Infinite series: not quite as weird as some would say

Updated with a third footnote clarifying my use of the term “diverge,” thanks to suggestion by Evelyn Lamb, who has also written an excellent discussion of the problem with the video.  At the end of this post I list all the critiques I’ve found so far.

I feel like one of those grizzled action heroes who, having given it all up, is dragged reluctantly out of retirement for one more big mission.  Over the past month or so (honestly, I forget how long I was working on things), I wrote a series of blog posts on the “weirdness” of infinity in mathematical set theory.  Hopefully, there were two things that I got across in those posts: (1) infinity can be very weird, but (2) it can be comprehended, and even reasonable, once one understands the assumptions and limitations built into the mathematics.

Having retired from writing those posts, the other day I came across the following video:

So, using a seemingly simple series of mathematical manipulations, they “prove” the following astounding result: the infinite sum of increasing positive integers equals a finite, fractional, negative number.  In short:

1+ 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + \ldots = -1/12.

This video was picked up by Phil Plait at Bad Astronomy, who called* it “simply the most astonishing math that you’ll ever see.”  It has already spread far and wide across the internet, including making it to the popular site Boing Boing.

But is it true?  The video makes it seem so simple, and uncontroversial, almost obvious.  But there are some big mathematical assumptions hidden in their argument that, in my opinion, make it very misleading.  To put it another way: in a restricted, specialized mathematical sense, one can assign the value -1/12 to the increasing positive sum.  But in the usual sense of addition that most human beings would intuitively use, the result is nonsensical.

To me, this is an important distinction: a depressingly large portion of the population automatically assumes that mathematics is some nonintuitive, bizarre wizardry that only the super-intelligent can possibly fathom.  Showing such a crazy result without qualification only reinforces that view, and in my opinion does a disservice to mathematics.

I’ve actually discussed this result years ago on this blog, talking about the Riemann zeta function and how -1/12 isn’t really equal to the infinite sum given.  But even that discussion is probably a little too abstract, especially since I don’t discuss in any detail how the result -1/12 could be physically accurate.  As it has been noted (and I’ve noted myself), the -1/12 result can be used with surprising accuracy in physics problems.  But even there, things are much more subtle than they appear.

So let’s take a closer look** at the “proof” that an infinite increasing sum can equal -1/12. We will explain why the answer is not so simple as the video makes it appear, and why it is also not quite so simple to say that physics justifies the answer.  We have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s go!

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Posted in ... the Hell?, Mathematics | 32 Comments

The Case of the Telephone in His Hat (1894)

The history of science provides me with a practically never-ending set of delightful surprises!  Case in point is a set of articles I found while browsing through volume 17 of Current Literature, “A Magazine of Record and Review,” published in 1895.  Current Literature was an eclectic compilation of writings from a variety of other publications, including literature, science, and news magazines.  I not only found exactly the bit of physics history that I was looking for (more to be said in a future post) but also a bunch of other weirdness.

The first one that caught my eye was an article with the rather curious title “With a telephone in his hat.”  Reprinted from The Electrical Review, it turns out to be a very early, and in retrospect silly, true story of electronic eavesdropping!  I reprint it in its entirety below, with only short comments appended.

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Posted in ... the Hell?, History of science | 2 Comments

Arthur C. Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama

I must admit that I’ve never been a particularly avid reader of science fiction.  I’ve read very few of the works of the classic authors such as Clarke, Asimov, Heinlein, and Bradbury*, and I have many boxes unchecked in my list of “must-read” science fiction novels.  I also have an instinctive aversion to “hard” science fiction, which focuses on scientific and technical detail.

Recently, though, my interest was piqued when I learned that actor Morgan Freeman has been trying for years, almost a decade, to make a film adaptation of Arthur C. Clarke’s classic 1972 novel Rendezvous with Rama.

Rendezvous with Rama

I should note, though, that it wasn’t Freeman’s enthusiasm that intrigued me as much as a variety of related internet comments that suggested that a good film adaptation of Rama was “impossible.”  What qualities could make a story a classic book but also make it completely unsuitable (supposedly) for the big screen?  I was curious, and reading a synopsis of Rama made me really intrigued.

There probably isn’t much that I can say about the novel that hasn’t been said elsewhere and more eloquently, but it is amazing.  It immediately entered my list of favorite books of all time, and I’ve spent lots of time thinking about it for weeks after finishing it.

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Thomas Hinde’s The Day the Call Came

Harry Bale is a perfectly ordinary fellow.  His lives in the suburbs with his wife and two children, works in his attic studio, and indulges in gardening when the season is right.  His neighbors are an eclectic but friendly collection, and the Bales often spend time socializing at neighborhood parties.

