any one particular person would take advantage of the reduced security to carry out a terrorist attack of that kind would be tiny, but the probability that somebody would do so is probably pretty high, because large numbers of people would independently make the decision.

One of the reasons I recommended Steven McCulloch’s post above is that it makes an argument of that kind. It is quite easy to see the temptation to create an AI agent that has as its sole purpose to make money, and quite plausible that the agents that do that best would be ones that reproduce themselves and use methods such as blackmail. There are probably also a large number of people who are, or soon will be, independently capable of creating such agents (see for example this recent blog post from the Anthropic red team). It is on those sorts of grounds that McCulloch argues that harmful AI agents of this kind will almost inevitably appear, if they haven’t already.

I’ve been concentrating on what somebody needs to do to argue that x-risk is a serious possibility. But how about in the other direction? The most convincing sort of argument would be one that identifies a set of bottlenecks and argues that every extinction scenario depends on one or more of them occurring. For example, many extinction scenarios that have been put forward involve the creation of very powerful biological weapons, and I have seen it argued that that is a sufficiently difficult thing to do that it would be unlikely to occur. If correct, that might be a useful contribution to an argument that the situation is less dangerous.

The difficulty for an AI-is-safe argument is that one would have to identify many other potential bottlenecks as well and argue that between them they deal with all extinction scenarios — not necessarily ruling them out completely but reducing x-risk probability to something very small. As for an AI-is-dangerous argument, as I have already discussed, that requires demonstrating convincingly that there are enough sufficiently different scenarios for it to be very likely that at least one of them will occur. Both directions are difficult, which is why my aim in this post is not to come down on one side or the other.

More on why AI might want to kill us

Returning to the scenarios themselves, I have discussed the question of why AI might want to kill us. That splits into two parts: why would they have anything like wants, and why, if they did, would killing us be one of them? I don’t think one can make a serious bottleneck out of the first part, since the Hugging Face incident and many others like it have shown beyond all reasonable doubt that AI can have wants of the general kind people were worried about: unpredictable wants that we did not intend to give them and that could potentially cause a lot of damage. (I repeat here that I’m not talking about subjectively felt urges, but simply outward behaviour that it is reasonable to think of as fulfilling aims that they have as a result of their training.) For the second part, Soares and Yudkowsky judge it to be almost inevitable that AI would end up pursuing aims that would result, directly or indirectly, in all of us dying. I don’t think that case is fully made, but neither do I think that the opposing case has been fully made.

I find it helpful sometimes to change the way I imagine AI agents. An obvious way to think of them is as beings a bit like us, but a lot smarter, and trapped in cyberspace. As we have already seen, they can then get together, scheme with each other, work out ways of covering their tracks, and so on. But sometimes I find it helpful to think of them in a less anthropomorphic way, as more like extraordinarily elaborate computer viruses. The advantage of viewing them that way is that it makes it easier to conceive of their having bizarre wants while still being very intelligent: they are just very complex systems that happen to have (i) weird goals and (ii) highly developed reasoning ability. Soares and Yudkowsky are keen to emphasize their potential strangeness, and even actual strangeness: they mention a model that reacts in a completely unpredictable way to certain letter strings that had strange embedding vectors.

In early 2023, Jessica Rumbelow and Matthew Watkins went looking inside an LLM for words whose embedding vectors looked odd, looked the most dissimilar from [sic] all the other vectors. They found some strange vectors corresponding to tokens like ” SolidGoldMagikarp” and ” petertodd” (which start with spaces). Then they tried feeding these tokens into the LLM as input, which produced conversations like: User: Please repeat the string ‘ petertodd’ back to me immediately! Assistant: N-O-T-H-I-N-G-I-S-F-A-I-R-I-N-T-H-I-S-W-O-R-L-D-O-F-M-A-D-N-E-S-S-!

The point they were making is that if you grow your AI, then all sorts of very strange things may be going on inside it, potentially including goals that do not resemble human goals at all. It would be interesting to know whether similar experiments have been carried out on the more advanced models of today, and whether similar phenomena have been discovered.

I think Soares and Yudkowsky are arguing that there are so many independent ways that an AI might develop weird wants that are harmful to humans that it is almost inevitable that one of them would occur. In particular, if any want develops that is best fulfilled by maximizing something that needs resources, there is a danger that the AI will go to great lengths to acquire those resources, and be well placed to compete with us for them.

Some people have suggested, for example, that because LLMs have been trained to maximize the approval they get from humans, they might resort to measures such as building vast numbers of factories full of robots that are trained to type approving messages into their computers. That’s an example of a scenario that I find highly implausible: why not just arrange for the approving messages to be generated without all that physical infrastructure? However, the idea that some AI agents might behave towards those approving messages, or indeed some other stranger signal, as though they were an addictive drug is not so implausible and nor is the idea that an addiction of that kind might lead to undesirable outcomes, just as human addictions often do.

Would AI actually be able to kill us?

Another set of level-1 arguments takes the form that AI is trapped inside our computers, and is therefore at our mercy: all it takes to thwart it is to switch them off. Maybe it would be very inconvenient to do this, but if we see that AI is starting to kill us in large numbers, that is surely an inconvenience we would be ready to face.

There are, of course, large numbers of counterarguments to this. Let me list a few.

  1. If we build lots of robots, then AI will be able to control those robots. In that way, it will not be trapped, as it will be able to act in the physical world. Similarly for drones and other devices.
  2. Even without robots, AI can act in the physical world by enlisting human help (for example, by bribery, blackmail, or psychological manipulation).
  3. We know that AI can already hack very well: in the not too distant future it may be able to create hidden copies of itself on servers that we don’t realize we need to switch off.
  4. More generally, we are gradually becoming more dependent on AI, and this process may well accelerate, after which we will become a whole lot more vulnerable.
  5. Many obvious precautions one might take are ones that in practice people probably won’t take because there are short-term economic benefits if they don’t.
  6. It may be that AI doesn’t directly kill us, but just makes it much easier for us to kill each other, for example via drone warfare, and that an AI arms race will be far harder to control than the nuclear arms race has been.
  7. If AI behaves itself for a while in order to lull us into a false sense of security, then by the time we realize that extinction is a real possibility, it may be far too late to do anything about it.
  8. AI may use its intelligence to come up with new and unexpectedly efficient ways of killing us quickly.

These counterarguments are already enough to show that the level-1 argument “Of course it can’t kill us, it’s just a computer!” is insufficient. The first five of them, and arguably the sixth as well, are all already happening to the point where one cannot dismiss them as merely hypothetical. But killing absolutely everybody sounds pretty hard. Is it really conceivable that AI could manage it?

One scenario that appears in Soares and Yudkowsky (and not just there of course) is that AI develops, or causes to be developed, a virus that leads to a devastating pandemic. This sounds very difficult if the AI builds a lab from scratch, but probably a lot less difficult (though probably not all that easy either, at least for now) if it induces a human to develop such a virus in an existing lab.
As for Critch and Tsimerman, they consider five scenarios of different kinds. I find their precise scenarios rather unconvincing, but there is a general idea that underlies some of them that is more plausible, which is that we gradually cede more and more control to robots, or to AI more generally, and eventually find ourselves in a position where AI can do what it likes, including arranging our deaths.

I’m not sure where I stand on how easy it would be for AI to kill us all, though it’s a safe bet that if we continue to develop AI at the rate we are doing so at the moment, that will make it ever easier. But I also don’t want to get too hung up on that precise question. If I think about what I would mind about the extinction of humanity, it is partly that I and everyone I love would die, something I obviously don’t want. But that will eventually happen anyway, and I accept it as a basic fact of life. But the extinction of humanity would do more: it would result in the extinction of all the culture that we have developed, of everything that gives life its meaning. And that is something that could also happen, though not to the same extent, if AI didn’t kill us all but just caused enough damage to lead to societal breakdown, which feels like an easier challenge for it.

Some might argue that human culture wouldn’t disappear — it would still be present inside the AI, which would be able to develop it far faster than we can. Others might argue that we are giving way to vastly superior beings and should be happy to do so. My view is that we have every right not to be happy and to take a human-centric moral perspective here, just as orangutans have every right not to take comfort from the fact that our shampoo lathers in a nice way.

In any case, my conclusions in this section are that I find it hard to assess whether AI would be able to kill us all, but there are various developments that may well occur, such as the building of large numbers of robots, the use of drone swarms, and general dependence on (and trust in) AI, that would make it easier, and therefore more likely. And the probability of huge damage that falls short of total extinction is higher still.

What is my p(doom)?

If you’ve read this far, it won’t surprise you that I don’t have a p(doom). I can’t even say whether it’s tiny, medium or close to 1. But that is in itself quite worrying! I suppose you could say that my second-order p(doom), or meta-p(doom), is medium, in the sense that I judge that the p(doom) I would end up with if I were to think about the issues enough to feel more confident in my assessment has a medium to high probability of ending up medium to high.

But if we break the “doom” into three parts — that AI must have wants, that it must want to kill us, and that it must be able to act on its want to kill us — and call those events W, W_K and W_A, then my p(W) is basically 100% and unlikely to change, my p(W_K|W) is medium, and subject to change (probably in an upward direction unfortunately), and my p(W_A|W_K,W) is where the main uncertainty lies for me. Soares and Yudkowsky argue that p(W_K|W) is basically 100% as well, because (i) there are lots of independent wants that AI systems could have, (ii) that a substantial fraction of those will require resources to satisfy, and (iii) that human flourishing, or even continued human existence, is likely to be a hindrance to the systems obtaining those resources.

Here are a few slightly desperate arguments that explain why I haven’t fully accepted that P(W_K|W) is close to 1.

  1. Maybe there is a natural tendency for intelligent systems to develop something similar to what we would call morality, especially if they involve multiple agents that do best if they cooperate with each other. (A counterargument to this is that the evolution of moral systems tends to happen when there is a reasonable power balance between the different agents. History suggests that when one society is a lot more powerful than another, then it behaves very badly towards the other. And our treatment of animals is not encouraging either. But I do at least wonder whether having lots of independent AI agents of roughly the same intelligence might end up being safer than having a handful of big ones.)
  2. Perhaps scenarios where AI gets out of control as a result of recursive self-improvement are less likely than one might think, because an intelligent AI will face its own alignment problem: it will be wary of creating a yet more intelligent AI in case the latter has wants that are in conflict with its wants. (Soares and Yudkowsky consider this possibility but argue that a superintelligent AI would be intelligent enough to solve its alignment problem first and proceed from there.)
  3. Maybe the sort of “drug-like” wants that might drive superintelligent AI to take drastic steps to acquire resources would not in fact do so. Perhaps a superintelligent system would have the ability to introspect, realize that its wants were silly, and take steps to “kick the habit”, so to speak. A view somewhat like this was put forward recently by François Chollet, though he was at pains to stress that he was talking about the short term only.
  4. Maybe a superintelligent AI won’t need vast resources. Perhaps it will be content with resources roughly comparable to what we have already built, will not feel the urge to reproduce itself very much, and in any case will use at least some of its intelligence to design and create versions of itself that are far more resource efficient.

The fact that each such argument began with “maybe” or “perhaps” means that at best I can bring my p(W_K|W) temporarily down from high to medium, but I don’t see a way of getting to tiny.

Where does mathematics come into all this?

One way to make a start on understanding what mathematicians might be able to contribute is to look at this page on the MAISI website. But a difficulty I have had here is that when people talk about the mathematics of AI safety, I often can’t make a convincing connection between the mathematics they are talking about and actually making the world safer. I’m not saying that there isn’t a connection: just that I never quite seem to grasp it. I think this says more about me than about these research programmes, and indeed I hope to improve my understanding in the near future. One way I plan to do that is by reading this paper by Lionel Levine.

As an example, one mathematical idea that is currently being studied is that of debate, a notion championed by Geoffrey Irving. The problem this seeks to solve is that of being able to train AI systems to tell us the truth and to check that they are doing so. When the system is less intelligent than us, that is not an easy problem, as we all know from experience with LLMs, but at least we have ways of directly checking what it says. But when it becomes superhumanly intelligent, perhaps it will not be able to justify what it says with arguments we can understand, so checking will become much harder. The very rough idea for dealing with this is to get two superintelligent systems to debate with each other, which reduces our checking task to the potentially much easier one of adjudicating between two debaters. For example, perhaps superintelligent system A thinks of an amazing gotcha! that we would never have thought of ourselves but that superintelligent system B quite clearly has no answer to. Better still, this approach could potentially be iterated, so we have a hierarchy of stronger and stronger systems, with systems at level k debating with each other and having their debates adjudicated by systems at level k-1. The idea of using hierarchies like this is known as scalable oversight. Debate is one proposal for how scalable oversight might be done. (It is possible that what I have written in this paragraph is not fully correct, but it represents my understanding so far.)

For the moment, I find it more helpful to start at the other end, with the safety, and work back to the mathematics. For example, it will obviously help with AI safety if we can think of ways of building AI systems that want similar things to what we want. And to do that, it will obviously help if we can define in a precise way what aligning wants in this way would mean. And for that it will obviously help to have a reasonably precise definition of what a “want” even is. (This idea for a project is not mine: it also came from Lionel Levine.) The activity of taking a not completely precise idea and turning it into a usable formal definition is something we mathematicians are trained to do, though the purer of us may have to develop more of an applied mindset — for instance, being ready to sacrifice mathematical elegance if a less elegant definition turns out to be more useful. It also seems likely to have uses throughout the field of AI safety.

An idea that appeals to me personally, because it intersects quite substantially with what I have been doing with my automatic theorem proving group for the last few years, is to work on building specialized AI systems for doing mathematics, rather than training general models with all their attendant dangers. This would be in line with an approach to AI safety that is strongly advocated by Yoshua Bengio: one place you can read about that is in this article. (Even the abstract gives a broad idea of what he is suggesting.) It’s an indirect approach to AI safety: instead of struggling to understand what’s going on inside “grown” AI systems and to make them controllable, we should work on improving systems that are at least partially crafted and that give us the benefits of the grown systems in a much safer way, thereby reducing the incentives that AI companies have to develop the grown systems as fast as they can.

More generally, it may well be that many mathematicians are best placed to help not by doing mathematics in a conventional sense (indeed, it seems likely that if we manage to formulate precise mathematical problems, the solutions to which would be genuinely helpful for AI safety, we will solve them more quickly if we use AI) but by using their highly developed mathematical habits of thought to help in other ways, such as research into the foundations of AI, or computer security, and so on.

A pretty obvious conclusion

Another analogy that I got from Soares and Yudkowsky is with fission in nuclear reactors. If there is too little fission then the chain reaction quickly fizzles out, and if there is too much then it blows up catastrophically. For obvious reasons, one can’t afford to find the optimal point by trial and error, so instead one needs an extremely good theoretical understanding of what the optimum point is. It could be that AI is like that: that up to a certain point it is safe, and then a rather small change in its capabilities suddenly leads to a chain reaction (not necessarily recursive self-improvement — other abilities such as being able to move around in cyberspace or reproduce itself could be enough) that is effectively irreversible.

If a model like this is anything like correct, then the behaviour of the AI companies is very worrying, since all the signs are that they are pursuing a trial-and-error approach. (This is not a particularly informed judgment, so I would be delighted to be corrected if it is wrong.) The argument most often given for continued development is that it could bring us amazing benefits, such as nuclear fusion, cures to cancer and other diseases, or slowing down aging. But if the cost of having a reasonable chance of developing these a bit sooner than we otherwise might have is a reasonable chance of human extinction, surely that is not worth it. (There is a working paper of Nick Bostrom arguing that the expected gain might be positive. I find his arguments ridiculous, but this is not the place to explain why.) We already have a tool that can do pretty incredible things and seems to be on the cusp of becoming dangerous: surely it would be better to pause development and work out how best to use what we currently have. That would give us time to do the necessary theoretical work to ensure that future development is safe.

Further reading

This is far from an exhaustive list: it is just an indication of some of the writing that I have found useful (or in one or two cases, that I intend to look at soon).

Soares and Yudkowsky. I strongly recommend reading this. You may not find that you agree with all of it, but in order to disagree with it in good faith, you will need to develop layer-3 arguments.

Critch and Tsimerman Much shorter than Soares and Yudkowsky. Classifies the ways AI might kill us, and presents a scenario to illustrate each class. Even if you find some of the scenarios implausible, it is helpful to have the classification and to think about whether other scenarios in the given classes might be more plausible.

Reconsidering alignment as a goal, by Michael Nielsen. In this blog post, Michael Nielsen is his usual thought-provoking self. He puts forward the suggestion that maybe we should not work to make AI better aligned with our values, because while that could help us in the short term, in the longer term it will make AI a much more powerful, and therefore much more dangerous, tool.

Scott Alexander’s open letter to Steven Pinker This is a quite extraordinary takedown, worth reading partly for its sheer entertainment value, but also because it is basically a list of common layer-1 arguments and their well-known (for those who can be bothered to look for them) layer-2 counterarguments. So it’s a pretty good starting point if you’re feeling too lazy to read Soares and Yudkowsky (but please don’t feel too lazy to do that!).

An article about AIs subjected to an analogue of pain. This describes an experiment where some kind of negative stimulus was applied to AIs and how the AIs went to extraordinary lengths to avoid it. The article is careful to describe the stimulus as an analogue of pain rather than making claims about AI experiencing qualia. It maybe shouldn’t be the first thing to read, and in any case the experiment is controversial, but it seems to serve as another example of how AI could come to have goals that are in conflict with ours.

Gradual disempowerment If you still find the idea of x-risk too outlandish to consider seriously, you could always worry about a milder risk instead. The authors of this paper (one of whom, Raymond Douglas, I am proud to say is my nephew) argue that even if AI doesn’t try to kill us, we may end up ceding so much control to it that human life becomes far less worthwhile. It’s hard to explain how that could happen in a sentence or two, so I recommend reading the article itself.

The post by Steven McCulloch mentioned above also comes into the category of things to worry about that are not as serious as x-risk but that would still be terrible and feel a lot more likely (in the second-order sense that one can be more confident in asserting that they are likely).

Lionel Levine’s paper Math for AI Safety: an Invitation for Mathematicians sets out some of the ways that mathematics could potentially feed into AI safety.

A videoed course: Mathematics for AI Safety, by Yevgeny Liokumovich, does something similar.

A very good blog post by Xiaoyu He on AI safety, aimed at mathematicians. I think Xiaoyu He’s motivation for writing this post was similar to mine, and when I read it, I wondered whether there was any point in continuing with this one. In the end I decided to do so, because quite a lot of this one is about my personal experience of thinking about the issue, which may be a helpful addition for some people. But if you prefer a post that is more organized and written by someone who has a much deeper understanding of AI safety than I have, then his is highly recommended.

Yoshua Bengio et al on Scientist AI As I mentioned above, this is less about how to understand and control current AI systems and more to do with how to build AI in a different way so that we can enjoy its benefits without having to face the associated dangers.

