Notes from JMM 2018

The annual Joint Mathematics Meeting always charges my batteries. Here are few items from this year’s gathering in San Diego.

San Diego Convention Ctr during JMM 2018

A Formal Affair

In 1994 a document called the QED Manifesto made the rounds of certain mathematical mailing lists and Usenet groups.

QED is the very tentative title of a project to build a computer system that effectively represents all important mathematical knowledge and techniques. The QED system will conform to the highest standards of mathematical rigor, including the use of strict formality in the internal representation of knowledge and the use of mechanical methods to check proofs of the correctness of all entries in the system.

The ambitions of the QED project—and its eventual failure—were front and center in a talk by Thomas Hales (University of Pittsburgh) on Formal Abstracts in Mathematics. Hales is proposing another such undertaking: A comprehensive database of theorems and other mathematical propositions, along with the axioms, assumptions, and definitions on which the theorems depend, all represented in a formal notation readable by both humans and machines. Unlike QED, however, these “formal abstracts” would not include proofs of the theorems. Excluding proofs is a huge retreat from the aims of the QED group, but Hales argues that it’s necessary to make the project feasible with current technology.

Hales has plenty of experience in this field. In 1998 he announced a proof of the Kepler conjecture—the assertion that the grocer’s stack of oranges embodies the densest possible arrangement of equal-size spheres in three-dimensional space. Hales’s proof was long and complex, so much so that it stymied the efforts of journal referees to fully check it. Hales and 21 collaborators then spent a dozen years constructing a formal, computer-mediated verification of the proof.

What’s the use of a database of mathematical assertions if it doesn’t include proofs? Hales held out several potential benefits, two of which I found particularly appealing. First, the database could answer global questions about the mathematical literature; one could ask, “How many theorems depend on the Riemann hypothesis?” Second, the formal abstracts would capture the meaning of mathematical statements, not just their surface form. A search for all mentions of the equation \(x^m - y^n = 1\) would find instances that use symbols other than \(x, y, m, n,\) or that take slightly different forms, such as \(x^m - 1 = y^n\).

Hales’s formal abstracts sound intriguing, but I have to confess to a certain level of disappointment and bafflement. All around us, triumphant machines are conquering one domain after another—chess, go, poker, Jeopardy, the driver’s seat. But not proofs, apparently.

Sperner’s Lemma

Am I the last person in the whole republic of numbers to learn that Sperner’s lemma is a discrete version of the Brouwer fixed-point theorem? Francis Su and John Stillwell clued me in.

The lemma—first stated in 1928 by the German mathematician Emanuel Sperner—seems rather narrow and specialized, but it turns up everywhere. It concerns a triangle whose vertices are assigned three distinct colors:

Sperner-colored triangle

Divide the triangle into smaller triangles, constrained by two rules. First, no edge or segment of an edge can be part of more than two triangles. Second, if a vertex of a new small triangle lies on an edge of the original main triangle, the new vertex must be given one of the two colors found at the end points of that main edge. For example, a vertex along the red-green edge on the left side of the main triangle must be either red or green. Vertices strictly inside the main triangle can be given any of the three colors, without restriction.

Triangulated triangle, with each vertex colored red, blue, or green.

The lemma states that at least one interior triangle must have a full complement of red, green, and blue vertices. Actually, the lemma’s claim is slightly stronger: The number of trichromatic inner triangles must be odd. In the augmented diagram below, adding a single new red vertex has created two more RGB triangles, for a total of three.

sperner-colored triangle with three trichormatic interior triangles

Su gave a quick proof of the lemma. Consider the set of all edge segments that have one red and one green endpoint. On the exterior boundary of the large triangle, such segments can appear only along the red-green edge, and there must be an odd number of them. Now draw a path that enters the large triangle from the outside, that crosses only red-green segments, and that crosses each such segment at most once.

Sperner triangle with paths

One possible fate of this RG path is to enter through one red-green segment and exit through another. But since the number of red-green segments on the boundary is odd, there must be at least one path that enters the large triangle and never exits. The only way it can become trapped is to enter a red-green-blue triangle. (There’s nothing special about red-green segments, so this argument also holds for paths crossing red-blue and blue-green segments.)