All of this changes when Harry comes home to find an enigmatic envelope on the mantlepiece.  Inside is a typed message of only two words: “Stand by.”

Harry Bale, a sleeper agent for an unknown power, has been activated.

thedaythecallcame

 

So begins Thomas Hinde’s 1964 novel The Day the Call Came, recently reprinted by Valancourt Books and long unavailable.

What follows is a story of what can only be called suburban paranoia: as the time of Bale’s mission draws near (a mission of which he is still ignorant), his tension increases and he begins to wonder who he can trust around him.  Quiet laughter among his neighbors at dinner parties become sinister; every action out of the ordinary becomes suspicious.  Additional cryptic messages arrive from Bale’s faceless employers, putting him even further on alert and forcing him to take increasingly drastic action.  Eventually, the final call comes and Harry will perform a horrific and irrevocable task.

The Day the Call Came starts somewhat slowly, as Harry’s narration sets the stage of a seemingly peaceful community that he will reassess quickly.  Once the background is set, though, the novel moves quickly, as we follow Harry’s activities and his musings on what his cryptic instructions mean.

It is somewhat interesting to note that “suburban paranoia” is almost its own subgenre of horror and thrillers; I have previously talked about Thomas Berger’s (much more recent) novel Neighbors, about a man whose quiet life is turned upside-down by new residents next-door to him.  Such tales have appeal because they suggest that idyllic suburban communities are really too quiet, in the same way that a forest becomes absolutely silent just before a predator strikes.

My attention was drawn to Hinde’s novel not only for the strange plot, but because it was a great influence on horror master Ramsey Campbell, who is one of my favorite authors and of whom I have spoken quite often on this blog.  Campbell wrote a new introduction for the Valancourt edition, and he brings great insight to Hinde’s work, especially considering that Campbell himself is a true master of stories of madness and paranoia.

I didn’t find that The Day the Call Came held many surprises for me.  To some extent, the story played out as I suspected it would.  However, the story is almost irrelevant when compared to the remarkable atmosphere of menace that Hinde sets up.  Every action, every occurrence, every person in a happy sunlit community become ominous and sinister.  For this reason, I found The Day the Call Came to be well worth reading.

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Infinity is weird: what does it all mean?

The final installment in a series of posts on the size of the infinite, as described in mathematical set theory.  The first post can be read here, the second here, and the third here.

We have taken a long, strange journey into the properties of infinity.  Over the course of three posts, we have seen that we can characterize the different “sizes” of infinity, though not in the way one might think.  We have found, in fact, that there are an infinity of infinities!  The smallest one we looked at was the infinite set of counting numbers (labeled \aleph_0); the next largest we found was the continuum (labeled \mathcal{C}): the set of real numbers between 0 and 1.  We then found that, for any size infinity, we can construct a larger one.

This leads to an intriguing notion: if we arrange the different size infinities we have found in order, we might have a set of the form

\infty_0=\aleph_0, \infty_1=\mathcal{C}, \infty_2, \infty_3, \ldots

This would seem to suggest a really elegant possibility: if these are all the infinities, then we could imagine that the set of all infinities form a countable infinity themselves, of size \aleph_0, and then we could build up the larger infinities again from this, continuing an endless cycle!  For instance, the set of all subsets of the set of all infinities would then be of size \mathcal{C}, and so on.

For this to be true, however, we need to know whether there are any other infinities between those we have been able to derive so far.  We have shown that there are an infinite number of infinities, but we have not shown that these are the only infinities.  To condense this into the simplest problem, we can ask:

Are there infinite sets of an intermediate size between \aleph_0 and the continuum \mathcal{C}?

This is what is known as the continuum problem, and it has vexed mathematicians for well over a hundred years, ever since Georg Cantor first formulated set theory in the 1870s.

But here is where we arrive at what may be the oddest part of the story of infinity!  If we look at the history of the continuum problem, the answer to the question has changed over the years:

  1. We don’t know the answer (c. 1870s)
  2. We can’t know the answer (c. 1950s)
  3. The answer is whatever we prefer it to be (today)

Huh?  Okay, this is going to take a bit of explanation…

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Posted in Mathematics | 5 Comments

Laird Barron’s The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All

I am a HUGE fan of Laird Barron’s work!  I haven’t been as excited about an author of horror and weird fiction since I discovered Ramsey Campbell‘s work about two decades ago.  Since I first ran across Barron’s work in the Haunted Legends anthology, I’ve snapped up all of his books, including his first collection The Imago Sequence, his second Occultation, and his first novel The Croning.*

When his next collection, The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All, appeared in September of this year, I purchased it immediately — however, work and life kept me from getting around to reading it until recently!

beautifulthing

I’m glad I finally got to it!  Beautiful Thing is another excellent collection of Barron’s, and in my opinion shows his writing is getting even better and more intriguing than it already was.