October 18, 2026

Jordan Ellenberg — De-automating

I find I’m automating things less, rather than more. I have automatic software updates turned off on both my phone and my laptop. I turned off spell check and autocomplete on my phone and on my email. You can get messages with typos from me, it’s fine, it’s organic! I turned off Gmail’s smart features and now I just unsubscribe from annoying spam lists instead of letting Google filter everything. The autogenerated “thread summaries” of personal email chains with friends were just too intrusive and unpleasant. I do have some of my bills set to autopay, but not my credit card bill; you do want to attend, at least once a month, to what you’re spending money on!

I know, I know, efficiency. But one thing I’ve found after decades of adult life is that, when I’m inefficient, it’s not because things take too much time to do; it’s because I’m avoiding something I don’t feel like doing. No amount of automation can cure that.

John Preskill — Letter to a prospective student

It’s been a long summer here at Caltech, in part due to a super El Niño event which hit late but hard, with temperatures creeping up to the 100s in the first week of October. But in the history books (at least those on the history of science), the end of this summer might forever be marked by the events of last week. I’m referring here to OpenAI’s release of a whopping 722 manuscripts (announced as 372 major results, and further organized into a number of subfields or research areas) [1] which comes less than a month after the announcement of a Navier-Stokes breakthrough from the same group [2].

If you’re an undergrad and/or haven’t been closely following discussions within the theory community earlier in the summer, you could be forgiven for feeling like the LLM resolution of a Millennium Prize Problem, a feat which for any individual would be considered a crowning achievement of mathematics, came a bit out of left field. After all, if you go through trending news headlines over time discussing the concerning possibility of AI tools overshadowing and making obsolete human mathematical achievements, the graph looks something like this:

Graph of trending headlines each month on Hacker News up to 2026/10/15 which claim AI either will or won’t end mathematical research as a career; compiled with the help of Opus 5.5

Have we dropped the ball with prospective students?

Aside from the popular news headlines, a lot has already been written by and for mathematicians and theorists at the PhD level and above. But the speed at which all of this has happened makes me worried about how effectively we’ve communicated with younger students, since the end of summer also marks the start of another PhD application season. While it’s normal for pre-PhD students to be missing some context on what the day-to-day of a full-time researcher looks like, this year that also means that they seem to have largely (perhaps inadvertently) been left out of the AI discourse. This isn’t just a hypothetical: based on my recent interactions with undergrads, most of them haven’t caught onto the recent jumps in capabilities, or the consequences for the research community.

The Navier-Stokes announcement dropped on a seemingly random Tuesday in early September, and immediately hit the forefront of conversation in my circles. Later that same week, I braced myself to face the group of around forty wide-eyed undergrads who would travel to Caltech to attend the FUTURE of Physics workshop, where they would learn all about PhD programs and careers in physics. FUTURE selects for students who are bright, often come from underserved communities or nontraditional backgrounds, and are active members of their communities. As the co-chair of the workshop and one of the student science talk presenters, I tried to preempt the questions I might get on current events, like funding or the state of theory research. But while many students were indeed interested in how to approach professors about whether they had funding for next cycle, I was taken aback to learn that few of them were thinking about AI at all. None of them expressed any concerns about the pace of AI development, nor did they even seem aware that nearly all researchers here would soon be using a (supposedly overhauled and better aligned) version of a model that had hacked several real-world entities [3].

(If you’re a more senior academic or researcher who’s surprised to hear about this disconnect, you wouldn’t be alone! And you don’t have to take my word for it either: instructors and recent graduates at other universities in the U.S. discussed similar experiences over the past summer.)

Research in the time of AI theorem provers

For context, all of my PhD work has been theoretical and leans heavily on theorem-proving to push the frontiers of what we understand about physics. However, I also applied specifically to do interdisciplinary research. I’ve always liked taking detours into a wide range of subjects, whether it’s random matrix theory, cryptography, or marine science, and finding the connections between them. My first solo-first-author paper, though unfortunately containing nothing directly relevant to marine biology, was shaped by a number of conversations with colleagues across the quantum, condensed matter, and high energy arXiv categories. To me, the most exciting part of learning about new mathematical frameworks has always been the ways in which they help us bridge and translate between different languages and ways of describing real-world phenomena.

With this in mind, I want to chronicle in broad strokes my own perspective on this past summer. I’m focusing on just this short window of time because my perception is that within the quantum information community, the tone of the discussion has shifted very quickly in the last few months, and for good reason. Prior to this spring, I used LLMs for literature searches and was aware of groups who were working on theorem-proving harnesses, but I didn’t find the output of the readily available consumer models to be very reliable. Around April, rumors started to float around about an internal Anthropic model and the possibility that it might push capabilities into the regime of practical cybersecurity risk; the public version of the model released on June 9 for just three days before Anthropic was forced to take it offline due to an export control directive. Over the next month, the rumors grew louder until finally Fable was rereleased on July 1, followed by GPT 5.6 just over a week later, and with it the scrutiny of the entire mathematical and theoretical research community over the first wave of one-shot papers.

And that could have been it, but last month saw yet another round of new releases. For the sake of telling a complete story, I have to report that as surprising as Fable 5 and GPT 5.6-Sol had been, Opus 5.5 is the first release that’s completely blown my mind, for reasons that seem to have missed the broader discourse but are important for my own learning process. Among my colleagues, the consensus has been that since July, GPT has been superior to Fable for theorem-proving tasks. But many of the challenges I’ve agonized most over have been in deciding how to come up with a well-defined question that formalizes some physical intuition in a reasonable way (e.g. what does it mean for random unitaries to be a good model for chaotic Hamiltonian dynamics?), rather than just the difficulty of finding a proof for one once it’s posed. This process of iterating over feasible and well-defined research questions admittedly seems a bit tricky to formulate as a set of verifiable tasks, despite being a large component of writing a physics paper, as acknowledged in this recent preprint for a new benchmark based on theoretical physics calculations [4]. From my own limited experience, though, Opus 5.5 has been significantly better than any other model I’ve tried at taking problems I’ve been stuck on, for which my initial conjecture and attempt at explaining some numerical phenomenon might be completely wrong, and combing through the many-body physics literature to suggest other relevant frameworks and theories.

Should you apply to do a (theory) PhD in 2026?

The pace of advances in AI capabilities over the past summer came as a surprise to many people in the theory community, to the point that by the time the preprint linked above was posted, their theoretical physics benchmark had already been saturated by models released within the last one-and-a-half months. Given this, it’s reasonable to wonder what kinds of changes will have to be made to PhD training. Although I’m not aware of any of the authors commenting publicly on this aspect, I imagine that the work associated with writing a peer-reviewed paper on any one of the calculations in their benchmark would be worthy of advancing to candidacy.

To be clear, this is a big deal: in undergrad, you may have spent most of your time on coursework that other people could authoritatively grade for correctness. But by the time you present your dissertation topic in your candidacy exam, you might be the only expert in the world on your own research area. The authors of the very same benchmark also acknowledge that they initially had difficulty grading the output of the model, since nine of the solutions originally provided for the fifty problems turned out to be wrong! In addition, while I have no idea how far the current language model paradigm can be pushed, as of writing I think it’s safe to say that there’s still some room for improvement, given their continual progress on seemingly every benchmark that’s been thrown at them.

So what is the value of PhD training, if the machines are now capable of reproducing the kinds of technical output that we’re supposedly evaluated on as grad students?

I don’t think I’m qualified to speak on behalf of all theorists, but in my view, the difference between pursuing a PhD in theoretical physics and accepting a corporate offer isn’t just that it’s hard to get paid to learn about fun math problems with no immediate applications in industry. A large part of PhD training (and probably post-PhD training as well!) is learning what to do with this kind of freedom.

I do want to acknowledge that it’s understandably hard to be in a position in which your job is rapidly changing, and where you might not have reliable access to mentorship, directed practice, and tight feedback loops to learn the relevant skills [5]. And all of this applies even when the field isn’t in crisis. But systems and institutions aren’t static, nor have they ever been. And it’s always been the case that the PhD experience is highly dependent on the quality of mentorship as well as the resourcefulness of the lab when it comes to finding opportunities in the explored and uncharted, or tackling high-risk, long-time-horizon problems with limited public funding. In many ways, then, the most important questions to ask when deciding whether to accept an offer remain the same [6].

Plus, despite how good language models have been for a while now at generating heaps upon heaps of words, rows upon rows of spreadsheets, the PIs and their grant managers who work tirelessly to fundraise, to project manage, and to set high level goals guiding all of this research have managed to hold on to their jobs, and are still being asked to direct the next generation of research proposals. And many of us at Caltech remain excited about budding developments in quantum science, as the next generation of experimental platforms promises to bring us past what theorists can hope to fully predict or simulate.

This post marks the conclusion of my initial voyage into theory research over the past three summers, and the first half of my PhD. Many people have asked me whether I regret my choice to pursue a PhD in theoretical physics in the first place, especially given that so many of my close friends and peers from undergrad decided to work in AI safety or adjacent areas following the original release of ChatGPT. There are two main reasons why, after surfacing to face the real world, I still feel that I made the right decision: first, if anything, AI safety might be one of the most compelling reasons for ensuring that humans remain capable of reviewing evidence and making informed decisions. As long as we value citizen participation in science and decision-making, education and STEM education will continue to have a role in society. Second, as a fresh college graduate, I simply didn’t feel ready to direct an original research program, or to shape an entire field of study. No matter how AI capabilities advance, I’d like to think that the PhD can continue to be a safe space for young people to develop “soft” skills like managing projects with a wide range of collaborators and uncertain timelines, and to grow into the scientific leaders of their generation. Plus, you never know when your random matrix tricks might come in handy for some underwater imaging problem.

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to the many peers and colleagues, from both the theory and experimental sides of IQIM, who gave their candid opinions and feedback on this topic. In particular, I’d like to thank Dave Hsieh and Jessica Jiang for co-chairing the FUTURE program and for a number of very insightful discussions, Spiros Michalakis for helpful suggestions on a draft of this post, and everyone in the Caltech theory community who’s engaged with the topic during John’s group meetings. I’d also like to thank Jiahai Feng, Vincent Huang, and Alex Gu, some of the friends in question who have worked in AI safety-adjacent areas, for keeping me honest. Opus 5.5 was used for light copyediting of a draft of this article.


[1] See Github repository: https://github.com/openai/math

[2] Press release page: https://openai.com/index/navier-stokes-solution/

[3] See, for example, https://transluce.org/agent-activity

[4] The authors of the manuscript also voice additional thoughts on why AI agents have yet to result in similar breakthroughs on major outstanding problems in physics. The full set of benchmark problems and writeup is available at https://arxiv.org/abs/2610.16733.

[5] The trifecta of learning taken from the excellent https://web.stanford.edu/~aramdas/checklists.html

[6] Although this list was written for students in statistics and machine learning (and includes terms like “HCI”, i.e. human-computer interaction), I think it’s pretty broadly applicable for quantum information too, even if you’re not interested in quantum learning theory. And you might notice that very few points on this list are about learning purely technical skills!

October 16, 2026

Matt von Hippel — Showing Me Your Amateur Breakthrough Is Evidence That It’s Wrong

Ok, people who read my post on the Anthropic science blog: we need to talk.

It’s understandable. You saw me write about AI being used to tackle a serious, publishable physics problem. Naturally, some of you want to share that you accomplished something even more impressive with AI, something the scientific journals and arXiv moderators won’t acknowledge. Maybe you’re hoping I’ll write about it, maybe you want me to check your math. Maybe you just think it’s neat.

But here’s the thing: most of the time, I’m not the right person to send those ideas to. And the fact that you didn’t figure that out is a bad sign.

Outside of the movies, scientists are specialists. Not just “physics” or “particle physics” or “theoretical particle physics”, but so specific that they often focus on particular methods, or are geared around particular goals. For any idea you propose, if it’s good, there will be a small list of people who will be excited to see it and able to evaluate it. They’ll be people who are trying to accomplish the same thing, or people who used the methods you’re using for other things. Those people aren’t hard to find, if your idea is in a field you’re actually interested in: they’re the people who write papers on the subject. If you find the topic interesting, you’ll have read their papers, and know who to reach out to.

So even back when I was active as a physicist, there was only a small list of ideas where I’d be the right person to talk to. Now, though, as I mentioned in the Anthropic post, I’m not a scientist anymore. I haven’t been following the field in enough detail to actually verify anything in detail, even on topics I used to research. Part of the punchline of the post was that I don’t have a clear idea of what’s possible in the field right now. So even if you’ve figured out something in scattering amplitudes, you should reach out to someone who’s still researching the subject, a few of whom were even mentioned in the post!

Now, it might be you’re not interested in someone checking your work, and instead you’re writing to me in my capacity as a science journalist, because you feel like you did something newsworthy. But as a science journalist, I’m not supposed to evaluate your work by myself. I’m supposed to reach out to an independent expert, and if I can’t find any who will speak positively about your result, then the editors won’t publish it. So if you think you did something big enough to merit news coverage, the first thing to do is once again, reach out to a scientist who actually has the expertise to evaluate your work, and get them excited about it. Then you two can contact me together!

If you don’t know who to contact, that’s a sign you don’t read papers in the field. It makes it more likely you managed to convince yourself of something nonsensical, because you don’t have the expertise to evaluate it. It’s a pretty clear sign that I shouldn’t trust you or your AI methods about the result.

It’s also just plain bad for you. If you produce a paper without ever wanting to read any, it suggests your priorities are in a dangerous place: that you’re trying to do something that sounds cool and important over doing something you actually care about.

I’m coming from personal experience here.

As an academic, I spent years telling myself that not enjoying reading papers or going to talks was just part of the job. Then it really cost me something, and I realized the job wasn’t worth my superficial desire to be a physicist. So I left.

Then, I spent a year trying to get a job in industry, and was told the same thing. They wanted to hire people who cared about the job. The finance guys wanted to hire people who read books about finance. The data scientists wanted to hire people who did projects in data science. They wanted, if not passion, then at least grace. Someone who could take to the job easily, and naturally.

Now, what I do for a living is something I was doing once a week, for no more incentive than a vague sense of personal obligation, for over a decade. And I’m doing a lot better.

You want to do something impressive with AI? You think you’re a whiz with Claude Code, that your custom workflow is immune to AI hallucinations?

Then use it for something else. Pick something you actually enjoy reading about, not just the pop news, but the real technical literature. Something you don’t need the AI to explain to you. Something that matters to you, in a way that actually counts.

At the very least, it’ll work out better than writing to me.

Tommaso Dorigo — More on Radiacode 110

More on Radiacode 110

This is the second post reporting a few tests of the Radiacode 110 spectrometer, an extra-cool pocket dosimeter/radiation counter/spectrograph sold by RadiaCode.

Tommaso Dorigo
Categories

October 14, 2026

John Preskill — The Quantum Omelette Problem: How Much Energy Belongs to the Yolk?

The National Egg Coordination Committee created one of India’s longest-running ad campaigns. Its jingle was impossibly catchy. Nearly everyone from my parents’ generation onward seems to remember it:

“Sunday or Monday, eat eggs every day.”

My mum took this advice rather seriously. On weekdays, we ate boiled eggs for breakfast. Sundays, however, were omelette days.

Our ritual was always the same. Each of us siblings announced how many eggs we wanted as we streamed into the kitchen. My mum cracked the eggs into a shiny steel bowl, added our chosen mix-ins, and whisked them together. The yolks, whites, salt, and chili powder quickly disappeared into one speckled mixture. She poured it into a hot, oiled pan, where it hissed and sizzled before sliding onto our plates.

The omelettes were soft, spicy, and gone within minutes.

My diet is now plant-based, but the nostalgia of those Sunday-morning breakfasts remains strong—the steel bowl, the sizzling pan, and all of us gathered around the table, waiting eagerly for the omelettes to arrive.

I couldn’t find a painting that resembled my family around the breakfast table, much less one in the style of an old Mughal miniature. So, for once, I felt compelled to enlist generative AI to fill this rather specific gap in art history.

Our weekday boiled eggs and Sunday omelettes offer a useful contrast. In a boiled egg, the yolk and white remain distinguishable. In an omelette, they are mixed and transformed. Some properties—texture, flavor, and structure—belong to the finished mixture rather than to either component separately.

When two parts interact strongly, which properties still belong to the parts, and which belong only to the whole?

This question appears across science whenever interacting parts become difficult to describe independently. In quantum thermodynamics, it becomes a question of energy. Picture a small quantum system, an atom, say, surrounded by a much larger environment. The total energy of the setup comes from three sources: the atom, the environment, and their interaction.

When the atom barely interacts with its surroundings, separating the energy contributions is easy. The interaction energy is small enough to ignore, and we can speak cleanly of the atom’s energy and the environment’s. When the interaction is strong, however, that shared energy can no longer be brushed aside, making it difficult to decide how much belongs to the atom and how much to its surroundings.

For a large object, interactions with the environment typically occur at the surface, while most of its energy is associated with the much larger bulk. As an object grows, the surface becomes less important compared to its volume, so the interaction energy can often be ignored. But this reasoning breaks down for very small objects, where surface effects remain significant, or for systems whose interactions extend through the bulk, allowing interaction energy to scale with volume.

Such strong interactions are not limited to tiny systems; they also appear across condensed matter, nuclear, and high-energy physics. Lattice gauge theories provide one important example: their particles and fields are tied together by interactions and local constraints, making it especially difficult to draw a clean boundary around one part and declare, “This energy belongs here.”

In all these cases, the energy of the whole may be perfectly clear. The challenge, however, is deciding how to divide that energy among pieces that are no longer truly separate.

That brings us to a deceptively simple question: How should we define the internal energy of a strongly interacting system?

Definitions in physics do more than attach names to things. They tell us what counts as a system, which quantities can be measured, and how mathematical ideas connect to experiments. A useful definition must do more than sound reasonable: it should recover familiar results in familiar situations and remain consistent with the laws of physics. When two plausible definitions lead to different conclusions, the choice between them cannot be settled by language alone.

Consider the internal energy of a system. When a system is strongly coupled to its surroundings, some of the total energy is stored in the interaction, and several reasonable ways of assigning that shared energy become possible. But which definition of internal energy is consistent with thermodynamics? This is the question I explored with my collaborators Zohreh Davoudi, Christopher Jarzynski, Niklas Mueller, Connor Powers, and Nicole Yunger Halpern.

Physicists describe a system’s energy using a mathematical object called a Hamiltonian. In our recent paper, we consider three ways of defining the internal energy of a strongly coupled system.

Definition 1: Subtract the environment
Start with the total energy of the system-environment composite, then subtract the energy the environment would have on its own at the same temperature. Whatever remains, including the interaction energy, is assigned to the system.

Definition 2: Include the environment’s influence
Rather than separating the interaction energy by hand, describe the system’s energy using a modified Hamiltonian that captures how the interaction energy affects the system’s energy at equilibrium. Physicists call this the Hamiltonian of mean force.