So much for Sperner’s lemma. What do these nested triangles have to do with the Brouwer fixed-point theorem? That theorem operates in a continuous domain, which seems remote from the discrete network of Sperner’s triangulated triangle.

As the story goes (I can’t vouch for its provenance), L. E. J. Brouwer formulated his theorem at the breakfast table. Stirring his coffee, he noticed that there always seemed to be at least one stationary point on the surface of the moving liquid. He was able to prove this fact not just for the interior of a coffee cup but for any bounded, closed, and convex region, and not just for circular motion but for any continuous function that maps points within such a region to points in the same region. For each such function \(f\), there is a point \(p\) such that \(f(p) = p\).

Brouwer’s fixed-point theorem was a landmark in the development of topology, and yet Brouwer himself later renounced the theorem—or at least his proof of it, because the proof was nonconstructive: It gave no procedure for finding or identifying the fixed point. John Stillwell argues that a proof based on Sperner’s lemma comes as close as possible to a constructive proof, though it would still have left Brouwer unsatisfied.

The proof relies on the same kind of paths represented by yellow arrows in the diagram above. At least one such path comes to an end inside a tri-colored triangle, which Sperner’s lemma shows must exist in any properly colored triangulated network. If we continue subdividing the triangles under the Sperner rules, and proceed to the limit where the edge lengths go to zero, then the path ends at a single, stationary point. (It’s the “proceed to the limit” step that Brouwer would not have liked.)

The Muffin Man

You have five muffins to share among three students; lets call the students April, May, and June. One solution is to give each student one whole muffin, then divide the remaining two muffins into pieces of size one-third and two-thirds. Then the portions are divvied up as follows:

Five muffins allocated to three students with slices of size 1/3 and 2/3

This allotment is quantitatively fair, in that each student receives five-thirds of a muffin, but June complains that her two small pieces are less appetizing than the others’ larger ones. She feels she’s been given leftover crumbs. Hence the division is not envy-free.

There are surely many ways of addressing this complaint. You might cut all the muffins into pieces of size one-third, and give each student five equal pieces. Or you might give each student a muffin and a half, then eat the leftover half yourself. These are practical and sensible strategies, but they are not what Bill Gasarch was seeking when he gave a talk on the problem Saturday afternoon. Gasarch asked a specific question: What is the maximum size of the minimum piece? Can we do better than one-third?

The answer is yes. Here is a division that cuts one muffin in half and divides each of the other four muffins into portions of size seven-twelfths and five-twelfths. April and May each get \(\frac{1}{2} + \frac{7}{12} + \frac{7}{12}\); June gets \(4 \times \frac{5}{12}\).

a fair division of five muffins into three portions with smallest piece 5/12.

Five-twelfths is larger than one-third, and thus should seem less crumby. Indeed, Gasarch and his colleagues have proved five-twelfths is the best result possible: It is the maximum of the minimum. (Nevertheless, I worry that June may still be unhappy. Her portion is cut up into four pieces, whereas the others get three pieces each; furthermore, all of June’s pieces are smaller than April’s and May’s. Again, however, these concerns lie outside the scope of the mathematical problem.)

A key observation is that the smallest piece can never be larger than one-half. This is thunderously obvious once you know it, but I failed to see it when I first started thinking about the problem.

Fair-division problems have a long history (going back at least as far as the Talmud), and cake-cutting versions have been proliferating for decades. A 1961 article by L. E. Dubins and E. H. Spanier (American Mathematical Monthly 68:1–17) inspired much further work. William GasarchThere are even connections with Sperner’s lemma. Nevertheless, the genre is not exhausted yet; the muffin problem seems to be a new wrinkle. Gasarch and six co-authors (three of them high school students) have prepared a 166-page manuscript describing a year’s worth of labor on the problem, with optimal results for all instances with up to six students (and any number of muffins), as well as upper and lower bounds on solutions to larger instances, and various conjectures on open problems.