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The people at Twitter are fucking morons (updated)

Update below: original block has been restored — I think.

This is a bit out of the norm from my usual posts, but this has really pissed me off and I need to rant about it.  Also, I need to explain the problem for people who don’t “get it.”

Twitter is basically burning down at the moment thanks to a new policy at the social media site regarding “blocking.”  For those unfamiliar: Twitter is a very public system where, typically, you “follow” those people whose thoughts interest you and you in turn are followed by those who are interested by your work.  Also, you can generally see what anyone is saying about you in your “mentions.”

Of course, any social media site is subject to abuse and harassers, so Twitter has had, since the very beginning, a “block” button, allowing you to ban selected users.  Blocking did the following:

  • A person could no longer follow you on Twitter from the blocked account.
  • A person could not “retweet” (share) your tweets, or “favorite” (bookmark) them.
  • A person could not, therefore, directly see your tweets on their account timeline.
  • Notified the person that they had, in fact, been blocked.

The most important effect of these actions was to remove the harasser from the conversation.  They could no longer directly reply to my tweets, and therefore could not directly jump into any conversation I was participating in.

This was always an imperfect solution.  A public Twitter account can be viewed freely on the internet, and so the tweets are still available to a harasser.  However, they cannot directly insert themselves into the conversation, because their logged-in account has no access.  Also, they could still of course see other tweets about the blocker.  In other words, it becomes relatively annoying for a harasser to effectively interact with the blocker.

Now, Twitter has decided to neuter the block function.  Essentially, it has become a “mute” button: the blocker will no longer see anything the harasser says, but the harasser still has complete and unmodified access to the blocker’s account.  So: if a blocker is having a conversation with someone, the harasser will be able to read everything, and reply to everything.  In fact, they won’t even be told they’ve been blocked any more.  My analogy: the new block function is like putting on a blindfold to protect yourself from Michael Myers from the “Halloween” movie.

Why does this matter?  Let’s look at the number of problems I’ve already imagined with the new policy, and I’ve only had about 2 hours to think about it:

  1. Psychology.  The new block policy completely strips the Twitter user of power, and in essence gives more to the harasser/stalker. In the old system, there was at least some psychological benefit to being able to take definite action; now, the block button acts as an “ignore it and hope it goes away” response.  For people in vulnerable groups who are regularly bullied, this makes Twitter a much less safe place.  This matters to people.  A lot.
  2. Harassment strategy 1.  In the new Twitter block system, a harasser can still see and respond to any tweets that the blocker makes.  This means that the harasser can mount a continual campaign of harassment against the followers of the blocker.  In the old system, if I have 3500 followers, I can perform a single block to cripple that person’s conversation ability.  In the new system, all 3500 followers would also have to block.  For a dedicated harasser who opens multiple accounts, he could effectively scare away other users from interacting with the blocker.
  3. Harassment strategy 2.  With the ability to retweet the blocker’s tweets, a harasser with a large following could continually share the victim’s tweets to send hordes of troll assistants to do the harassment via proxy.

“But but but,” the very serious person says, “None of this was prevented by the old block system!”  Well, no shit.  But the old system made it much less convenient to do so.  We can’t completely prevent murders, either, but we try and make it as inconvenient as possible to do so.   And rules and barriers make a difference in most cases.  Removing barriers emboldens harassers.

So: why would Twitter do such a thing?  The most obvious answer is “money”: they want to prevent people from shielding themselves completely from advertisers.  If an advertiser doesn’t know it’s blocked, it can’t complain that it can’t reach the Twitter audience!  Twitter itself officially has a more ridiculous answer:

TechCrunch spoke to Twitter about the changes, and the company says that the change, which does not notify or alert the person you’ve blocked in any way, was done to prevent a scenario of retaliation. The company said that they had seen situations where users, once they discovered that they had been blocked — because they could no longer view tweets or interact with tweets — would find other ways to attack or harass the blocker or even be spurred to greater abuse.

Did you get that?  Harassers got angry when blocked, so they got rid of the blocking.  As my Twitter friend @DCPlod noted,

Twitter’s rationale for gutting the block function is that of a wife-beater. I’m not exaggerating.

That sounds about right: harassers and stalkers get mad when you block them, so we won’t let you do it!  It’s your fault if they get even angrier at you.

Incidentally, Twitter’s argument undermines the rationale that the block changes make no difference: if harassers are getting angry about being blocked, it makes a difference.

Twitter firmly has their head up their ass on this one; hopefully they’ll change course.  I might have to leave the service otherwise.  I typically am not harassed on Twitter, but I’m not going to support a service that allows others to do so.