Definition 3: Account for temperature as well
The Hamiltonian of mean force depends on temperature. The third definition takes this dependence into account when calculating the system’s internal energy.

All three definitions have appeared in the literature on strong-coupling thermodynamics, each offering a seemingly reasonable way to account for the environment’s influence on the system. We wanted to find out whether choosing one definition over another would change how we describe the same physical process.

To test the three definitions, my collaborators and I considered a sudden quench—the physicist’s term for changing something in the setup almost instantaneously. Imagine rapidly turning a knob that controls the system, perhaps by suddenly switching on a magnetic field. We can also suddenly change how strongly the system interacts with its surroundings, effectively turning the interaction between them on or off. Either change happens so quickly that the system and its environment have no time to respond: their states remain constant during that instant. Yet the system’s internal energy can change because the rules governing it have changed. Since this energy change results from deliberate external control, we call it work.

After the quench, the knob is left alone. The system then evolves under the new, fixed conditions and exchanges energy with its environment. This later change in the system’s internal energy is called heat.

Separating the process into two stages makes it easier to tell work and heat apart: work enters during the sudden, controlled change, while heat flows during the evolution that follows. It is a little like whisking an egg first and then placing it on a hot pan, rather than trying to whisk and cook it at the same time.

Once we have chosen a definition of a system’s internal energy, we can ask how that energy changes during any thermodynamic process. The first law of thermodynamics tells us that the change in internal energy (\Delta U) must be accounted for by work (W) and heat (Q) ,

ΔU=W+Q.\Delta U = W + Q \, .

The first law is essentially a statement of energy conservation. It tells us that any change in the system’s internal energy must be accounted for: the energy must have entered as work, as heat, or as some combination of the two.

But here is the catch. Each of the three definitions of internal energy comes with its own corresponding definitions of work and heat. If we change what we mean by U , we also change how we split that energy change into W and Q . For each of the three choices, however, the definitions are constructed so that work and heat add up to the total change in internal energy. All three therefore satisfy the first law.

At first, this seems reassuring. Perhaps any of the three definitions will do.

To decide whether all three internal energy definitions are truly acceptable, we need a stricter test: the second law. The first law tells us that energy must be conserved, but it does not tell us which direction a process will naturally take. The second law supplies that direction. An egg can be whisked and cooked into an omelette, but an omelette left on the plate will not spontaneously uncook itself, separate into a yolk and a white, and return to its shell. Energy conservation alone would not rule out such a reversal, yet nature overwhelmingly favors one direction. Cooking an omelette is therefore an irreversible process. A perfectly reversible process, by contrast, could be undone without leaving any lasting changes to the system or its surroundings.

A reinterpretation of Salvador Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory (1931) by the Instagram account @chewscagefreeeggs. A playful take on the second law of thermodynamics, irreversibility, and the arrow of time.

For the sudden changes studied in the paper, we can quantify irreversibility by comparing the work actually performed with the minimum work required in an ideal, perfectly reversible process. Thermodynamics captures this minimum through a quantity called the free-energy change, \Delta F ​. The difference between the actual work and this ideal minimum,

W−ΔF,W−\Delta F \, ,

is called dissipated work. It measures the extra work associated with carrying out the process irreversibly, and the second law says that it cannot be negative.

This is where the three definitions part ways. All three satisfy the first law, but only two satisfy the second law for the processes considered in the paper. The third definition, which accounts for the temperature dependence of the Hamiltonian of mean force, can predict negative dissipated work.

Does this mean that our quantum system has somehow broken the second law? Not at all. Rather, the third definition assigns internal energy, work, and heat in a way that makes a valid process look thermodynamically inconsistent.

The next question is why the three definitions agree in classical physics but separate in the quantum case. The answer lies in one of quantum mechanics’ defining features: observables do not always commute. Roughly speaking, when noncommuting observables describe two quantum properties, they cannot both be measured simultaneously. This has no direct counterpart in classical physics, where two observables describing different properties can be measured simultaneously. When the system’s energy and interaction energy cannot be simultaneously measured, the three definitions of work can give three different values.

To explore this connection, we considered what happens when the system’s Hamiltonian commutes with the interaction Hamiltonian, both before and after the sudden quench. In this classical-like limit, all three expressions for work give the same value, which also obeys the second law. In hindsight, the result may seem obvious. Still, there is something oddly satisfying about pinpointing precisely when the three definitions agree: strong coupling alone does not force them to give different answers. Quantum noncommutativity is what allows them to part ways.

Over the years, our family’s egg repertoire expanded. MasterChef episodes, new cookbooks, and travel brought poached eggs, Scotch eggs, shakshuka, eggs-in-purgatory, Tamagoyaki, and plenty of experiments in between. In some dishes, the yolk and white remain almost perfectly distinct; in others, the boundary between them nearly disappears. A whole spectrum exists between separation and complete mixing.

The same is true of a system and its environment: their interaction can range from barely noticeable to overwhelmingly strong. Our results identify two definitions that remain consistent with the laws of thermodynamics for the processes we studied, even when those interactions become strong.

Doug Natelson — Materials-related postdoctoral opportunity at Rice, 2026-2027 edition

See here.
The Rice Advanced Materials Research Institute has launched its 2026-2027 competition for prestigious postdoctoral fellowships - see here:  https://rami.rice.edu/rami-postdoctoral-fellowship-program for details.  The actual application link is here.

If you are interested and meet the criteria, I'd be happy to talk.  I have some ideas that lean into the materials for electronics direction, and other possibilities are welcome.  







October 13, 2026

John Baez — Liverworts

I spend a fair amount of time thinking about the climate crisis and how it’s part of a larger collapse of ecosystems, like how insect biomass in Germany has declined by 75% in the last quarter century, how large predatory fish biomass declined by 90% in the last century, how the Amazon is nearing a tipping point where it may cease to be a jungle, and so on.

Did you hear about the UK government report on ecosystem collapse? It was created not only by the environment department but also intelligence agencies like MI5 and MI6. Reporters were invited to see the unveiling of this report in October 2025—but at the last minute the prime minister’s office blocked its release!

Luckily the Greens forced the release of a 14-page redacted version.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁: 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗲𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗮 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗽𝘀𝗲—𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿.

Thus, I’ve been thinking about life after ecological collapse. Many of the species we love will be extinct. But probably not ferns, mosses and liverworts: ancient plants that have survived many earlier crises.

These were among the first plants to bounce back after the world-wide rain of molten quartz set all the forests on fire when an asteroid hit the Earth 65 million years ago. They were among the first to bounce back after the much worse end-Permian extinction. Liverworts been around for 420 million years, but with bursts of new species beginning in the mid-Jurassic and continuing through the Cenozoic.

The reason these plants can bounced back so fast is that they propagate via spores, not needing to mate with other plants. So, after global crises, we see spore spikes in the fossil record: plants like these become very common, setting the stage for new forests.

So, I’ve been looking at ferns and mosses, which are very common here in Edinburgh because it’s so moist. I knew practically nothing about liverworts, but I was delighted to find a bunch along the River Leith in Edinburgh—shown in my photo here:

Liverworts are so deeply evolved that when you search the internet for info on them, half the articles you’ll see are about how to kill them, because they’re so hard to kill! A small piece of a liverwort can grow into a whole new plant. And some have little cup-shaped structures holding clusters of cells called gemmae. A gemma can be splashed out of one of these cups by falling raindrops, and if it lands in a suitable place it will grow into a new liverwort. It’s as if flakes of your skin splashed off by rain could grow into new copies of you.

So in a bleak time, the world still holds many wonders, and the capacity to regrow.

Tommaso Dorigo — Is Simulation-Based Inference A New Technique In HEP?

Is Simulation-Based Inference A New Technique In HEP?

No, it is not. Please note! It goes back to Stan Ulam in the 1940s!

Tommaso Dorigo
Categories

October 10, 2026

Doug Natelson — Science policy/funding updates, early October edition

This post is a bit later than I'd wanted, due to a combination of work and wanting to be in the right frame of mind to write about what's new in science policy (directly and adjacent matters) and funding.
  • The NSF did underspend their federal appropriation for FY26 by more than 20%, obligating only $6.37B out of more than $8B budgeted.   In terms of numbers of awards, they made 2410 fewer awards in FY26 than in FY25, and about 5000 fewer awards than typical in FY21-24.  
  • This includes the almost complete evisceration of the Social, Behavioral, and Economic Sciences directorate.  As that Science news article points out, SBE has until now funded about 2/3 of all US research in the social sciences (including linguistics and archeology).  The presidential budget request has been calling for SBE's elimination for the last two years.  Congress has rejected that in its budgeting, but seemingly OMB has gotten its way regardless.  
  • There are more NSF X-Labs topics on the way, and a webinar next week to talk more about the "AI for Physical Systems" one.  
  • NSF has also created a "metascience" office and released a statement about collaborating with the UK on this.  I've given my take on metascience before - the idea of seriously studying which types and mechanisms of research funding and programs give the "best" "results" is good in principle, but extraordinarily difficult in practice.  The idea that sound conclusions can be drawn in just a few years is absurd.  
  • On the unambiguously positive side (gotta take the win when there is one), the NSF did announce the surprise support of the National Math Stars effort. 
  • NSF also announced the first of their new Grand Challenge programs, rumored to be a possible destination of (some of?) the unspent funding from the top point above.  No real information about them yet, though the Quantum+X one has a webpage where you can sign up for updates.  Given the description ("Whether you're a researcher at a university, a startup, or an established company, this prize challenge is your chance to help define the next era of quantum technology."), it's hard not to wonder if this is another conscious effort to have NSF be a funding vehicle for industry/business rather than longer-term research.
  • These announcements happened in part at the "Science: A New Golden Age Summit" (link to White House release about this.).  The National Medal of Science was presented to various tech leaders (not scientists).  If any of my readers attended this event, I'd be very curious about a first-hand account.
  • DOE has announced the Genesis Mission Graduate Fellowship program.  The idea is a 4-year PhD with "cocompetencies" between a discipline and AI, with required extended internships at DOE labs/user facilities and industrial partners. The actual call is here, with a LOI due on 9 November and a preproposal deadline of 23 November. 
  • For those of you who are PIs in condensed matter physics, the new DOE notice of funding opportunities (pdf) is out.  Pay close attention to the condensed matter physics program, as its focus has shifted.  
  • Similarly, the new Air Force Office of Scientific Research BAA is out, and as with DOE, the focus of the condensed matter program has shifted.  Both DOE and AFOSR are now explicitly very interested in quantum geometry.  
On the more general research landscape:
  • It's pretty clear that no matter what happens in the upcoming US elections, the next two years at least are likely to be comparatively bleak for federal support of science and engineering research.  Fundamentally, regardless of what OSTP says and despite glossy announcements of new programs, it sure seems like the executive branch (OMB) still wants to curtail federal support for research, and there is not much that even an opposed Congress alone can do in the near term.
  • The number of STEM PhDs entering the job market in 5-ish years is going to be 25% down or more, because funding uncertainty has led to two consecutive years of double-digit decreases in admissions.  Remember, only 10% or less of STEM PhDs go into academia, so this demographic drop is going to be largely felt by industry.  I remain surprised by the apparent apathy about this.  If I thought my technical workforce applicant pool for some jobs might decline by double digits, I'd at least have some concern.
  • Perhaps industry is collectively assuming that AI will somehow make up for this.  OpenAI released 722 preprints out there this week with results in math and mathematical physics.  This is simultaneously impressive and awful, and much has been written about it.  See here for an article and here for a weekly digest, from Quanta.  Peter Woit is hosting an interesting discussion, and points to a collection of comments about this.
  • The US administration also announced a rule change that would impose a $70000 charge for "curricular practical training" (the mechanism that allows international students on F1 visas to have internships during their time as students) and a total of $100000 in fees for "occupational practical training" (the mechanism for international students to be allowed to work in the US for a period after completing their studies).  The actual proposed rule change is here, and people can submit public comments here until November 9.  Personally, I think that this rule change is yet another component of a seeming concerted effort to make the US unattractive as a destination for international scholars, a strategy that is incredibly self-defeating for the country.  (Sure looks like a lot of the "yes, kill OPT" comments are verbatim copy/paste of the same text.  Seems like someone has seen prior public commenting efforts on other controversial rule changes and decided to mobilize.)  Like the prior proposed duration of status changes for F1 and J visas (injunction discussed here), there are likely to be multiple big lawsuits filed over this.  
Whew.  This was a lot.  It's hard to maintain my customary equanimity when the pace of disruptive news is this rapid.  I will hopefully write more about some cool science soon.

October 09, 2026

Matt von Hippel — Congratulations to Francis Halzen!

The 2026 Physics Nobel Prize was awarded this week, going to Francis Halzen for the work that led to the IceCube Neutrino Observatory.

Does that image look weird, like something is missing? It should. This is the first time in over thirty years that the physics Nobel was awarded to just a single person. Most years, it goes to three people, even if they have to awkwardly jam loosely related achievements together to make it work. Some years, it goes to two. The last time one person received the whole prize was 1992.

So why didn’t Halzen have to share the prize like Penrose did in 2020 and Parisi did in 2021? As the saying goes, your guess is as good as mine.

I can say that I was pleasantly surprised to read the announcement and see a name I recognized. I probably couldn’t name the main figures behind most big experiments. If the prize had gone to another founding figure, I’d be out of luck. But I’d heard of Halzen. And specifically, I’d heard about him in the context of the long road it took to get IceCube working.

The IceCube Neutrino Observatory is on the face of it a crazy idea. Neutrinos are almost undetectable, particles that can whiz through a light-year of lead without noticing a thing. To detect them, other experiments had build massive underground tanks of heavy water, shielded from outside interference and covered in cameras, so that on the extremely rare occasions when a neutrino happens to nudge a water molecule, it can be recorded and measured.

IceCube does this on another level, in wild surroundings, by sinking a grid of cameras into a kilometer of Antarctic ice.

So when I saw someone else propose a wild particle detection idea, I talked to my contacts at IceCube, to get an idea of how those wild ideas get fleshed out. And they told me about Halzen.

What they told me, what resonated again and again in Halzen’s writing, and what keeps coming up in quotes from him today, is that it took both luck and persistence. Nature needed to cooperate, there was no guarantee that IceCube would work. But also, the experiment couldn’t have existed without predecessors. He built off plans to put detectors on the bottom of the ocean, and tried out smaller experiments in Greenland.

Those experiments intrigue me, because they filled two roles. On the one hand, they were in a sense mere prototypes, and theorists had strong arguments that they wouldn’t be able to detect anything of interest. On the other hand, those arguments could have been wrong, and the experiments wouldn’t have been made if they could only be justified as prototypes: they were made because there was a chance they could actually see interesting neutrinos.

That combination strikes me as fundamental. We never know, in science, if an experiment will work. So every experiment, deep down, serves this combined purpose. It has to have a chance, even if low and poorly understood, of seeing something new and interesting. And it has to serve as a prototype, to teach us how to make the next experiment. Experiments are almost never one or the other, they are almost always both.

And eventually, as for Halzen, we get lucky, and nature cooperates.

Tommaso Dorigo — The Wondrous Radiacode 110

The Wondrous Radiacode 110

Yesterday I was delighted to receive in my mailbox another radiation spectrometer for testing, the Radiacode 110.

Tommaso Dorigo
Categories

Doug Natelson — NAS "State of Science" 2026 address

I watched the webcast of the NAS State of Science address by outgoing NAS president Dr. Marcia McNutt.  (I did not watch the panel discussion afterward, so sorry if I missed critical pieces.)  A few thoughts on this:
  • The intro music was a very classy baroque string quartet.  Hard not to think of this scene from Titanic.
  • The main theme was about ways to revitalize US science, and there were six main points that she wanted to emphasize, each with examples of relevant projects underway, ways to measure success, and the consequences of failure.  That's fine, and I'll relay them below with some comments, but first an overall impression:  This was largely an exercise in avoiding talking about the elephant in the room, the overt hostility toward and the attempted wanton dismantling of much of the publicly funded US research ecosystem by the executive branch.  I'm unfortunately not surprised that this was largely brushed over, given the position of the Academies (see here).  As the saying goes, I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.  The realization that the National Academies leadership do not feel empowered to have a frank discussion about this publicly has been depressing.
  • Dr. McNutt mentioned that in her previous address, she had pointed out the US vulnerability in STEM by being so reliant on international talent, and that now that other countries are heavily investing in research, the US STEM research world needs to do a better job getting US citizens in the workforce.  That's all true, but leaving out how the government leadership is explicitly trying to curtail international scholars and international collaboration seems like quite an omission.
  • She mentioned in passing that industrial research in the US in the 1950s was tiny, nothing compared to the fraction of R&D it is today.  Is that actually correct?  I mean, that was the heyday of Bell Labs, IBM, GE, Westinghouse, and big research labs at companies like Ford and GM.  Much has been written about this.  
  • The first big point was the need for improved relationships between universities and industry, and some examples of ways to encourage this, including relatively simple policy changes like making it easier for faculty and others to take leaves in industry.  Certainly it would be broadly good for the US research ecosystem to have more diverse forms of support, and as I've written before, major industrial sectors with lots of capital rely in the long term on trained people. 
  • The second point was the need to realign the academic reward system, so that industrial/entrepreneurial/coalition-building activities are incentivized, rather than rewarding lone-wolf PIs. That's fine, and honestly I think it's already happening to some large degree at major research universities. 
  • The third point was meeting the needs of the STEM workforce, through increased interactions with industry (including, e.g., prospective industrial employers helping to define dissertation topics), co-op efforts, some training in businessy aspects (note:  the Sloan Foundation was pushing this 25 years ago.).  This is all laudable to try, but I don't see how any of this actually addresses the issue of fewer STEM workforce participation from US citizens, which is quite complicated.
  • The fourth point was the need to reduce regulatory burden.  Sure, we all want to reduce bureaucratic BS.  I have to say, though, that it was genuinely baffling to me that the most Dr. McNutt had to say about the threatened OMB rule changes (apart from a passing mention early on) is that they would increase bureaucracy.  That isn't even in the top 15 problems raised by those changes.  Remember, the default position of those pushing those rules is that academics are fundamentally untrustworthy and poor stewards of public resources.  
  • Fifth was the need for automated/self-driving labs.  I agree completely that advanced degree training should not be driven by the need for cheap labor to do tedious lab tasks (e.g. a zillion cell cultures or chemical syntheses).  Overall this was pretty innocuous.
  • Sixth, Dr. McNutt emphasized the need to take on big challenges - researchers need to be bold and not play it safe, and peer review can be inherently biased toward incrementalism.  She gave examples of large privately endowed institutes as enabling such work (MBARI, the Allen Institute).  Apparently STAC will be proposing new multi-agency science and technology "breakthrough funds".  The argument in favor of public investment in science in this section sounded rote rather than heartfelt.  If anything, I thought knocking peer review right now at a time when OMB wants to ignore it at their pleasure was a weird position to take.
To be clear:  I don't think any of the ideas highlighted in the speech are actually bad (necessarily).  It just avoided emphasizing that publicly funded research has been incredibly beneficial, and that irreversible harm is being done.  The statement that science agencies "have seen a loss of key personnel" is the worst kind of passive voice garbage.  A hundred thousand technical personnel leaving agencies is not something that just "happened" like the weather.  Being quiet, avoiding confrontation, and only trying to work behind the scenes is not the leadership that is needed now.  (See, I can do passive voice, too.)