Long-time readers of bit-player may remember that Gasarch has been mentioned here before. Back in 2009 he offered (and eventually paid) \($17^2\) for a four-coloring of a 17-by-17 lattice such that no four lattice points forming a rectangle all have the same color. That problem attracted considerable attention both here and on Gasarch’s own Computational Complexity blog (conducted jointly with Lance Fortnow).

Note: In the comments Jim Propp points out that the muffin problem was invented by Alan Frank. The omission of this fact is my fault; Gasarch mentions it in his paper. The problem’s first appearance in print seems to be in a New York Times Numberplay column by Gary Antonick. Frank’s priority is acknowledged only in a footnote, which seems unfair. I apologize for again giving him credit only as an afterthought.

Posted in mathematics, problems and puzzles | 3 Comments

Flipping Wyoming

state border signs for the dozen states from MA to CA on I-80 (there is no "wlecome to Nebraska" sign, so I made do with "welcome to Omaha"

Last week I spent five days in the driver’s seat, crossing the country from east to west, mostly on Interstate 80. I’ve made the trip before, though never on this route. In particular, the 900-mile stretch from Lincoln, Nebraska, across the southern tier of Wyoming, and down to Salt Lake City was new to me.

Driving is a task that engages only a part of one’s neural network, so the rest of the mind is free to wander. On this occasion my thoughts took a political turn. After all, I was boring through the bright red heart of America. Especially in Wyoming.

Based on the party affiliations of registered voters, Wyoming is far and away the most Republican state in the union, with the party claiming the allegiance of two-thirds of the electorate. The Democrats have 18 percent. A 2013 Gallup poll identified Wyoming as the most “conservative” state, with just over half those surveyed preferring that label to “moderate” or “liberal.”

The other singular distinction of Wyoming is that it has the smallest population of all the states, estimated at 579,000. The entire state has fewer people than many U.S. cities, including Albuquerque, Milwaukee, and Baltimore. The population density is a little under six people per square mile.

I looked up these numbers while staying the night in Laramie, the state’s college town, and I was mulling them over as I continued west the next morning, climbing through miles of rolling grassland and sagebrush with scarcely any sign of human habitation. A mischievous thought came upon me. What would it take to flip Wyoming? If we could somehow induce 125,000 liberal voters to take up legal residence here, the state would change sides. We’d have two more Democrats in the Senate, and one more in the House. Berkeley, California, my destination on this road trip, has a population of about 120,000. Maybe we could persuade everyone in Berkeley to give up Chez Panisse and Moe’s Books, and build a new People’s Republic somewhere on Wyoming’s Medicine Bow River.

Let me quickly interject: This is a daydream, or maybe a nightmare, and not a serious proposal. Colonizing Wyoming for political purposes would not be a happy experience for either the immigrants or the natives. The scheme belongs in the same category as a plan announced by a former Mormon bishop to build a new city of a million people in Vermont. (Vermont has a population of about 624,000, the second smallest among U.S. states.)

Rather than trying to flip Wyoming, maybe one should try to fix it. Why is it the least populated state, and the most Republican? Why is so much of the landscape vacant? Why aren’t entrepreneurs with dreams of cryptocurrency fortunes flocking to Cheyenne or Casper with their plans for startup companies?

The experience of driving through the state on I-80 suggests some answers to these questions. I found myself wondering how even the existing population of a few hundred thousand manages to sustain itself. Wikipedia says there’s some agriculture in the state (beef, hay, sugar beets), but I saw little evidence of it. There’s tourism, but that’s mostly in the northwest corner, focused on Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks and the cowboy-chic enclave of Jackson Hole. The only conspicuous economic activity along the I-80 corridor is connected with the mining and energy industries. My very first experience of Wyoming was olfactory: Coming downhill from Pine Bluffs, Nebraska, I caught of whiff of the Frontier oil refinery in Cheyenne; as I got closer to town, I watched the sun set behind a low-hanging purple haze that might also be refinery-related. The next day, halfway across the state, the Sinclair refinery announced itself in a similar way.