Update: Twitter has quickly reversed their policy and restored the original block functionality.  Learned the news via Little Green Footballs; the official statement is here.  Thanks to Twitter for taking action on this so quickly, though it is still unclear if there is any restriction on the ability of people to respond to a blocker’s tweets or RT them.  Tentative apologies to Twitter for the moron thing.

Posted in ... the Hell? | 17 Comments

Weird fiction Tuesday: Trypophobia

It’s time for Weird Fiction… uh… Tuesday, when I post stories that I’ve written — both new and old — for the entertainment (hopefully) of my readers!  As always, I note that I haven’t done extensive editing of the tales here, so don’t be surprised to find the writing a little rough.  I’ll say a bit more about the story at the end of the post, if you make it that far.  This is a science fiction story with a horror twist.

Trypophobia

“What was the worst planetary battle you fought in, Grandfather?”

A group of young soldiers had approached Mako as he was mopping the floor of the canteen.  They looked much younger than Mako had been during his time in the service, but of course they were – the age of eligibility for active duty had dropped from eighteen to sixteen in the intervening years.  One young man stood in front of the others, and was apparently the leader of the group, and its instigator.  He wasn’t Mako’s grandson, of course: “Grandfather” was a nickname given to those no longer fit for combat who volunteered for service aboard one of the capital warships, usually doing menial work.  It was intended to be an honorary term, though was more often used in an almost sarcastic tone, and Mako could hear a faint hint of mockery in the young man’s voice.

Was I like that, at his age? Mako asked himself, though he already knew that the answer was yes.

The young men were almost certainly on edge, however: in less than 8 hours their warship, the Minotaur, would be meeting with three others in interstellar space for final planning and coordination.  Less than 24 hours after that, the attack and invasion would begin, and these soldiers would be the first ones to go planet side, their assault the final stage in breaking the enemy’s defenses.  They would also likely suffer the worst casualties.

“My worst battle?” Mako said aloud, reaching almost unconsciously to his throat.  Decommissioned soldiers were no longer allowed to wear their dogtags, and often fashioned them into jewelry.  Mako had made his into a simple metal locket hanging around his neck, which he twisted in his weathered hands thoughtfully.  “The worst situation I’ve ever been in was the first Ancinian action on Jackson’s Hell.”

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John Wyndham’s “Web”

John Wyndham (1903-1969) is one of those authors who falls into the category of “famous writer that you’ve never heard of.”  A number of his novels are undeniable classics that were made, and remade, into movies and television series multiple times.  Most people watching those movies, however, are unaware that they are based on books.

I was equally ignorant of Wyndham until a few years ago, when I read several of his most famous works and blogged about them.  You have probably heard of The Day of the Triffids (1951) and The Midwich Cuckoos (1957), though the latter is much better known by its movie title Village of the Damned.  The Kraken Wakes (1953) is another wonderful novel, depicting a war between humanity and an alien race that lives at the bottom of the ocean; this book is sadly out of print.

It’s been a while since I read anything of Wyndham’s, so I recently picked up a copy of Web (1979).

web

Web was somewhat of a risky purchase — it was Wyndham’s last novel, and it remained unpublished during his lifetime.  In fact, as you can see from the dates above, it was only released by his estate 10 years after his death!  Without the author’s input in publication, I worried that the book might be a hastily touched-up first draft.  Furthermore, as his last book, I worried that his writing skills might have faded from age and illness (see, for example, Stoker’s Lair of the White Worm).  However, my fears were (mostly) unjustified: Web is a short but elegant little horror novel with its share of interesting ideas.

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Posted in Horror, Science fiction | 4 Comments

Infinity is weird: to infinity, and beyond!

The third and it-turns-out-not-final installment in a series of posts on the size of the infinite, as described in mathematical set theory.  The first post can be read here, and the second here.

I think Buzz Lightyear captures the spirit of this post best:

Who knew that Buzz was such a mathematical philosopher?  “To infinity, and beyond;” that is a concise summary of what we have seen in the first two posts in this series!  So far, we have seen that we can characterize the “size” of different infinite sets, and that there are at least two different size infinities.  The smallest infinity, the size of which is labeled \aleph_0, is the size of the natural, or “countable,” numbers: 1,2,3,4,5, and so forth.  Any set of objects that can be put into one-to-one correspondence with the natural numbers is of size \aleph_0.  What is bigger than this?  It turns out that the set of all real numbers between 0 and 1 is a larger set than the natural numbers!  We label the size of this set as \mathcal{C}.  This continuous set of numbers, appropriately known as the continuum, is an uncountable infinity: the set is so infinitely large that it is not possible to even put them in order to count.

That’s crazy enough, but we can even go further: it is possible to demonstrate that there are an infinite number of larger infinities: an infinity of infinities of increasing size!*

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