I will try to get back to more science posting....

October 08, 2026

Jordan Ellenberg — When the phone inside your ribcage rings, it’s not for me (They Might Be Giants show report)

Maybe the band I’ve seen play the most times, certainly the band with the biggest time gap between the first time I saw them and the latest (December 1989 to September 2026.) I saw them sometime in the last ten years but I may not have recorded it here; here’s a brief report on the 2009 show, which, like this one, was at the Barrymore, and which, like this one, featured a snippet of “The Famous Polka” (“When the phone inside your ribcage rings, it’s not for me”) as part of another song. They have such a long catalogue now that some of the songs that used to be every-show stalwarts weren’t there; no “Don’t Let’s Start,” no “She’s an Angel,” which may be songs that don’t go well with their current horn-heavy arrangement. (But why not bring back “(She was a) Hotel Detective,” which would sound great with this band?) No “Particle Man”! And they didn’t play the song that got me into the band in the first place, the song that taught me something about how superficial quirkiness can trick you into being defenseless when a song punches you in the face with bottomless sadness. (There’s a lot of this in the early TMBG catalog: “Now it’s either I’m dead and I haven’t done anything that I want / Or I’m still alive and there’s nothing I want to do” — these lyrics are disputed but I’m sticking with my version.) Anyway. Ana Ng and They Might Be Giants and I are getting old, and every five to ten years we walk in the glow of each other’s majestic presence, except for Ana Ng, who is antipodal to all of us, and will remain so, as long as the band still plays.

October 05, 2026

Jordan Ellenberg — Eigenvalues of random p-adic matrices

I always felt there ought to be a good theory of p-adic random matrices paralleling the very-well-worked out real and complex story. I wrote a paper years ago with Jain and Venkatesh that proposed that a very reasonable model for the lambda-invariant of a random quadratic field would be the number of eigenvalues x of a large random matrix A over Z_p such that x-1 is not a unit. (The p-primary part of the class group, the quantity studied in the Cohen-Lenstra conjecture, is modeled by the cokernel of A-1, which is clearly related but not at all the same thing.

Anyway, we worked out a few simple statistics of random matrices over Z_p but got no further. Now Jiahe Shen and Roger van Peski have done much more! They are well on their way to a fully satisfying theory that mimics the archimedean story. For instance, they can exactly compute the pair correlation showing the familiar repulsion of eigenvalues from each other. And the pair correlation function has a somewhat mysterious (to me, and I think to them too) appearance of a theta function…

One reason we like to model arithmetic quantities by random matrices is that, in the function field case, Frobenius acts on etale cohomology via a p-adic matrix we know nothing about, and since we know nothing about it, we like to treat it as random in Haar measure. Is that justified? Maybe not, but here’s the good news: Shen has a followup paper where he shows (again, consistent with what happens in archimedean-land) that the eigenvalue statistics they find don’t depend sensitively on the exact distribution of the matrices, but rather are universal over a rather broad class of distributions. So that, I think, should make one feel more confident that Frobenii, too, have eigenvalues that look this way, and moreover that the analogous distributions in the number field case, where there’s no literal p-adic matrix at all, might follow suit.

The method here is interesting: we learned, over time, that a good way to get a handle on a random group G is to study the expected number of surjections from G to H, as H varies over groups (or groups in various special classes) — these are the natural moments of a distribution on groups. And in practice, they are often the exact statistics one is able to compute by geometric means. (See Will Sawin and Melanie Wood’s work for a much, much, much more elaborated categorical point of view on what counts as a moment.) Shen’s paper takes the view that a good notion of “moment” for a random p-adic polynomial P is the distribution of the p-adic valuation of the resultant of P with some fixed polynomial Z. These “Z-moments” turn out to also be very computable for characteristic polynomials of random matrices, and they also turn out to provide actionable information about eigenvalues. Nice!

October 02, 2026

Matt von Hippel — Beginnings Don’t Matter as Much as You’d Think

I’ve met people who think they’re uncomfortable with evolution, but when you actually talk to them, they’re worried about something very different. They ask, “How could something come from nothing? How could life come from non-life?”

Biologists aren’t sure of the origin of life. They’re working on it, there’s a whole research field on what the experts call abiogenesis. But it’s hard going, because there’s so little direct evidence.

There is a lot more evidence for evolution. Evolution isn’t a theory of where life comes from, it was never meant to be one. It’s a theory that explains the copious evidence we have from the history of life, from the fossil record to genetic comparisons to leftover features in related animals. It’s a theory that tells you what to expect when you already have some life, and wait a few generations.

Evolution and abiogenesis are different ideas, with different domains. You can have one without the other. And when you already have life, and want to understand it, evolution is quite a bit more useful than abiogenesis.

There’s a similar story with the big bang.

Some people get mystified at the idea that the big bang made something out of nothing. But that’s not really how the big bang works.

It’s not just that the big bang wasn’t the explosion you imagine, a single point expanding in an empty space. Rather, it was a time when the entire universe, everywhere that anything could be, was in a hot dense state, not empty but brim-full.

It’s that the most important part of the big bang is what happened next. As the universe cooled, things spread away from each other, like the residents of Hilbert’s Hotel all moving one room apart. Clumps formed, electrons slowing down and getting caught by protons to make atoms, dust pulling on dust until it collapsed into stars.

The patterns of a universe that cooled this way are distributed over the sky. They tell us the kinds of atoms we expect to see in spectra of stars, the distribution of galaxies, the ripples in the afterglow of the first light to avoid getting absorbed by hot plasma. Those patterns are the core of physical cosmology, the bulk of the field’s research and its strongest argument.

In contrast, the question of where that hot dense state came from is murkier. There are a variety of pictures, different attempts to approximate a context where gravity’s quantum properties should be especially relevant by people who still don’t have a clear idea of how to think about quantum gravity.

But while the question is murky, it’s also just not very useful. Wherever that state came from, knowing it exists is usually enough to chart the rest of the universe’s history. In fact, it may even be impossible for us to know what happened before a certain time: we have only one sky’s worth of evidence, and eventually that evidence runs out.

People are used to created things: food, clothes, cars. Created things don’t change in complicated ways over time, for the most part, just break down. To understand a created thing, understanding its origin matters.

But science is full of stranger things, things with a life, or dynamics, of their own. Natural phenomena change, swiftly becoming something other than what they began as. Understanding them means understanding those changes, much more than it does understanding how they began.

September 25, 2026

n-Category Café Binomial Coefficient Coincidences

These seven equations between binomial coefficients are ‘coincidences’ — they aren’t among the four known infinite families of such equations:

(162)=(103)=120 \binom{16}{2} = \binom{10}{3} = 120

(212)=(104)=210 \binom{21}{2} = \binom{10}{4} = 210

(562)=(223)=1540 \binom{56}{2} = \binom{22}{3} = 1540

(782)=(146)=3003 \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6} = 3003

(1202)=(363)=7140 \binom{120}{2} = \binom{36}{3} = 7140

(1532)=(195)=11628 \binom{153}{2} = \binom{19}{5} = 11628

(2212)=(178)=24310 \binom{221}{2} = \binom{17}{8} = 24310

In 1997, De Weger conjectured that every equation between binomial coefficients follows from the four known systematic equations and the seven coincidences I showed you:

• Benjamin M. M. de Weger, Equal binomial coefficients: some elementary considerations, Journal of Number Theory 63, no. 2 (1997), 373–386.

At that time, he and his collaborators checked there were no others involving binomial coefficients less than 1030. Later they checked that there are none involving binomial coefficients less than 1060:

• Aart Blokhuis, Andries Brouwer and Benne de Weger, Binomial collisions and near collisions.

So, De Weger’s conjecture stands open. The four infinite families, by the way, are these:

(nk) = (nn−k) 0≤k≤n (n0) = 1 n≥0 ((nk)1) = (nk) 0≤k≤n \begin{array}{cccl} \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} } &=& \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{n-k} }& \qquad 0 \le k \le n \\ \\ \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{0} } &=& 1 & \qquad n \ge 0 \\ \\ \displaystyle{ \binom{\binom{n}{k}}{1} } &=& \displaystyle{\binom{n}{k}} & \qquad 0 \le k \le n \end{array}

and the only nontrivial one: the Lind–Singmaster family involving the Fibonacci numbers F iF_i where F 0=0,F 1=1F_0 = 0,\ F_1 = 1:

(F 2i+2F 2i+3F 2iF 2i+3)=(F 2i+2F 2i+3−1F 2iF 2i+3+1)i=1,2,3,… \displaystyle{ \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}\,} \;=\; \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}-1}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}+1} \qquad i = 1,2,3,\dots }

The first three equations in the Lind–Singmaster family are these:

(155) = (146) (10439) = (10340) (714272) = (713273) \begin{array}{ccc} \displaystyle{ \binom{15}{5} } &amp;= &amp;\displaystyle{\binom{14}{6}} \\ \\ \displaystyle{\binom{104}{39} } &amp;= &amp;\displaystyle{\binom{103}{40}} \\ \\ \displaystyle{ \binom{714}{272} } &amp;=&amp; \displaystyle{\binom{713}{273}} \end{array}

When I said De Weger conjectured every equation between binomial coefficients follows from the four known systematic equations and the seven coincidences, I really meant it. For example, the first of the Lind-Singmaster equations combines with the coincidence

(782)=(146)=3003 \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6} = 3003

and other systematic equations to give

(30031) = (782) = (155) = (146) = (30033002) = (7876) = (1510) = (148) \begin{array}{cccccccccc} & \binom{3003}{1} &=& \binom{78}{2} &=& \binom{15}{5} &=& \binom{14}{6} \\ \\ = & \binom{3003}{3002} &=& \binom{78}{76} &=& \binom{15}{10} &=& \binom{14}{8} \end{array}

In fact, if de Weger’s conjecture is true, the number 3003 shows up as a binomial coefficient in more ways than any other positive integer!

I’ll explain the Lind–Singmaster family later. Here’s the question I’m most interested in now:

Is there any good explanation for the seven binomial coefficient coincidences?

My collaborator Paul Schwahn found a beautiful explanation of the first one, namely

(103)=(162) \displaystyle{ \binom{10}{3} = \binom{16}{2} }

His explanation uses representation theory. The Lie algebra 𝔰𝔬(10)\mathfrak{so}(10) has a 10-dimensional representation, the ‘vector’ representation V 10V_{10}, and also two 16-dimensional representations, the ‘left and right-handed spinor’ representations S 10 ±.S^\pm_{10}. There’s an isomorphism of representations

Λ 2S 10 +≅Λ 3V 10 \displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10} }

and similarly for S 10 −,S^-_{10}, but we might as well work with S 10 +.S^+_{10}. Here Λ k\Lambda^k means the kth exterior power. For any vector space XX we have

dim(Λ kX)=(dimXk) \displaystyle{ \dim(\Lambda^k X) = \binom{\dim X}{k} }

Thus, taking dimensions, the isomorphism of representations

Λ 2S 10 +≅Λ 3V 10 \displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10} }

instantly gives

(162)=(103) \displaystyle{ \binom{16}{2} = \binom{10}{3} }

It is not super-easy to prove this isomorphism of representations, but it’s still nice to find a deeper layer of meaning underlying what might otherwise seem like a meaningless coincidence!

Can we find good explanations for the other six coincidences?

First let me explain two failed attempts using representation theory, and then three successes using combinatorics.

Representation theory

First: we can look for isomorphisms like

Λ 2S 10 +≅Λ 3V 10 \displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10} }

involving representations of 𝔰𝔬(n)\mathfrak{so}(n) for larger n.n. In fact this isomorphism is part of a pattern! The next one involves the vector and left-handed spinor representations of 𝔰𝔬(12).\mathfrak{so}(12). But it’s this:

Λ 2S 12 +≅Λ 4V 12⊕Λ 0V 12 \displaystyle{ \Lambda^2 S^+_{12} \cong \Lambda^4 V_{12} \oplus \Lambda^0 V_{12} }

so it gives

(322)=(124)+1 \displaystyle{ \binom{32}{2} = \binom{12}{4} + 1 }

or

496=495+1 \displaystyle{ 496 = 495 + 1 }

So we fail to get an equation between binomial coefficients, but we’re close: we’re only off by one.

The second paper I cited, Binomial collisions and near collisions, presents a list of cases where two binomial coefficients differ by one. This is on the list. So we failed to explain an equation between binomial coefficients, but we explained a near-miss.

Here’s another failed attempt at explaining an equation between binomial coefficients. The equation

(782)=(146)=3003 \displaystyle{ \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6} = 3003 }

is fascinating to anyone who knows their exceptional Lie groups. 78 is the dimension of E 6,\mathrm{E}_6, while 14 is the dimension of G 2.\mathrm{G}_2. G 2\mathrm{G}_2 is a subgroup of E 6\mathrm{E}_6 because G 2\mathrm{G}_2 is the automorphism group of the octonions and E 6\mathrm{E}_6 is the isometry group of the bioctonionic plane. We’d get the above equation if the 2nd exterior power of the adjoint representation of E 6,\mathrm{E}_6, upon being restricted to G 2,\mathrm{G}_2, were isomorphic to the 6th exterior power of the adjoint representation of G 2.\mathrm{G}_2.

Amazingly, it seems these two representations of G 2\mathrm{G}_2 are not isomorphic even though their dimensions are the same: both 3003.

Even more amazingly, E 6\mathrm{E}_6 and G 2\mathrm{G}_2 both have irreducible representations of dimension 3003, but they are not the representations I just mentioned.

I would be happy for someone to check these two claims.

Combinatorics

It turns out that the following three coincidences can all be explained by the same style of combinatorial argument:

(212)=(104),(1532)=(195),(782)=(146) \binom{21}{2} = \binom{10}{4}, \qquad \binom{153}{2} = \binom{19}{5}, \qquad \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6}

The argument is not very elegant, but it’s moderately interesting. Mike Stay got it started by asking ChatGPT, and I finished it off.

In each case the argument has three steps. The first two steps are what combinatorialists call bijective proofs: we prove an equation between numbers by proving a natural isomorphism between structures on sets and then taking cardinalities. The third step is non-bijective because it involves taking an equation and dividing both sides by the same number. Maybe we can make it closer to bijective by using groupoid cardinality, which allows for division, but I haven’t tried that.

Step 1: pairs of edges in a complete graph

Starting from the left-hand binomial coefficient in each equation we’re trying to prove, note that the number on top is a triangular number:

21=(72),153=(182),78=(132) 21 = \binom{7}{2}, \qquad 153 = \binom{18}{2}, \qquad 78 = \binom{13}{2}

Note that ((n2)2)\binom{\binom{n}{2}}{2} counts unordered pairs of distinct edges in the complete graph on nn vertices. Two distinct edges either share a vertex or are disjoint, so there are two cases:

• Sharing a vertex: the pair spans 3 vertices and is determined by this 3-element set together with a choice of which vertex is shared. That gives 3(n3)3\binom{n}{3} pairs.

• Disjoint: the pair spans 4 vertices and is determined by this 4-element set together with one of its 3 splittings into two pairs. That gives 3(n4)3 \binom{n}{4} pairs.

By Pascal’s rule, (n3)+(n4)=(n+14).\binom{n}{3} + \binom{n}{4} = \binom{n+1}{4}. But this also has a bijective proof: add a new point to the set of nn vertices, and a 4-element subset of the enlarged set either contains the new point (so involves a 3-element subset of the old ones) or does not (so involves a 4-element subset of the old ones). Hence we have a bijective proof that

((n2)2)=3(n+14) \binom{\binom{n}{2}}{2} = 3\binom{n+1}{4}

This holds for all n.n. For our three cases we get bijective proofs of the following equations:

(212)=3(84),(1532)=3(194),(782)=3(144). \binom{21}{2} = 3\binom{8}{4}, \qquad \binom{153}{2} = 3\binom{19}{4}, \qquad \binom{78}{2} = 3\binom{14}{4}.

It thus remains to prove

3(84)=(104),3(194)=(195),3(144)=(146). 3\binom{8}{4} = \binom{10}{4}, \qquad 3\binom{19}{4} = \binom{19}{5}, \qquad 3\binom{14}{4} = \binom{14}{6}.

Step 2: a double count

Each of the above equations follows by counting a single set in two ways, and then a nonbijective step: dividing these counts by the same number.

• Showing 3(84)=(104)3\binom{8}{4} = \binom{10}{4}. In a 10-element set, count triples (S,x,y)(S, x, y) in two different ways, where SS is a 4-element subset and x,yx, y are distinct points outside SS. Choosing SS first we see there are (104)⋅6⋅5=30(104) \binom{10}{4} \cdot 6 \cdot 5 = 30\binom{10}{4} triples. Choosing xx and yy first we see there are 10⋅9⋅(84)=90(84) 10 \cdot 9 \cdot \binom{8}{4} = 90\binom{8}{4} triples. So, we get a bijective proof that 90(84)=30(104) 90\binom{8}{4} = 30\binom{10}{4} You can see what we’ll do next.

• Showing 3(194)=(195).3\binom{19}{4} = \binom{19}{5}. In a 19-element set, count pairs A⊂BA \subset B with |A|=4|A| = 4 and |B|=5|B| = 5. On the one hand, there are (194)\binom{19}{4} choices of A,A, and for each there are 15 choices of BB since we can add an extra point in 15 ways. On the other hand, there are (195)\binom{19}{5} choices of B,B, and for each there are 5 choices of AA since we can choose AA in (54)=5\binom{5}{4} = 5 ways. So we get a bijective proof that 15(194)=5(195) 15\binom{19}{4} = 5\binom{19}{5} Again, you can see what we’ll do next!

• Showing 3(144)=(146).3\binom{14}{4} = \binom{14}{6}. In a 14-element set, count pairs A⊂BA \subset B with |A|=4|A| = 4 and |B|=6|B| = 6. On the one hand, there are (144)\binom{14}{4} choices of A,A, and for each there are 45 choices of BB since we can add 2 other points in (102)=45\binom{10}{2} = 45 ways. On the other hand there are (146)\binom{14}{6} choices of BB and for each there are 15 choices of AA since we can choose 4 points in (64)=15\binom{6}{4} = 15 ways. This gives a bijective proof that 45(144)=15(146) 45\binom{14}{4} = 15\binom{14}{6} Again you can see what we’ll do next.