Sinclair refinery in Sinclair, Wyoming

Still farther west, coal takes over where oil leaves off. The Jim Bridger power plant, whose stacks and cooling-tower plumes are visible from the highway, burns locally mined coal and exports the electricity.

Jim Bridger power plant 5582

As the author of a book celebrating industrial artifacts, I’m hardly the one to gripe about the presence of such infrastructure. On the other hand, oil and coal are not much of a foundation for a modern economy. Even with all the wells, the pipelines, the refineries, the mines, and the power plants, Wyoming employment in the “extractive” sector is only about 24,000 (or 7 percent of the state’s workforce), down sharply from a peak of 39,000 in 2008. If this is the industry that will build the state’s future, then the future looks bleak.

Economists going all the way back to Adam Smith have puzzled over the question: Why do some places prosper while others languish? Why, for example, are Denver and Boulder so much livelier than Cheyenne and Laramie? The Colorado cities and the Wyoming ones are only about 100 miles apart, and they share similar histories and physical environments. But Denver is booming, with a diverse and growing economy and a population approaching 700,000—greater than the entire state of Wyoming. Cheyenne remains a tenth the size of Denver, and in Cheyenne you don’t have to fight off hordes of hipsters to book a table for dinner. What makes the difference? I suspect the answer lies in a Yogi Berra phenomenon. Everybody wants to go to Denver because everyone is there already. Nobody wants to be in Cheyenne because it’s so lonely. If this guess is correct, maybe we’d be doing Wyoming a favor by bringing in that invasion of 125,000 sandal-and-hoodie–clad bicoastals.

sign at the continental divide, elevation 7000One more Wyoming story. At the midpoint of my journey across the state, near milepost 205 on I-80, I passed the sign shown at left. I am an aficionado of continental divide crossings, and so I took particular note. Then, 50 miles farther along, I passed another sign, shown at right. continental divide sign at elevation 6930 On seeing this second crossing, I put myself on high alert for a third such sign. This is a matter of simple topology, or so I thought. If a line—perhaps a very wiggly one—divides an area into two regions, then if you start in one region and end up in the other, you must have crossed the line an odd number of times. Shown below are some possible configurations. three possible ways of crossing a wiggly continential divideIn each case the red line is the path of the continental divide, and the dashed blue line is the road’s trajectory across it. At far left the situation is simple: The road intersects the divide in a single point. The middle diagram shows three crossings; it’s easy to see how further elaboration of the meandering path could yield five or seven or any odd number of crossings. An arrangement that might seem to generate just two crossings is show at right. One of the “crossings” is not a crossing at all but a point of tangency. Depending on your taste in such matters, the tangent intersection could be counted as crossing the divide twice or not at all; in either case, the total number of crossings remains odd.

In the remainder of my trip I never saw a sign marking a third crossing of the divide. The explanation has nothing to do with points of tangency. I should have known that, because I’ve actually written about this peculiarity of Wyoming topography before. Can you guess what’s happening? Wikipedia tells all.

Posted in mathematics, modern life, social science, technology | 1 Comment

Sir Roger Penrose’s Toilet Paper

Penrose Tiling Rhombi Wikimedia
Twenty years ago, Kimberly-Clark, the Kleenex company, introduced a line of toilet paper embossed with the kite-and-dart aperiodic tiling discovered by Roger Penrose. When I first heard about this, I thought: How clever. Because the pattern never repeats, the creases in successive layers of a roll would never line up over any extended region, and so the sheets would be less likely to stick together.

Sir Roger Penrose had a different response. Apparently be believes the pattern is subject to copyright protection, and he also managed to get a patent issued in 1979, although that would have expired about the time of the toilet paper scandal. Penrose assigned his rights to a British company called Pentaplex Ltd. An article in the Times of London quoted a representative of Pentaplex:

So often we read of very large companies riding roughshod over small businesses or individuals, but when it comes to the population of Great Britain being invited by a multinational [company] to wipe their bottoms on what appears to be the work of a knight of the realm without his permission, then a last stand must be made.