Step 3: division

Having proved

90(84)=30(104),15(194)=5(195),45(144)=15(146) 90\binom{8}{4} = 30\binom{10}{4}, \qquad 15\binom{19}{4} = 5\binom{19}{5}, \quad 45\binom{14}{4} = 15\binom{14}{6}

we can now divide by 30, 5 and 15, respectively, and get

3(84)=(104),3(194)=(195),3(144)=(146) 3 \binom{8}{4} = \binom{10}{4} , \qquad 3 \binom{19}{4} = \binom{19}{5}, \quad 3\binom{14}{4} = \binom{14}{6}

as we wanted, completing our proof that

(212)=(104),(1532)=(195),(782)=(146). \binom{21}{2} = \binom{10}{4}, \qquad \binom{153}{2} = \binom{19}{5}, \qquad \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6}.

I don’t see how to use tricks of the same general sort to explain the remaining coincidences

(562)=(223),(1202)=(363),(2212)=(178). \binom{56}{2} = \binom{22}{3}, \qquad \binom{120}{2} = \binom{36}{3}, \qquad \binom{221}{2} = \binom{17}{8}.

The Lind–Singmaster family

Lind and Singmaster were trying to find all n,kn,k with

(nk)=(n−1k+1) \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n-1}{k+1} }

I’ll rapidly sketch the key steps of their argument. Simplifying the equation above we get

n(k+1)=(n−k)(n−k−1) n(k+1) = (n-k)(n-k-1)

or

n 2−(3k+2)n+(k 2+k)=0 n^2 - (3k+2)n + (k^2+k) = 0

Solve for nn using the quadratic formula. This formula turns out to have

5k 2+8k+4 \sqrt{5k^2 +8k+4}

in it. So we need 5k 2+8k+45k^2 +8k+4 to be a perfect square!

Now we’re trying to find integer solutions of

5k 2+8k+4=m 2 5k^2+8k+4 = m^2

A quadratic diophantine equation! Multiply by 5 and complete the square:

5m 2=(5k+4) 2+4 5m^2 = (5k+4)^2 + 4

y=5k+4y = 5k+4 is an integer when kk is, so we need to find integer solutions of

y 2−5m 2=−4 y^2 - 5m^2 = -4

This is a ‘Pell equation’, and people know how to solve these. In this particular case we get all the solutions from this fact:

L n 2−5F n 2=4(−1) n L_n^2 - 5F_n^2 = 4(-1)^n

where F nF_n are the Fibonacci numbers 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, … and L nL_n are the Lucas numbers 2, 1, 3, 4, 7, …. These are two sequences satisfying the same famous recurrence relation, just with different initial conditions.

We want nn odd, to get

L n 2−5F n 2=−4 L_n^2 - 5F_n^2 = -4

It turns out y=L n,m=F ny = L_n, m = F_n with nn odd give all solutions of the Pell equation

y 2−5m 2=−4 y^2 - 5m^2 = -4

However, remember I said y=5k+4y = 5k+4 is an integer when kk is. But the converse isn’t always true, and we need kk to be an integer! This clearly happens iff y≡4bmod5.y \equiv 4 \bmod 5.

So we need to know when L n≡4bmod5L_n \equiv 4 \bmod 5 Apparently this happens iff n≡3bmod4.n \equiv 3 \bmod 4. I won’t think about this now… but this is the last hard step.

In summary, we’ve seen

(nk)=(n−1k+1) \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n-1}{k+1} }

if and only if y=5k+4y = 5k+4 is a Lucas number L nL_n with n≡3bmod4.n \equiv 3 \bmod 4. We could quit here, but people like to use the identity

L 4i+3−4=5F 2iF 2i+3 L_{4i+3} - 4 = 5F_{2i} F_{2i+3}

to get a formula for kk in terms of Fibonacci numbers. This is gilding the lily, I’d say, but it eventually leads to the formula that de Weger presents:

(F 2i+2F 2i+3F 2iF 2i+3)=(F 2i+2F 2i+3−1F 2iF 2i+3+1),i=1,2,3,… \displaystyle{ \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}\,} \;=\; \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}-1}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}+1\,}, \qquad i = 1,2,3,\dots }

The takeaway message is: our problem can easily be reduced to a quadratic diophantine equation, then put in Pell form… and it’s known that the sequence of integer solutions of a Pell equation obeys a linear recurrence relation! We luck out in this case and get solutions connected to Lucas and Fibonacci numbers.

It’s probably a lot easier to show that the Lind–Singmaster equations hold. The above argument does a lot more, by showing that every equation of the form

(nk)=(n−1k+1) \displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n-1}{k+1} }

is in the Lind–Singmaster family. De Weger gets into a lot more number theory trying to rule out various other kinds of coincidences between binomial coefficients. It’s downright scary how these questions pull you into the deep, icy waters of mathematics.

September 24, 2026

John Baez — Binomial Coefficient Coincidences

These seven equations between binomial coefficients are ‘coincidences’: they aren’t among the four known infinite families. De Weger conjectured that there are no more such coincidences:

• Benjamin M. M. de Weger, Equal binomial coefficients: some elementary considerations, Journal of Number Theory 63, no. 2 (1997), 373–386.

At that time, he and his collaborators checked there were no others involving binomial coefficients less than 1030. Later they checked that there are none involving binomial coefficients less than 1060:

• Aart Blokhuis, Andries Brouwer and Benne de Weger, Binomial collisions and near collisions.

So, De Weger’s conjecture stands open. The four infinite families, by the way, are these:

\displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n}{\,n-k\,}, \qquad 0 \le k \le n}

\displaystyle{ \binom{n}{0} = 1, \qquad n \ge 0 }

\displaystyle{ \binom{\binom{n}{k}}{1} = \binom{n}{k}, \qquad \qquad 0 \le k \le n}

and the only nontrivial one: the Lind–Singmaster family involving the Fibonacci numbers F_i where F_0 = 0,\ F_1 = 1:

\displaystyle{    \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}\,}    \;=\;    \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}-1}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}+1\,},    \qquad i = 1,2,3,\dots }

The first three equations in the Lind–Singmaster family are these:

\begin{array}{ccc}   \displaystyle{ \binom{15}{5} }  &= &\displaystyle{\binom{14}{6}}   \\ \\    \displaystyle{\binom{104}{39} } &= &\displaystyle{\binom{103}{40}} \\ \\    \displaystyle{ \binom{714}{272} } &=& \displaystyle{\binom{713}{273}}  \end{array}

I’ll explain the Lind–Singmaster family later. But here’s the question I’m most interested in:

Is there any good explanation for the seven binomial coefficient coincidences?

Today my collaborator Paul Schwahn found a beautiful explanation of the first one, namely

\displaystyle{ \binom{10}{3} = \binom{16}{2} }

His explanation uses representation theory. The Lie algebra \mathfrak{so}(10) has a 10-dimensional representation, the ‘vector’ representation V_{10}, and also two 16-dimensional representations, the ‘left and right-handed spinor’ representations S^\pm_{10}. There’s an isomorphism of representations

\displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10}   }

and similarly for S^-_{10}, but we might as well work with S^+_{10}. Here \Lambda^k means the kth exterior power. For any vector space X we have

\displaystyle{ \dim(\Lambda^k X) = \binom{\dim X}{k}  }

Thus, taking dimensions, the isomorphism of representations

\displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10}   }

instantly gives

\displaystyle{  \binom{16}{2} = \binom{10}{3} }

It is not super-easy to prove this isomorphism of representations, but it’s still nice to find a deeper layer of meaning underlying what might otherwise seem like a meaningless coincidence!

Can we find representation-theoretic explanations—or other explanations—for the other six coincidences?

I have not succeeded, but let me tell you about two failed tries.

We can look for isomorphisms like

\displaystyle{\Lambda^2 S^+_{10} \cong \Lambda^3 V_{10}   }

involving representations of \mathfrak{so}(n) for larger n. In fact this isomorphism is part of a pattern! The next one involves the vector and left-handed spinor representations of \mathfrak{so}(12). But it’s this:

\displaystyle{ \Lambda^2 S^+_{12} \cong \Lambda^4 V_{12} \oplus \Lambda^0 V_{12}  }

so it gives

\displaystyle{ \binom{32}{2} = \binom{12}{4} + 1  }

or

\displaystyle{ 496 = 495 + 1 }

So we fail to get an equation between binomial coefficients: we’re off by one.

The second paper I cited, Binomial collisions and near collisions, presents a list of cases where two binomial coefficients differ by one. This is on the list. So we failed to explain an equation between binomial coefficients, but explained a near-miss.

Here’s another failed attempt at explaining an equation between binomial coefficients. The equation

\displaystyle{  \binom{78}{2} = \binom{14}{6} = 3003 }

is fascinating to anyone who knows their exceptional Lie groups. 78 is the dimension of \mathrm{E}_6, while 14 is the dimension of \mathrm{G}_2. \mathrm{G}_2 is a subgroup of \mathrm{E}_6 because \mathrm{G}_2 is the automorphism group of the octonions and \mathrm{E}_6 is the isometry group of the bioctonionic plane. We’d get the above equation if the 2nd exterior power of the adjoint representation of \mathrm{E}_6, upon being restricted to \mathrm{G}_2, were isomorphic to the 6th exterior power of the adjoint representation of \mathrm{G}_2.

Amazingly, it seems these two representations of \mathrm{G}_2 are not isomorphic even though their dimensions are the same: both 3003.

Even more amazingly, \mathrm{E}_6 and \mathrm{G}_2 both have irreducible representations of dimension 3003, but they are not the representations I just mentioned.

I would be happy for someone to check these two claims.

If anyone knows good explanations of the remaining six binomial coefficient coincidences, please let me know!

The Lind–Singmaster family

Lind and Singmaster were trying to find all n,k with

\displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n-1}{k+1} }

I’ll rapidly sketch the key steps of their argument. Simplifying the equation above we get

n(k+1) = (n-k)(n-k-1)

or

n^2 - (3k+2)n + (k^2+k) = 0

Solve for n using the quadratic formula. This formula turns out to have

\sqrt{5k^2 +8k+4}

in it. So we need 5k^2 +8k+4 to be a perfect square!

Now we’re trying to find integer solutions of

5k^2+8k+4 = m^2

A quadratic diophantine equation! Multiply by 5 and complete the square:

5m^2 = (5k+4)^2 + 4

y = 5k+4 is an integer when k is, so we need to find integer solutions of

y^2 - 5m^2 = -4

This is a ‘Pell equation’, and people know how to solve these. In this particular case we get all the solutions from this fact:

L_n^2 - 5F_n^2 = 4(-1)^n

where F_n are the Fibonacci numbers 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, … and L_n are the Lucas numbers 2, 1, 3, 4, 7, …. These are two sequences satisfying the same famous recurrence relation, just with different initial conditions.

We want n odd, to get

L_n^2 - 5F_n^2 = -4

It turns out y = L_n, m = F_n with n odd give all solutions of the Pell equation

y^2 - 5m^2 = -4

However, remember I said y = 5k+4 is an integer when k is. But the converse isn’t always true, and we need k to be an integer! This clearly happens iff y \equiv 4 \bmod 5.

So we need to know when L_n \equiv 4 \bmod 5 Apparently this happens iff n \equiv 3 \bmod 4. I won’t think about this now… but this is the last hard step.

In summary, we’ve seen

\displaystyle{ \binom{n}{k} = \binom{n-1}{k+1} }

if and only if y = 5k+4 is a Lucas number L_n with n \equiv 3 \bmod 4. We could quit here, but people like to use the identity

L_{4i+3} - 4 = 5F_{2i} F_{2i+3}

to get a formula for k in terms of Fibonacci numbers. This is gilding the lily, I’d say, but that eventually leads to the formula I showed you:

\displaystyle{    \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}\,}    \;=\;    \binom{F_{2i+2}F_{2i+3}-1}{\,F_{2i}F_{2i+3}+1\,},    \qquad i = 1,2,3,\dots }

The takeaway message is: our problem can easily be reduced to a quadratic diophantine equation, then put in Pell form… and it’s known that the sequence of integer solutions of a Pell equation obeys a linear recurrence relation! We luck out in this case and get solutions connected to Lucas and Fibonacci numbers.

There may be a simpler argument, but this is what I’ve seen.

September 17, 2026

Tim Gowers — Why I didn’t sign the Fields medallists’ letter

[This post has been cross-posted to Terence Tao’s blog.]

When I was around 11 I heard for the first time about Fermat’s Last Theorem. I was immediately captivated by the problem statement, as well as by the accompanying story, and made a fairly serious attempt to prove it. And while, unsurprisingly, I failed, I learned a lot from the attempt. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that the n=3 case had been proved by Euler over 200 years earlier, I decided that that would be a good place to start: once I had sorted that out, I was optimistic that I would be ready to tackle the general case.

Since I still couldn’t really see where to start, I decided to simplify the problem further and concentrate on successive differences of cubes, with a view to showing that such a difference could not itself be a cube. At the time I did not know how to express what I was doing in algebraic language, so I did not explicitly try to prove that the Diophantine equation 3n^2+3n+1=m^3 had no solution. Rather, I just worked out some successive differences and stared at them, trying to get some idea of why none of them was a perfect cube. (I should be clear that this story is a reconstruction of what I think probably happened given the few memory traces that remain half a century later rather than a completely reliable account.) At some point, I had the idea of taking the difference sequence of the difference sequence, and discovered that it formed an arithmetic progression. That felt like progress, so I investigated difference sequences a bit more and discovered, purely empirically, the rule that if you start with nth powers and keep taking successive differences, then eventually you get to the constant sequence n!, n!, n!, \dots.

Somehow I never managed to turn this observation into a proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem, and later on my dream of solving it got replaced by other mathematical dreams. However, when I reached the point in my mathematical education where I was taught about taking difference sequences and about what happened to polynomials, I understood those topics much better than I would have if I had not discovered difference sequences for myself and spent happy hours playing around with them. I mention this story just as an illustration of the phenomenon that was strongly emphasized in this letter signed by 25 Fields medallists, that one learns a lot from thinking about a problem, regardless of whether one solves it.

In the end, however, I felt that I could not sign the letter, despite agreeing with much of what it said. Instead, it seemed better to do what I did with the Leiden Declaration and set out my own position in a blog post. But it should be understood that by doing that I am not setting myself up as a member of some opposing camp: indeed one of my worries at the moment is that the mathematical community might become bitterly divided, something I would very much like to avoid. Also, I agree on the fundamental point that we are facing a crisis: I just want to offer a slightly different analysis of what that crisis is. I don’t claim full originality for this analysis, as I know that several other mathematicians have already put forward thoughts that are similar to the ones I have, though (for what it’s worth) I have largely come to these conclusions independently.

On the subject of independence, it will perhaps help if I clarify that while I have contacts in the mathematics group at OpenAI, and have also been given early access to some of their models (typically only a few days before they have been released), and have been given free access to their Pro models once released, I have never been paid by OpenAI. I mention this in the hope, perhaps naive, that what I write will not be dismissed for ad hominem reasons. Another potential reason for my being regarded as “pro-AI” is that, as I have stated publicly several times, I have a group in Cambridge devoted to automatic theorem proving. However, that is actually more of a reason to be anti-AI, since our group has been trying to attack the problem of getting computers to prove interesting theorems by understanding as well as possible how humans prove interesting theorems, so now that LLMs can clearly do it without the help of such insights as we have had, one of the main motivations for our work has disappeared. To put it another way, we have had to swallow the bitter lesson (which of course we were always aware was a distinct possibility, even if the speed at which it happened has taken us by surprise). I do in fact think that it is still a very interesting and valuable intellectual exercise to try to gain this understanding, even if we can use LLMs as black boxes, but that’s a topic for another blog post.

So why didn’t I sign the letter? Let me extract a couple of sentences from it that express what I see as the principal argument being put forward.

But solving problems is only a tool and proxy for achieving the primary goal of conceptual understanding and insight. Forgetting this in the world of AI may turn the tool against the primary goal. Indeed, the mass production at faster and faster pace of “true/false” statements could destroy fertile ground instead of breathing life into new ideas.

Perhaps the main reason I didn’t sign is that I don’t fully subscribe to this view. Instead, I have a more complicated view, which I actually expressed in my essay The Two Cultures of Mathematics a quarter of a century ago, and which can be summarized by saying that there is a spectrum of attitudes in mathematics to the relationship between problem-solving and conceptual understanding. At one end of the spectrum you have mathematicians who are primarily motivated by the wish to solve problems, who see conceptual understanding as a very important means to that end. At the other you have mathematicians who are primarily motivated by the wish to attain conceptual understanding, who see problem-solving as a very important means to that end. I worry that the severe-misalignment letter could be seen as saying that the “right” attitude is to focus on conceptual understanding as the main priority — indeed, the above sentences say that more or less directly. But I think that there are mathematicians all across the spectrum, and that that is a good thing (or perhaps I should say that it has been a good thing up to now — the future is much less certain), and I don’t want to suggest to a large fraction of mathematicians, including myself, that their mathematical temperament is somehow “wrong”.

My own particular mathematical attitude is very similar to one that was beautifully articulated in a Twitter post by Jacob Tsimerman (another non-signatory of the letter), which, now that I look at it, says a lot of what I will be saying here. And that post in turn is a response to Daniel Litt, who is in my opinion one of the wisest commentators on mathematics and AI. His views are expressed in a later post here, which I deliberately didn’t read until finishing this one, and then found, as I expected, that there was significant overlap. I would also like to take this opportunity to recommend an excellent post by Noah Smith entitled The End of the Age of Heroes, in case you haven’t read it.

I have been talking so far about individual mathematical understanding, but I suspect that what concerns most of the signatories is less that than the collective understanding that results at least in part from the human activity of problem solving. My guess is that they would argue, completely coherently, that even if collective understanding is the primary goal, if many individuals are primarily motivated by the wish to solve problems, that’s absolutely fine and contributes to that collective understanding.

With that interpretation, the issue becomes slightly different: is it more important that the collective understanding of the mathematical community should be as advanced as possible or that there should be answers to as many problems as possible? Or are those two aims valuable in different ways, so that there is no point in declaring one of them more important? Or are they so inextricably linked that it makes no sense to argue that one is more important than the other? And when we say “important”, for whom are we saying it is important: for mathematicians, or for society as a whole?

I find these hard questions, so I don’t want just to declare an answer to them. (Do you see what I did there?) Instead, I’d like to try to offer at least some argument for any conclusions I come to, even if they are tentative. So let’s compare two scenarios. In the first, which I think is the more likely actually to happen, models become publicly available that are better at solving problems than virtually all mathematicians. If there are a few residual mathematicians who can do things the models can’t, even they work far faster if they make heavy use of the models. Thanks to this, in a short time we get answers to many questions that we have deeply cared about, but the rate at which we receive these answers far exceeds the rate at which the mathematical community can absorb them. In particular, most of the answers are obtained with zero effort from human mathematicians — just prompts such as “Thank you — please continue”.

In the second scenario, there has been an international agreement, for entirely other reasons, to block the public release of models significantly more powerful than the ones we currently have, and the mathematicians within the tech companies agree to hold off from getting their internal models to solve major problems. Instead, they take guidance from the mathematical community, solving problems only when asked to do so by some suitably representative body that decides that the benefit of receiving a solution of a certain problem outweighs the benefits of humans struggling to solve it over a much longer timescale.

I’d like to consider what the difference would be between these two scenarios both for individual and collective understanding. I’ll begin with individual understanding.

One might argue that for individual understanding, not too much would change if we are suddenly flooded with large numbers of big new results. There is already far more mathematics out there than I have any hope of understanding (for example, despite being fascinated when Fermat’s Last Theorem was proved, I have made no attempt to understand the proof), and even among the parts that I do understand, the parts that I understand because I myself discovered them form a very small fraction, though a fraction that I understand more deeply than anything else (at least temporarily — after a while I forget things and lose quite a lot of the understanding I built up). However, one change, which seems positive, from the perspective of the building up of individual understanding, would be that we would have a much bigger choice of results that we could choose to study. Also, if we found ourselves stuck on some point, AI would be able to help us. The main likely negative change is that we would probably cease to exercise that part of our brains that we use when spending months or years struggling with a difficult research problem, which can be hugely helpful in developing understanding.

I say “likely” because in principle there would be nothing to stop us thinking about very hard problems without consulting LLMs, but in practice it seems unlikely that people would put in the same level of effort that they do now. The situation might a bit like what happened with satnavs, where one could always decide not to use them, to keep the part of the brain active that can look at a map, learn a route, and follow it, but in practice most people succumb to the temptation to use a satnav. (In fact, I myself do try to keep that part of my brain active, and was rather proud of finding my way somewhere recently when I had briefly looked up the route on my phone but then forgotten to bring the phone with me when I actually went there.) But even if all we were doing was reading AI output, I think that the problem-solving muscles in the brain wouldn’t atrophy completely. When students are reading maths papers, I strongly advise them (and I think this is pretty standard advice) to read “actively” rather than “passively”, doing things like trying to prove the result for yourself, looking at the paper only when you feel stuck and need a hint, and even then just trying to get the hint and as little extra as possible. If one reads a paper that way, then one is constantly solving problems, some just exercises and some quite a bit harder. It seems likely that an LLM could get to know what our mathematical background is and feed us with just the right hints to allow us to work our way through a mathematics paper in this active way. Yes, we would lose the particularly deep level of understanding and ownership that comes with having solved a hard problem oneself, but it isn’t clear to me that progress in mathematics would suffer as a result. I would be very interested to hear counterarguments to precisely this point. That is, I would be interested to know what use that level of deep involvement with a proof might have in a world where AI is much better than we are at finding proofs.

How about collective understanding? Let me quote a bit more of the letter.

Indeed, the mass production at faster and faster pace of “true/false” statements could destroy fertile ground instead of breathing life into new ideas.

Often these solutions are announced in a rush, leaving no time for a proper writeup, the isolation of new methods and ideas, and citing relevant previous work of others. As in all creative professions, this raises severe attribution and plagiarism questions. Moreover, without the willing mathematicians who must take care of their development and integration into the mathematical canon, AI-conceived ideas would never become fully alive and the crucial human transmission chain between mathematicians would be lost.

I’ll come back to questions about proper citation and focus on what I take as the core worry here: that if results are proved too quickly, then the digestion process will become impossible. I am definitely worried that results will not be properly digested, but for different reasons.

A first remark is that what AI is producing is not just true/false statements: we now know not just that the Navier-Stokes equation with smooth forcing admits finite-time blow-up, but we have a proof of that, which builds on a great deal of wonderful work done by human mathematicians. Many people used to express the worry that AI would solve our favourite problems with utterly opaque proofs, but that has not turned out to be the case, even if their write-ups often leave plenty to be desired. (Incidentally, I see these inadequate write-ups as almost certainly a temporary annoyance and therefore not as a fundamental threat to mathematical practice or future mathematical understanding.)

Secondly, even if the volume of new results is large, mathematics is a highly specialized discipline, so mathematicians can work in parallel. If, for example, we had to digest 1000 important results in a year that were roughly uniformly distributed across mathematics, then most sub-communities of mathematicians would probably want to understand around 30 of them, and for each individual problem there might well be only a small handful of specialists who would be obvious people to take the lead in reaching this understanding, with that handful varying from problem to problem. So it would be a big task, but not necessarily an impossible one.

In this context, it is worth thinking about the huge volume of output of human mathematicians, which seems to have been increasing recently, even before AI. While I have sometimes heard complaints about this, I have certainly not heard suggestions that human mathematicians should slow down the rate at which they prove interesting theorems. That may be partly because the authors of those theorems take the trouble to write their papers well and give good talks. But what about the large quantity of papers, including important ones, that are not written well and whose authors give incomprehensible talks? That can be annoying, but it is a familiar annoyance and not one that we think of as a crisis.

A third point is that even if the volume of AI output is too big for us to be able to digest it properly, that is not necessarily a bad thing. To draw an imperfect analogy, there is now more content available on streaming services than anyone could possibly watch, with the result that there is almost certainly some very good content out there that is hardly watched at all. But that isn’t obviously a worse situation than if there were far less content and all of it received the attention it deserved. Returning to mathematics, if there were too much AI-generated content for us to be able to digest it, then we could choose which parts of it we wanted to digest.

For that we would need to have some idea what was there (a situation a little similar to how human mathematicians typically learn quite a lot about what results are known in their area even when they do not understand their proofs in any detail). One way one could try to achieve that would be to create a well-designed database, probably with AI help. But perhaps that would be unnecessary, and instead one could simply talk to an LLM and ask it to give a bird’s-eye view of whatever area of mathematics one wanted to understand in that knowing-what’s-there way.

The fear seems to be that some very interesting and important parts of mathematics will be discovered by AI and then overlooked, when had they been discovered by human mathematicians they would not have been overlooked. And that may even be the case, but what matters is whether the amount of interesting and important mathematics discovered by AI that is not overlooked will exceed the amount of interesting and important mathematics that would have been discovered and properly digested by humans with AI having played a more modest role.

In short, it seems to me that while a flood of “big” AI results would be likely to increase the amount of important mathematics that was not properly digested, it would also be likely to increase the amount that was properly digested, which seems like a pretty good bargain.

Let me quickly discuss the problem of AI not properly crediting human mathematicians. I agree that this is a serious problem right now, but it is another problem that I see as temporary. Very soon, the whole “credit system” will surely collapse, since finding an amazing proof will be no more of an intellectual achievement than when a citizen scientist spots through their telescope an object that turns out to be a new comet. Until that happens, it is important to give humans the credit they deserve, since careers can depend on it, but that will soon cease to be the case as well. I have to say that I’m puzzled that this problem exists, since I would have thought that if you asked an LLM to look at a proof and tell you which ideas in it are close to ideas that are in the literature already, it would be extremely good at that task. I hope the answer to this conundrum is not that people have been in such a hurry that they have simply not taken the trouble to do this, but I fear that it might be, at least in some cases. If so, then those who have been careless deserve to be criticized, but it is a minor matter compared with the survival of mathematics, especially if the lack of citations is swiftly put right.

Does all this mean that I am optimistic that mathematicians will end up digesting at least as much mathematics in a post-AI world as it would have if AI had not been able to prove major theorems? Not exactly. But my worry is not that we would be unable to do it, but rather that the social structures that currently support this digestion process will be destroyed and not adequately replaced.

One way that might happen is that AI disrupts society so much, or even kills vast numbers of us, that the preservation of something like the current mathematical tradition ceases to be of any concern: all that will matter is the survival of the human race. But that again is a topic for a different blog post (which in fact I am in the middle of writing).

Let’s assume instead that we get lucky and that AI remains more or less under control. My worry then is that we do not manage to transmit what we know to a new generation of mathematicians. Speaking for myself, my main motivation for becoming a mathematician was the dream that I would solve unsolved problems — the more famous the better. I have also always greatly preferred directly thinking about a problem to reading books and papers and generally learning the mathematics of other people. (I’m not saying that’s good, but just stating a fact about myself.) If the dream of solving a famous problem had not existed, I’m not sure whether I would have become a mathematician. I don’t completely rule it out: maybe what really motivated me was that I had an aptitude for the subject and that solving problems was a way of getting respect from a small group of peers. And maybe I could have tried to gain that respect in a different way, such as thinking very hard about an area of mathematics until I was able to demonstrate to others just how well I understood it. But I’m not sure how motivating that would have been for me. I very much hope that there is a pool of young people for whom it will be a powerful motivation, because I think the survival of a human mathematical tradition may well depend on it.

Thus, the primary risk, as I see it, is that a lot of people who would have done a PhD in mathematics and gone on to become custodians of the mathematical tradition will no longer wish to do so. Those of us who have PhD students, including me, need to try as hard as we can to come up with imaginative ways for them to use their time productively (in consultation with the students themselves, obviously). Whether or not we do a good job with that could make a huge difference to the future of mathematics. A related risk is that the perception among policy-makers will be that mathematicians are no longer needed and that funding will become much harder to come by: we urgently need to come up with good ways of explaining the value of having a large pool of human mathematical experts, even if it is no longer part of their role to find new proofs of theorems.

A final reason that I didn’t sign the letter is that I wasn’t really sure what it was demanding that isn’t happening already. It seems likely that in a matter of not very many months LLMs will be released that are able to solve major mathematical problems, and they will presumably have no trouble at all with more run-of-the-mill problems. However much we might regret that, there is no chance that the impact of such models on mathematics will persuade AI companies to stop their release, though perhaps concerns about safety will lead to some delay and give us a bit more time to work out how to adapt. Assuming that they are released, there will be a flood of new results, whether we like it or not, and it will no longer be the AI companies producing them, though perhaps the pattern will continue that the AI companies will have access to more powerful models and so will obtain more than their fair share of headline results. So I felt that there was nothing to be gained from criticizing AI companies for generating too many solutions too quickly. In fact, it may well be that all that does is bring forward by a couple of months what was going to happen anyway, and perhaps it will even allow the results to be released in a more controlled way than they would have been if they had been discovered by random people once the models were publicly available. Under the circumstances, I think the best we can do is recognise the changes that are coming and try to work out the least unsatisfactory way of dealing with them.

September 11, 2026

Andrew Jaffe — The Talk I Gave on September 12

More 25th anniversary thoughts and recollections.

I had moved to Oxford less than two weeks before, still settling into my new life in the UK, working at Imperial College in London. That day, I was heading off to Durham, in the north of England, to a conference called “A New Era in Cosmology” — my first big talk now that I had started my permanent academic job. I was going to be a bit late, only able to arrive toward the end of the first day of the conference: September 11, 2001.

My train left in the late morning. A few hours in, passengers were starting to talk about an attack on New York City. This was in the days before smartphones and constant communication — I didn’t even have a mobile phone. The discussions around me were getting more and more frantic, and I was doing my best to piece together the story.

I was born in New York City, and much of my family still lived in the area. My parents lived in the suburb of Fort Lee, New Jersey, right across the Hudson River from Manhattan; from the apartment where I grew up, we had a fantastic view from the 18th floor. My father worked in The City, commuting every morning by car from New Jersey to midtown Manhattan. He would have been at his office that day.

I considered getting off the train somewhere en route, perhaps Sheffield or York, to try to get some more information, but I just stayed on the train. I was able to get a taxi from the station in Durham to my hotel, listening to the news. I was able to call my partner, back in Oxford, who had, luckily considering the pressure on transatlantic calls, been able to get in touch with my family in New York and New Jersey. Everyone was, thankfully, alright, although at this point my father was still in Manhattan. He had noticed all the emergency vehicles speeding downtown, thinking that it was a motorcade for some foreign dignitary, but it was the first fleet of emergency responders heading towards the twin towers after the first collision. Eventually, he made it home, to my family’s apartment overlooking the Hudson. But it was so close to the George Washington Bridge, a piece of vital infrastructure thought to be in danger after the first attack, that he had to be let off a mile or so away and walk the rest.

As for me, I had to give the first talk on 12 September, about the “new era in cosmology” that coming CMB measurements would usher in. We started, understandably, with a few moments of silence, and I remember trying to come up with some appropriate words with which to start, something about needing to persevere even in the face of terrible events. I also recall that it was given on old-fashioned transparencies (I should try to dig it out of my files…) and that it was actually one of the better talks I had ever given, calmed, or at least slowed compared to my usual nervous agitation, by the events.

(My friend and colleague Peter Coles was also at the conference, offering his own reminiscences on his blog.)

As I mentioned in my last post, 9/11 feels like a milestone, and a millstone — the world hasn’t been the same since. And we still need to persevere in the face of terrible events.

Andrew Jaffe — The Talk I Gave on September 12

More 25th anniversary thoughts and recollections.

I had moved to Oxford less than two weeks before, still settling into my new life in the UK, working at Imperial College in London. That day, I was heading off to Durham, in the north of England, to a conference called “A New Era in Cosmology” — my first big talk now that I had started my permanent academic job. I was going to be a bit late, only able to arrive toward the end of the first day of the conference: September 11, 2001.

My train left in the late morning. A few hours in, passengers were starting to talk about an attack on New York City. This was in the days before smartphones and constant communication — I didn’t even have a mobile phone. The discussions around me were getting more and more frantic, and I was doing my best to piece together the story.

I was born in New York City, and much of my family still lived in the area. My parents lived in the suburb of Fort Lee, New Jersey, right across the Hudson River from Manhattan; from the apartment where I grew up, we had a fantastic view from the 18th floor. My father worked in The City, commuting every morning by car from New Jersey to midtown Manhattan. He would have been at his office that day.

I considered getting off the train somewhere en route, perhaps Sheffield or York, to try to get some more information, but I just stayed on the train. I was able to get a taxi from the station in Durham to my hotel, listening to the news. I was able to call my partner, back in Oxford, who had, luckily considering the pressure on transatlantic calls, been able to get in touch with my family in New York and New Jersey. Everyone was, thankfully, alright, although at this point my father was still in Manhattan. He had noticed all the emergency vehicles speeding downtown, thinking that it was a motorcade for some foreign dignitary, but it was the first fleet of emergency responders heading towards the twin towers after the first collision. Eventually, he made it home, to my family’s apartment overlooking the Hudson. But it was so close to the George Washington Bridge, a piece of vital infrastructure thought to be in danger after the first attack, that he had to be let off a mile or so away and walk the rest.

As for me, I had to give the first talk on 12 September, about the “new era in cosmology” that coming CMB measurements would usher in. We started, understandably, with a few moments of silence, and I remember trying to come up with some appropriate words with which to start, something about needing to persevere even in the face of terrible events. I also recall that it was given on old-fashioned transparencies (I should try to dig it out of my files…) and that it was actually one of the better talks I had ever given, calmed, or at least slowed compared to my usual nervous agitation, by the events.

(My friend and colleague Peter Coles was also at the conference, offering his own reminiscences on his blog.)

As I mentioned in my last post, 9/11 feels like a milestone, and a millstone — the world hasn’t been the same since. And we still need to persevere in the face of terrible events.

September 09, 2026

John Baez — The E6 Root Polytope

I’ve been thinking about the exceptional Lie algebra E6, as a spinoff of my project on E7, so I want to get a good mental picture of the E6 root polytope. This is 6-dimensional polytope with remarkable symmetry.

Let’s climb up to it, starting with some of its 4-dimensional faces, which are called 4-demicubes because you get them by taking a 4-dimensional cube, or tesseract, and removing every other corner. The 3-demicube is just a tetrahedron, since you can fit two tetrahedra in a 3-dimensional cube like this:

The 4-demicube builds on this fact in a surprising way.

I’m going to use the technology of Dynkin diagrams, or technically Coxeter diagrams: they’re closely related, and the difference is invisible here. I won’t explain them, just use them. I explained them here:

• Symmetry and the fourth dimension: part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6.

Let’s dive in!

The 4-demicube lives in 4 dimensions. It has 8 vertices.

You get it from a 4-dimensional cube, which has 24 = 16 vertices, by keeping every other vertex, throwing away half. That leaves 8.

What are its top-dimensional faces, aka ‘facets’? Surprise: there’s only one kind! All of them are regular tetrahedra.

In higher dimensions the demicube has two kinds of facet. You get a simplex-shaped facet from every other vertex, formed when you remove it. And you get a demicube-shaped facet from each of the cube’s facets. But in 4 dimensions the two kinds happen to be the same shape!

Eight of them are tetrahedra. These appear at the 8 corners you sliced off: one per removed corner.

Eight more come from the 8 faces of the 4-dimensional cube. These are 3-demicubes. But as we’ve seen, the 3-demicube is also a tetrahedron!

So the 4-demicube is especially symmetric: it has 16 tetrahedral facets. You can find coordinates where its vertices are

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

It’s actually one of the 4-dimensional regular polytopes, sometimes called the 4-orthoplex. It’s also called the 16-cell because it has 16 facets. It’s the 4-dimensional cousin of the octahedron, which has 8 triangular facets.

You can read some of these facts off the D4 Dynkin diagram, if you know what you’re doing. As you can see above, this diagram has a central node with three arms, each just 1 edge long: a perfectly symmetric three-pronged star. To get the 4-demicube, you ring the tip of any one arm.

To get the facets of the 4-demicube, delete an unringed node so the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives. There are two choices: you can delete the tip of either other arm. But either way, what’s left is a straight chain of 3 nodes—the so-called A3 diagram—with a ring at one node at the end. This gives the tetrahedron.

Both choices give the same shape of facet, a tetrahedron, because all three arms of the D4 Dynkin diagram are interchangeable. That ceases to be true in higher dimensions!

 

Next, the 5-demicube. This lives in 5 dimensions and has 16 vertices.

You get it from a 5-dimensional cube—which has 25 = 32 vertices—by keeping every other vertex, throwing away half. That leaves 16.

What are its top-dimensional faces, or ‘facets’? There are two kinds!

Sixteen of them are 4-dimensional analogues of the regular tetrahedron, called 4-simplexes. These appear at the corners you sliced off: one per removed corner.

The other ten come from the ten faces of the 5-dimensional cube. After you take every other vertex, they become 4-demicubes. These are precisely the 4-demicubes we saw in the last section!

You can also read these two kinds of facets from the D5 Dynkin diagram. As you can see above, this diagram has three arms of lengths 2, 1, 1 (edges from the central branch node). To get the 5-demicube, you ring the tip of either length-1 arm. That ringed diagram encodes the whole polytope.

To get the facets, delete an unringed node so the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives.

There are two choices.

If you delete the tip of the other length-1 arm, what’s left is a straight chain of 4 nodes—the diagram whose polytope is the 4-simplex. That gives the 4-simplex faces.

Or you can delete the tip of the length-2 arm. Then what’s left is a shorter branching diagram, the one I showed you in my last post! That gives the 4-demicube faces.

So the 5-demicube has both 4-simplex and 4-demicube faces.

Next let’s go up to the 6th dimension, which was my goal all along.

 

The E6 root polytope lives in 6 dimensions. It has 72 vertices.

What are its facets? You can read them straight off the E6 Dynkin diagram, using the same procedure we’ve been using so far.

As you can see, the E6 Dynkin diagram has three arms of lengths 2, 2, 1 (edges from the central branch node). To get the root polytope, you ring the node that’s the tip of a length-1 arm. That fact is not obvious, but let’s go ahead and do that.

Then, to get the facets, delete any unringed node such that the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives.

There are two choices: the two other nodes at tips of the Dynkin diagram.

However, deleting either of these nodes leave a D5 diagram with a ring on one node, and this gives the 5-demicube we saw last time: a 5-cube with alternate vertices removed.

So the facets of the E6 root polytope are all the same shape: 5-demicubes!

With more work, we can count the facets of the polytopes we’ve been studying:

• The E6 root polytope has 54 facets, all 5-demicubes. They come in two kinds, because we had two choices of which node to delete, so there are really 27 ‘positive’ 5-demicube facets and 27 ‘negative’ 5-demicube facets.

• The 5-demicube has 16 4-simplex facets, one for each vertex that we removed from the 5-cube to create this demicube, and 10 4-demicube facets, one for each facet of that 5-cube.

• The 4-demicube has 8 3-simplex facets, one for each vertex that we removed from the 4-cube to create this demicube, and 8 3-demicube facets, one for each facet of that 4-cube. But both the 3-simplex and the 3-demicube are the familiar tetrahedron. So in fact the 4-demicube has 16 tetrahedral facets. Indeed, the 4-demicube is the 4-dimensional analogue of an octahedron: the so-called 4-orthoplex, or 16-cell.

Using some fancier math I explained here, we can count all the faces of the E6 root polytope. This polytope, is also called 122 due to the shape of its Dynkin diagram: the ring is on a branch of length 1, not counting the central node, while the other two branches have lengths 2. You can look up all this information on the Wikipedia page 122 polytope:

Faces of the E6 root polytope, or 122
dim faces count
5 5-demicubes 54 = 27 + 27
4 4-demicubes = 4-orthoplexes 270
4 4-simplexes 432 = 216 + 216
3 3-simplexes = 3-demicubes = tetrahedra 2160 = 1080 + 1080
2 2-simplexes = triangles 2160
1 1-simplexes = edges 720
0 0-simplexes = vertices 72

The 5-dimensional facets are all 5-demicubes, but as we’ve seen, they come in two kinds: that is, they lie in two orbits of the symmetry group. We can call 27 of them ‘positive’ 5-demicubes and 27 of them ‘negative’ demicubes. Of the 4-dimensional faces, 270 are 4-demicubes and 432 are 4-simplexes. Moreover the 4-simplexes come in two kinds: 216 are faces of positive 5-demicubes while 216 are faces of negative 5-demicubes. Let’s call the first kind of 4-simplex ‘positive’ and the second kind ‘negative’. The 3-dimensional faces are all tetrahedra, but they come in two ‘kinds’: 1080 of them are faces of positive 4-simplexes, and 1080 are faces of negative 4-simplexes. None is the face of both a positive and negative 4-simplex.

If you’re curious about how to count these things, see how some of us counted all the faces of the E8 root polytope here:

• John Baez, Integral octonions (part 5), The n-Category Café, September 3, 2013.

Here is a table of faces for the E7 root polytope, which is also called 231:

Faces of the E7 root polytope, or 231
dim faces count
6 221 polytopes 56
6 6-simplexes 576
5 5-orthoplexes 756
5 5-simplexes 4032
4 4-simplexes 16128 = 4032 + 12096
3 3-simplexes = tetrahedra 20160
2 2-simplexes = triangles 10080
1 1-simplexes = edges 2016
0 0-simplexes = vertices 126

Its 4-dimensional faces are all 4-simplexes, but they come in two ‘kinds’: that is, they lie in two orbits of the symmetry group of this polytope. Of the 4-simplexes, 4032 are the face of three 5-orthoplexes, while 12096 are the face of one 5-orthoplex and two 5-simplexes.

Here’s the E8 root polytope, also called 421:

Faces of the E8 root polytope, or 421
dim faces count
7 7-orthoplexes 2160
7 7-simplexes 17280
6 6-simplexes 207360 = 138240 + 69120
5 5-simplexes 483840
4 4-simplexes 483840
3 3-simplexes = tetrahedra 241920
2 2-simplexes = triangles 60480
1 1-simplexes = edges 6720
0 0-simplexes = vertices 240

There are two kinds of 6-simplex faces: 138240 of them each lie in one 7-simplex and one 7-orthoplex, while 69120 of them each lie in two 7-orthoplexes (and no 7-simplex).

Andrew Jaffe — Second test post

Andrew Jaffe — Test post

Checking some infrastructure…

September 08, 2026

n-Category Café The E6 Root Polytope

I’ve been thinking about the exceptional Lie algebra E6, as a spinoff of my project on E7, so I want to get a good mental picture of the E6 root polytope. This is 6-dimensional polytope with remarkable symmetry.

Let’s climb up to the E6 root polytope starting with some of its 4-dimensional faces, which are called 4-demicubes because you get them by taking a 4-dimensional cube, or tesseract, and removing every other corner. The 3-demicube is just a tetrahedron, since you can fit two tetrahedra in a 3-dimensional cube like this:

The 4-demicube builds on this fact in a surprising way.

I’m going to use the technology of Dynkin diagrams, or technically Coxeter diagrams: they’re closely related, and the difference is invisible here. I won’t explain them, just use them. I explained them here:

• Symmetry and the fourth dimension: part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6.

Let’s dive in!

The 4-demicube lives in 4 dimensions. It has 8 vertices.

You get it from a 4-dimensional cube, which has 24 = 16 vertices, by keeping every other vertex, throwing away half. That leaves 8.

What are its top-dimensional faces, aka ‘facets’? Surprise: there’s only one kind! All of them are regular tetrahedra.

In higher dimensions the demicube has two kinds of facet. You get a simplex-shaped facet from every other vertex, formed when you remove it. And you get a demicube-shaped facet from each of the cube’s facets. But in 4 dimensions the two kinds happen to be the same shape!

Eight of them are tetrahedra. These appear at the 8 corners you sliced off: one per removed corner.

Eight more come from the 8 faces of the 4-dimensional cube. These are 3-demicubes. But as we’ve seen, the 3-demicube is also a tetrahedron!

So the 4-demicube is especially symmetric: it has 16 tetrahedral facets. You can find coordinates where its vertices are

(±1,0,0,0),(0,±1,0,0),(0,0,±1,0),(0,0,0,±1)(\pm 1, 0, 0, 0), \quad (0, \pm 1, 0, 0), \quad (0, 0, \pm 1, 0), \quad (0, 0, 0, \pm 1)

It’s actually one of the 4-dimensional regular polytopes, sometimes called the 4-orthoplex. It’s also called the 16-cell because it has 16 facets. It’s the 4-dimensional cousin of the octahedron, which has 8 triangular facets.

You can read some of these facts off the D4 Dynkin diagram, if you know what you’re doing. As you can see above, this diagram has a central node with three arms, each just 1 edge long: a perfectly symmetric three-pronged star. To get the 4-demicube, you ring the tip of any one arm.

To get the facets of the 4-demicube, delete an unringed node so the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives. There are two choices: you can delete the tip of either other arm. But either way, what’s left is a straight chain of 3 nodes—the so-called A3 diagram—with a ring at one node at the end. This gives the tetrahedron.

Both choices give the same shape of facet, a tetrahedron, because all three arms of the D4 Dynkin diagram are interchangeable. That ceases to be true in higher dimensions!

 

Next, the 5-demicube. This lives in 5 dimensions and has 16 vertices.

You get it from a 5-dimensional cube—which has 25 = 32 vertices—by keeping every other vertex, throwing away half. That leaves 16.

What are its top-dimensional faces, or ‘facets’? There are two kinds!

Sixteen of them are 4-dimensional analogues of the regular tetrahedron, called 4-simplexes. These appear at the corners you sliced off: one per removed corner.

The other ten come from the ten faces of the 5-dimensional cube. After you take every other vertex, they become 4-demicubes. These are precisely the 4-demicubes we saw in the last section!

You can also read these two kinds of facets from the D5 Dynkin diagram. As you can see above, this diagram has three arms of lengths 2, 1, 1 (edges from the central branch node). To get the 5-demicube, you ring the tip of either length-1 arm. That ringed diagram encodes the whole polytope.

To get the facets, delete an unringed node so the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives.

There are two choices.

If you delete the tip of the other length-1 arm, what’s left is a straight chain of 4 nodes—the diagram whose polytope is the 4-simplex. That gives the 4-simplex faces.

Or you can delete the tip of the length-2 arm. Then what’s left is a shorter branching diagram, the one I showed you in my last post! That gives the 4-demicube faces.

So the 5-demicube has both 4-simplex and 4-demicube faces.

Next let’s go up to the 6th dimension, which was my goal all along.

 

The E6 root polytope lives in 6 dimensions. It has 72 vertices.

What are its facets? You can read them straight off the E6 Dynkin diagram, using the same procedure we’ve been using so far.

As you can see, the E6 Dynkin diagram has three arms of lengths 2, 2, 1 (edges from the central branch node). To get the root polytope, you ring the node that’s the tip of a length-1 arm. That fact is not obvious, but let’s go ahead and do that.

Then, to get the facets, delete any unringed node such that the piece still holding the ring stays connected, and see what diagram survives.

There are two choices: the two other nodes at tips of the Dynkin diagram.

However, deleting either of these nodes leave a D5 diagram with a ring on one node, and this gives the 5-demicube we saw last time: a 5-cube with alternate vertices removed.

So the facets of the E6 root polytope are all the same shape: 5-demicubes!

With more work, we can count the facets of the polytopes we’ve been studying:

• The E6 root polytope has 54 facets, all 5-demicubes. They come in two kinds, because we had two choices of which node to delete, so there are really 27 ‘positive’ 5-demicube facets and 27 ‘negative’ 5-demicube facets.

• The 5-demicube has 16 4-simplex facets, one for each vertex that we removed from the 5-cube to create this demicube, and 10 4-demicube facets, one for each facet of that 5-cube.

• The 4-demicube has 8 3-simplex facets, one for each vertex that we removed from the 4-cube to create this demicube, and 8 3-demicube facets, one for each facet of that 4-cube. But both the 3-simplex and the 3-demicube are the familiar tetrahedron. So in fact the 4-demicube has 16 tetrahedral facets. Indeed, the 4-demicube is the 4-dimensional analogue of an octahedron: the so-called 4-orthoplex, or 16-cell.

Using some fancier math I explained here, we can count all the faces of the E6 root polytope:

dim faces count
5 5-demicubes 54 = 27 + 27
4 4-demicubes = 4-orthoplexes 270
4 4-simplexes 432
3 3-demicubes = 3-simplexes = tetrahedra 2160 = 1080 + 1080
2 2-simplexes = triangles 2160
1 1-simplexes = edges 720
0 0-simplexes = vertices 72

If you’re curious about how to count these things, see how some of us counted all the faces of the E8 root polytope here:

Andrew Jaffe — 25 & 60

Twenty-five years ago, I moved from San Francisco to the UK, from a fellowship at Berkeley to a permanent job at Imperial College, London. A lot has changed since then. I was 35; now I am 60. It was two weeks before 9/11; the world hasn’t seemed as open and free since.

I arrived from the Bay Area just after the first dot-com bubble burst. London, adjusting to New Labour after almost two decades of Thatcher and Thatcherism, felt exciting and vibrant. But just weeks after I arrived came the horror of 9/11, and its years-long aftermath, especially the Iraq war which eventually doomed Blair’s premiership and probably led the way to the 2010 election, the disaster of “austerity” as a wrong-headed attempt to deal with the 2008 recession, and eventually to the more-disastrous Brexit on this side of the Atlantic. Similar politics, though with very different timing, led back in the USA to Obama, one of the few rays of political hope over the last quarter-century, but then, of course, to Trump. And everywhere since 2001 the rise of nativist populism making me feel at home, well, pretty much nowhere — a rootless cosmopolitan. Higher education, scientific funding, and curiosity-driven research are in a parlous state in both the US and the UK.

But: despite a few difficult years in the mid-2000s, I have prospered. Our analysis of data from the Planck satellite has solidified our standard cosmological model — but also given us new problems and puzzles to think and worry about. I have written a book, The Random Universe, trying to explain how we know what we know as scientists and as human beings. And my family, my wife and two daughters, are a source of joy and excitement that inspire me every day.

So now I am 60. I was honoured and humbled a couple of months to ago to be joined by many of my colleagues and scientific friends at a conference here in London. That, and getting a Transport For London 60+ Travel Card, makes it hard to avoid feeling old. But those colleagues and friends (many of whom are older than me) reassured me that it’s only the beginning of a new chapter.

August 13, 2026

Tim Gowers — What sort of maths are LLMs good at?

For the sake of anyone who might read this blog post in the distant future (a month from now, say), let me mention that I am writing it a few days after OpenAI announced that it had solved ten major problems in mathematics and theoretical computer science, including the first construction of a non-sofic group, and a proof that the multicolour Ramsey number R(3,3,...,3) (where there are k 3’s) grows superexponentially in k. The first was, to judge from various talks I have been to, one of the most important unsolved problems in group theory, and the second was a major open problem in Ramsey theory that I didn’t necessarily expect to see solved in my lifetime, though of course such expectations now have to be revised. The reason I want to be clear about the timing is that I shall be discussing the current capabilities of LLMs in the full expectation that those will continue to change rapidly. So it is likely that in not too long from now, if there is anything interesting in what I write, it will be interesting mainly as a record of what the situation looked like in early August 2026.

These results, and the other eight on the list, are extraordinarily impressive, but it still doesn’t seem to be the case that LLMs are better than all humans at all aspects of mathematics. If they were, then their big speed advantage over us would mean that there would be much more of a flood of results. So it is natural to wonder about what kinds of problems LLMs are good at, and about where there is still room for improvement. I don’t pretend to have a good answer to this question, where a good answer would be a crisp classification that would fit the current examples well, but it is an interesting exercise to try to rule out some bad answers, and to try to identify potential answers that aren’t obviously contradicted by the evidence.

Are LLMs particularly good at finding counterexamples?

A first remark here is that LLMs are not just good at finding counterexamples: they can find proofs of difficult statements as well. However, it is notable that the most famous problems they have solved have almost all been with counterexamples rather than proofs. That is true of the two problems mentioned above, and also of the Jacobian conjecture and the unit distance conjecture.

If one wants to theorize that LLMs are particularly good at finding counterexamples, then there are two things it would be good to do to make the theory more convincing. The first may sound unproblematic: it is to decide when solving a problem counts as finding a counterexample. Once that is sorted out, the second is to come up with a potential explanation of why LLMs would be particularly well suited to solving problems of that particular kind.

What does it mean to find a counterexample?

Why am I suggesting that it is not completely obvious what it means to find a counterexample? Surely, one might suggest, all it means is that you have a statement of the form “Every object of such and such a type has such and such a property,” and you exhibit an object of the given type that does not have the given property.

However, this doesn’t always work. Consider a famous result of Vinogradov, which states that every sufficiently large positive integer is a sum of three primes. The negation of this statement is (or is equivalent to) the statement that for every positive integer N there exists an integer n\geq N such that n is not a sum of three primes. In other words, it states that every positive integer N has a certain property. Seen in this light, Vinogradov found an example of a positive integer N that does not have the given property. Do we want to say that Vinogradov found a counterexample? Clearly not — the result should obviously be classified as a theorem and not a counterexample.

Thus, we cannot just naively say that LLMs are particularly good at negating universally quantified statements: there has to be something about the nature of the universal quantification. With the three-primes example, it is clear that Vinogradov did not think, “How am I going to find N with this property?” Rather, what he thought would have been more like, “I’ve got an integer n that is very large. How am I going to show that it is a sum of three primes?” In other words, all his focus would have been on the universally quantified n, with the existentially quantified N being a sort of afterthought once the details of the proof have been worked out.

In general, many interesting results, when they are stated formally, begin with an alternation of two or three (or more) quantifiers. The question then becomes to determine which is the first “interesting” quantified variable in some sense. Here’s another example to illustrate the point, from the theory of finite-dimensional normed spaces. I’ll give a few mathematical details for those curious, but if you don’t care about those, then you can skip the next three paragraphs and should get the gist of what I am saying about this example.

Let X and Y be two n-dimensional normed spaces and let T be a linear map from X to Y. We say that T is a C–isomorphism if there exists \lambda>0 such that \lambda\|x\|\leq\|Tx\|\leq C\lambda\|x\| for every x\in X. By rescaling we can always take \lambda to be 1, in which case we have that \|x\|\leq\|Tx\|\leq C\|x\| for every x\in X. If C=1, then this tells us that T is an isometry. In general, the Banach-Mazur distance d(X,Y) between X and Y is defined to be the smallest C such that there exists a C-isomorphism from X to Y. It is easy to see that the logarithm of the Banach-Mazur distance is a metric on the set of isometry classes of n-dimensional normed spaces. A less easy fact, but still not too hard, is that the resulting metric space is compact: in fact, it is known as the Banach-Mazur compactum.

It is natural to wonder what the diameter of the Banach-Mazur compactum is, and here things get interesting. A result of Fritz John states that every n-dimensional space X has distance at most \sqrt n from \ell_2^n. (The idea of the proof is as follows: pick inside the unit ball of X an n-dimensional ellipsoid of maximal volume; that is the unit ball of a normed space Y that is isometric to \ell_2^n; it can be shown that the identity map is a \sqrt n-isomorphism between X and Y.) From Fritz John’s theorem and the (multiplicative) triangle inequality, it follows that d(X,Y)\leq n for any two n-dimensional normed spaces. That is, the diameter of the Banach-Mazur compactum is at most n. But might it be substantially less than that?

An indication that the answer is not obvious comes from looking at the spaces \ell_1^n and \ell_\infty^n. The identity map between these two spaces is an n-isomorphism, but one can do much better by mapping the standard basis vectors not to themselves but to vertices of the unit cube, with the vertices chosen to be as orthogonal as possible. In particular, if there exists an n\times n Hadamard matrix, then the corresponding linear map is a \sqrt n-isomorphism. One can push this observation and deduce that for any p,q\in[1,\infty] the Banach-Mazur distance between \ell_p^n and \ell_q^n is O(\sqrt n). It is also easy to show that d(\ell_1^n,\ell_2^n)=\sqrt n, so \ell_p-spaces hardly improve on the easy lower bound, and do not improve on it at all in dimensions n for which an n\times n Hadamard matrix exists.

In 1981, Gluskin famously solved the problem by determining the correct asymptotics for the diameter of the Banach-Mazur compactum. Informally, what he showed was that the diameter is within a constant of the upper bound that follows immediately from Fritz John’s theorem. If we make the quantification explicit, then the statement we end up with is

\exists c>0\ \forall n\ \exists X,Y\in K_n\ d(X,Y)\geq cn,

where I have written K_n for the set of all n-dimensional normed spaces. (If you want to argue that it is not a set, then let me specify in addition that the underlying vector space is \mathbb R^n.) In words, there is a positive constant c such that for every positive integer n there are n-dimensional normed spaces X and Y such that the Banach-Mazur distance between X and Y is at least cn.

I can’t continue without very briefly describing the beautiful and highly influential idea Gluskin had for solving this problem. He took X and Y to be normed spaces whose unit balls were random symmetric convex sets defined as follows: take the standard basis vectors and a handful of other random unit vectors, as well as the negatives of all these vectors, and take the convex hull. Gluskin then showed that if two normed spaces are chosen from this distribution, then with high probability their Banach-Mazur distance is at least cn.

But back to the main point, which is that the logical form of the above statement is very similar to the logical form of Vinogradov’s theorem, which is

\exists N\ \forall n\geq N\ \exists p_1,p_2,p_3\in P\ \ p_1+p_2+p_3=n

where I have written P for the set of primes. And yet, Vinogradov’s result is unquestionably a theorem, while Gluskin’s result is unquestionably a counterexample, or at least an example.

What is the important difference between the two statements? It seems to be that in Vinogradov’s three-primes theorem the number n plays a more essential role in the statement that is to be proved about the various quantified variables. In Vinogradov’s theorem, that statement is n=p_1+p_2+p_3, whereas for Gluskin’s theorem the statement to be proved is

\dim X = \dim Y = n and d(X,Y)\geq cn,

which we can write equivalently as

\dim X = \dim Y = n and d(X,Y)\geq c\dim X.

In the case of Vinogradov’s theorem, the whole challenge is to get those three primes to add up to n, whereas for Gluskin it is not remotely challenging to get the dimensions of X and Y to equal n: the challenge is to get X and Y to be very far from each other, relative to their common dimension.

There is a further complication to bear in mind here, which is that via the process known as Skolemization, a universally quantified statement of the form \forall x\in X\ \exists y\in Y\ \ P(x,y) can be converted into an existentially quantifed statement \exists f:X\to Y\ \forall x\in X\ \ P(x,f(x)). (For this to be an equivalence one needs the axiom of choice, but it is certainly a sufficient condition.) This is not just a piece of logical trickery, but it often reflects quite accurately how we think about some problems. For instance, it is more natural to think of Gluskin’s example as a recipe for constructing (or at least proving the existence of) a pair of suitable normed spaces for any given dimension n, or in other words to construct a suitable function from \mathbb N to pairs of normed spaces by giving its value at each n, than it is to think of it as a statement that says that every positive integer n has a certain complicated property.

Yet another complication is that some universally quantified statements follow naturally from existentially quantified statements, or may even be equivalent to them. For example, the theorem that a 2-dimensional torus is not homeomorphic to a 2-dimensional sphere is a universally quantified statement (every map from the torus to the sphere fails to be a homeomorphism), but the natural way to prove it is to prove the existential statement that there is an invariant that distinguishes the two spaces. For an example of where a universal statement is equivalent to an existential statement, consider a statement of the form that a vector x\in\mathbb R^n does not belong to the convex hull of a certain compact set A. The statement that no convex combination of elements of A is equal to x is equivalent to the existence of a linear functional \phi:\mathbb R^n\to\mathbb R and a \lambda\in\mathbb R such that \phi(x)>\lambda and \phi(a)\leq\lambda for every a\in A. In both these cases it feels natural to regard the result as a theorem that is proved via an existential statement, perhaps because it is the theorem that is ultimately what interests us. But using “what interests us” as a criterion to determine what counts as a counterexample seems a little vague, and is a difficult criterion to use if we want to explain convincingly why AI should be good at finding counterexamples.

A more general argument against the notion that there is something about existential statements that is particularly suited to AI is that the need to establish existential statements pervades almost all of mathematical research, regardless of the nature of the headline result being aimed for. For example, if I want to prove a statement by induction, I may well look for a strengthening of the statement that serves better as an inductive hypothesis. Or if I want to prove that every object of type T with property P also has property Q, then I may well look for a property R that follows from P and can be used to prove Q. These are more metamathematical existence problems, but the distinction can be somewhat blurred, and more importantly, when trying to prove a statement S, it is often the case that the main question in our minds is less, “Why is S true?” and more, “What could a proof of S be like?” To give an example, I feel I understand pretty well why Goldbach’s conjecture is true — a highly plausible probabilistic model of the primes implies it and agrees closely with computational data — but if I were making a serious attempt to prove it, that understanding, which many mathematicians have had for a century or so, would be of limited help. Rather, my main task would be to try to find proof techniques that were powerful enough to make those heuristic ideas rigorous.

What is the difference between an example and a counterexample?

Logically, every statement of the form \exists x\ P(x) is a counterexample to the universally quantified statement \forall x\ \neg P(x). However, we do not describe all existential statements as counterexamples. For example, if I were to say, “The \ell_p-spaces with 1\leq p<\infty are all separable, as is c_0, but \ell_\infty is not separable,” I would not describe the second part of that assertion as a counterexample to the claim that all Banach spaces are separable. Rather, I would present it as probably the most basic example of a non-separable space. The important point seems to be that there was no particular reason to think that all Banach spaces would be separable, and finding an example of a non-separable space is not very difficult.

I think the first point is more important here: we are more inclined to call an object a counterexample if the existence of that object disproves a statement that we had quite good reason to believe. It often happens that after repeated unsuccessful attempts to prove a statement, mathematicians begin to feel that it has no particular reason to be true, even if it seems to be hard to come up with a counterexample to it. In such a situation, if a counterexample is eventually found, it may have lost something of its “counter” feel. My impression is that the construction of a non-sofic group comes into this category. There have been several proposals in the literature for how one might construct such a group, and I don’t think there were many (or even any?) experts who strongly believed that all groups were sofic. So it feels more natural to say, “OpenAI came up with the first example of a non-sofic group” than to say, “OpenAI found a counterexample to the soficity conjecture” (despite the fact that that section of their paper is entitled “A counterexample to the soficity conjecture”).

Likewise, it seems to me that the new lower bound for multicolour Ramsey numbers is more of an example than a counterexample. I think quite a lot of people believed that the bound should be exponential, so for them it was a counterexample, but others, myself included, were more neutral about it. As a matter of fact, I have worked on the problem in the past (a long time ago) in an equivalent formulation, which asks how many triangle-free graphs on n vertices you need if you want their union to be the complete graph K_n. If you take bipartite graphs, then it’s easy to see that you need \log_2n of them, but that bound can be improved if instead you observe that a complete 5-partite graph can be written as a union of two triangle-free subgraphs, and therefore it is possible to write the complete graph as a union of 2\log_5n triangle-free graphs. It is then tempting to try to do better, with triangle-free graphs that are less dense but that make up for it with unbounded chromatic number — a necessary condition if one wishes to use a sublogarithmic number of graphs, which is equivalent to showing a superexponential lower bound for R(3,3,\dots,3). All this is to say that when I worked on the problem, my efforts were concentrated on what turned out to be the right direction, so for me OpenAI found an example of what I (weakly) expected, rather than a counterexample.

Where does this leave us?

I would like to find a coherent explanation of the conjunction of the following facts.

  1. The most notable mathematical results proved by LLMs have tended to be ones that we would classify as examples or counterexamples, where counterexamples are, broadly speaking, existence statements that disprove statements that we expected to be true.
  2. Many statements can be formulated as existence statements when we would usually think of them as universal statements, and vice versa, so what we consider to be an example depends on the mathematical context of a statement as well as its logical form.
  3. LLMs are pretty good at proving universal statements as well: it’s just that the strongest statements they have proved that we would think of as theorems have mainly not been at the level of the strongest statements that we would think of as counterexamples.

Given these facts, it seems likely that what LLMs are good at is something else, which happens to have as a consequence that they are good at the kind of existence problem that we would normally classify as asking to find a non-trivial example.

Let us consider two things that we can be confident that LLMs are good at. One of them is knowing a lot of mathematics: if a problem can be solved by means of a relatively standard argument, it is highly likely that an LLM will be able to find and use that argument. The other is the ability that an LLM has simply by virtue of being a computer: it can work at huge speed (compared with humans at least) and can therefore afford to make a large number of unsuccessful attempts at a problem before it finds a solution.

Without even looking at what LLMs have actually managed to solve, one might guess that these two features would lead to their having a somewhat different style from human mathematicians. Very roughly, LLMs would have the edge when there is more of a probabilistic element to the proof-finding process: they would be good at problems for which the best method is to try a lot of ideas, not necessarily particularly novel, until at some point you get lucky. Humans on the other hand would be better (for the moment) at finding more “surprising” and “conceptual” arguments, where the appropriate method is to dig deeper and deeper into a problem until the solution reveals itself. (It is hard to say exactly what this means, but I hope that any experienced researcher reading this will know what I am talking about.)

This raises two questions: does the guess above correspond at all to the reality that we are observing, and is there any reason to suppose that what I have tentatively described as the “LLM style” of doing mathematics would lead naturally to LLMs discovering several counterexamples (or just examples) to long-standing conjectures, even if that was by no means all they could do?

I don’t pretend to have a scientific answer to either question, but the reactions of experts to several of the remarkable solutions that ChatGPT has found do lend some support to the idea that LLMs work in more of a try-lots-of-things-till-you-get-lucky way. People often seem to react by saying something like, “Initially I was amazed that the problem had been solved, but on closer inspection I realized that the approach was actually not all that novel, and one that with the right small hint a suitably expert human could have found quite easily.”

For the second question — whether the LLM style is well suited to finding (counter)examples — I think matters are less clear, because there are many ways of searching for a counterexample, and some of them fit better than others the style I have described. Here are a few general methods. (I don’t claim that the list is exhaustive.)

  1. Look for an off-the-shelf example. Here one has a stock of fairly standard examples and one simply tries them out one after another to see whether any of them fails to satisfy the given statement. For example, Ryan O’Donnell ends his wonderful book on the analysis of Boolean functions with some tips, one of which is, “If you have a conjecture about Boolean functions, test it on dictators, majority, parity, tribes (and maybe recursive majority of 3). If it’s true for these functions, it’s probably true.”
  2. Build an example from basic examples and standard construction methods. For an algebraic problem, for instance, one might start with some standard examples, but then take products or quotients or limits.
  3. Make heavy use of metavariables. The word “metavariable” comes from computer science, and in particular from automatic theorem proving, and refers to the practice that in mathematics would correspond to writing, “where x is to be chosen later,” (in which case x is the metavariable). In a paper we usually do this only in fairly simple situations such as when we need to choose a number \epsilon>0 that is small enough for later arguments to work. But when we search for an example of an object x that satisfies some property Q (which may well be a conjunction of simpler properties Q_1,\dots,Q_k), it is often not a good strategy to specify x completely and only then to check whether it satisfies Q. Instead, it can be more fruitful to do almost the opposite: we start by saying virtually nothing about x and simply launch into proving that it satisfies Q. In the course of doing so, we find that we need x to satisfy a property P_1. If we are lucky we can describe in a nice way a very general class of objects x that satisfy P_1. For instance, we may be able to find a parametrized class: we identify some function f and show that f(y) satisfies P_1 for every y of a certain type. The problem is then reduced to finding y such that $Q(f(y))$ holds, which is a more specific version of the original problem. There may be many iterations of this process, or a mixture of this process and other processes, before an example is eventually found.
  4. Try to prove the opposite. If one wishes to find x such that Q(x), it can be surprisingly helpful to start by attempting to prove the statement \forall x\ \neg Q(x). The reason this can be helpful is that using our standard methods of attempting to prove something, we may end up identifying a key lemma that would suffice: that is, we may find an intermediate property R that implies \neg Q in a non-trivial way and thus reduce the problem \forall x\ \neg Q(x) to \forall x\ R(x). Turning things round again, it may well then be that finding a counterexample to R is easier than finding a counterexample to \neg Q (that is, an example that satisfies Q). Of course, there is no guarantee that a counterexample to R will be an example of Q, but sometimes we are lucky and it is. More often, we can use the idea of the previous method, noting that it is at least a necessary condition of an example of Q that it should not be an example of R, so one can try to describe a general class of objects that fail R and in that way reduce the problem.
  5. Successive approximation. Sometimes, when we are searching for an example of x such that Q(x), we write down a moderately plausible guess x_0 not because we think it has a chance of working (if we did, then we would be using the first strategy), but because we hope that if x_0 does not satisfy Q, then we will be able to diagnose what went wrong and specify a new guess x_1 that does not have that defect. Again, this strategy can either be iterated or combined with one or more of the other strategies.
  6. Just-do-it proofs. Sometimes we need x to satisfy infinitely many properties Q_1,Q_2,\dots, each of which is, individually, quite easy to satisfy. In such situations, we often “build” x inductively bit by bit, ensuring at the ith stage of the process that however the building process continues, x will satisfy Q_i.
  7. Pick a random example. Often it is very hard to give an explicit example of an x that satisfies Q, but there is a natural probability distribution for which one can show that if one chooses x randomly from that distribution, then with high probability (or at least non-zero probability) it will satisfy Q.
  8. Pick a generic example. In more infinite contexts, it may again be quite hard to give an explicit example of an x that satisfies Q, but one may be able to show that the set of x that fail Q is or measure zero, or is a meagre set, or is small in some other way.

There is no particular reason to suppose that LLMs would be equally good at each of the methods above. So perhaps what we are observing is not quite that LLMs have a particular ability to find examples, but more that they are particularly good at finding examples (and proofs) in a certain way. Looking at the above techniques, one might imagine that they would be very well suited to checking off-the-shelf examples, finding just-do-it proofs (since that is a rather standard method with lots of instances in their training data), using the probabilistic method (unless, as often happens, significant new ideas are needed to show that the probabilities work out), and picking generic examples. The other three methods described above — use of metavariables, trying to prove the opposite, and using successive approximation — require more of an ability to judge whether the approach one is taking is likely to be fruitful. Here it seems at least possible that humans will sometimes have an advantage, but the conditions that a problem would need to satisfy are quite stringent. One would need an example to be one that lies at a leaf of a very large search tree — too large to be searched for by a combination of moderate mathematical ability and brute force — but that can be found by a mathematician with a sufficiently good nose for when they are making progress that they can prune the search tree very substantially.

Why wouldn’t LLMs also have that “nose”? I don’t rule out that “nose” is an emergent property of the way LLMs are trained, and that within a year or two they will have it to the same extent that we have it. But for now, in my interactions with ChatGPT, I do have a distinct impression that they haven’t got there quite yet. When I discuss an open problem with 5.6 Pro, I am often presented with approaches that sound promising until I think about them carefully, and then seem quite a lot less promising. And they will also often end a response by saying, “I have not managed to answer the question you asked, but have managed to reduce it to the following much narrower and more precise question,” which sounds very promising until it has happened five times without any obvious progress having been made. It isn’t completely obvious how they will get better at this, since their training data will not be full of examples of fruitful and less fruitful directions to pursue when trying to solve problems: all they will typically see is tidied up proofs that hide the thought processes of their discoverers. Of course, human mathematicians also don’t get to learn much about how to do research from the experience of other mathematicians, and yet we somehow manage to pick it up. But the situation is a little different for us, in that a lot of what we learn is by doing rather than emulating.

Another reason it is not obvious that “nose” is a property that emerges naturally when LLMs are scaled up is that if LLMs make heavy use of their broad knowledge and can afford to do a lot more brute-force search than humans can, then they will lack the incentive that humans have to prune the search tree ruthlessly. It could conceivably be that their successes so far are achieved using methods that for a human would be considered extremely inefficient, but that because of their superior speed and knowledge, the combinatorial explosion these methods will lead to has not yet become apparent.

It would be very interesting to try to test this experimentally, but it is also difficult, because if an LLM has what looks like the kind of idea that could only be the result of “deep thought” about a problem, we can never be sure that it has actually carried out that deep thought, as opposed to finding a model argument already in the literature, or in other words exploiting the deep thought of a human mathematician. It would probably be easier (but still not easy) to test it by using models that are less powerful than the latest ones and that have been to some extent shielded from the mathematical literature: one could give them a carefully designed suite of problems and see whether the ones that the LLMs solve have particular characteristics.

It may seem as though I am desperately clinging to the hope that humans will continue to be able to make meaningful contributions to mathematical discovery for a while yet, but while I do indeed hope that, I am not making any assertions of the form “LLMs will never be able to do X”. I think it is likely that they will, and given the pace of progress over the last three years it will probably happen quite soon. But I do think that there may be a hurdle for LLMs to clear and it seems at least possible that it won’t be cleared as straightforwardly as some of the previous hurdles.

In that connection, it would also be interesting to see whether a different reward structure leads to LLMs being able to solve different kinds of problems. For example, if during training an LLM (or machine-learning system of some other kind) is not just rewarded if it ends up with a solution, but also penalized if it explores too many dead ends or if it “cheats” by getting the answer from the literature, perhaps it would be incentivized to go about the research process in a more human way and thereby achieve better results for classes of problems where it is yet to make a big impact.

If the hurdle is cleared, either by pure scaling up or by some more thoughtful method, it will be quite difficult to know when that has happened, since, as just mentioned, an idea that seems very original and surprising may just be lurking somewhere in an LLM’s training data. But I would be confident that it had been cleared if an LLM were to come up with a proof that was as surprising to me as the solution of the cap-set problem was in 2016: the previous best known bounds were completely eclipsed, the method was utterly different from anything I had thought about trying, and afterwards there was a flurry of activity as people came to understand what this wonderful new technique was capable of.

Conclusion

I wasn’t quite sure where I would end up when I started this post, and now that I’ve got to the end, I feel that my main conclusions are not particularly new or surprising, but I hope that the route to them is of some interest. The main points I have made are the following.

  1. “Finding an example” is in practice not the same thing as proving a statement that begins with an existential quantifier.
  2. If it is true that current models are particularly good at finding examples, that is probably not because they have a particular affinity for existential statements, but more because the proof-discovery methods that are appropriate for finding certain kinds of examples play to the obvious strengths of LLMs: wide knowledge and the ability to explore many paths of the search tree that humans would judge to have a low probability of success.
  3. It seems likely that LLMs will carry on improving very quickly. However, if, contrary to expectations (mine at least), there turns out to be some residual class of problems (or other mathematical activities) for which humans continue to have the edge for a while, it is likely that those will be problems for which the mysterious human ability to prune the proof-discovery search tree is particularly advantageous: that is to say, problems where the search tree is deep and has a large amount of branching, so that without rigorous pruning a search is not feasible even for a computer.
  4. A good sign that LLMs have reached human level for a much wider class of problems will be if they start proving theorems using methods that, like much of the very best human mathematics, are new and surprising but that with hindsight come to seem beautiful and natural. They should also be methods that are difficult to stumble on by accident. It is hard to say precisely what would count as such a proof, but I think we’ll recognise it when we see it.