Sir Roger sued. I haven’t been able to find a documented account of how the legal action was resolved, but it seems Kimberly-Clark quickly withdrew the product.

Some years ago I was given a small sample of the infamous Penrose toilet paper. It came to me from Phil and Phylis Morrison; a note from Phylis indicates that they acquired it from Marion Walter. Now I would like to pass this treasure on to a new custodian. The specimen is unused though not pristine, roughly a foot long, and accompanied by a photocopy of the abovementioned Times news item. In the photograph below I have boosted the contrast to make the raised ridges more visible; in real life the pattern is subtle.

Penrose tiled toilet paper  enhanced

Are you interested in artifacts with unusual symmetries? Would you like to add this object to your collection? Send a note with a U.S. mailing address to If I get multiple requests, I’ll figure out some Solomonic procedure for choosing the recipient(s). If there are no takers, I guess I’ll use it for its intended purpose.

I must also note that my hypothesis about the special non-nesting property of the embossed paper is totally bogus. In the first place, a roll of toilet paper is an Archimedian spiral, so that the circumference increases from one layer to the next; even a perfectly regular pattern will come into coincidence with itself only when the circumference equals an integer multiple of the pattern period. Second, the texture imprinted on the toilet paper is surely not a real aperiodic tiling. The manufacturing process would have involved passing the sheet between a pair of steel crimping cylinders bearing the incised network of kites and darts. Those cylinders are necessarily of finite diameter, and so the pattern must in fact repeat. If Kimberly-Clark had contested the law suit, they might have used that point in their defense.

Posted in mathematics, off-topic, uncategorized | 1 Comment

The Threats to the Net

My first glimpse of the World Wide Web came in 1993 on a visit to Fermilab, the physics playground near Chicago. Tom Nash, head of the computing division, showed me a screenful of text with a few highlighted phrases. When he selected one of the phrases, the screen went blank for a moment, and then another page of text appeared. We had just followed a hyperlink. I asked Tom what the system was good for, and he said it was great for sharing software documentation. I was so unimpressed I failed even to mention this new tool in the article I was writing about scientific computing at Fermilab.

A year later, after the Mosaic browser came on the scene, my eyes were opened. I wrote a gushing article on the marvels of the WWW.

There have long been protocols for transferring various kinds of information over the Internet, but the Web offers the first seamless interface to the entire network . . . The Web promotes the illusion that all resources are at your fingertips; the universe of information is inside the little box that sits on your desk.

I was still missing half the story. Yes, the web (which has since lost its capital W) opened up an amazing portal onto humanity’s accumulated storehouse of knowledge. But it did something else as well: It empowered all of us to put our own stories and ideas before the public. Economic and technological barriers were swept away; we could all become creators as well as consumers. Perhaps for the first time since Gutenberg, public communication became a reasonably symmetrical, two-way social process.

The miracle of the web is not just that the technology exists, but that it’s accessible to much of the world’s population. The entire software infrastructure is freely available, including the HTTP protocol that started it all, the languages for markup, styling, and scripting (HTML, CSS, JavaScript), server software (Apache, Nginx), content-management systems such as WordPress, and also editors, debuggers, and other development tools. Thanks to this community effort, I get to have my own little broadcasting station, my personal media empire.

But can it last?

In the U.S., the immediate threat to the web is the repeal of net-neutrality regulations. Under the new rules (or non-rules), Internet service providers will be allowed to set up toll booths and roadblocks, fast lanes and slow lanes. They will be able to expedite content from favored sources (perhaps their own affiliates) and impede or block other kinds of traffic. They could charge consumers extra fees for access to some sites, or collect back-channel payments from publishers who want preferential treatment. For a glimpse of what might be in store, a New York Times article looks at some recent developments in Europe. (The European Union has its own net-neutrality law, but apparently it’s not being consistently enforced.)

The loss of net neutrality has elicited much wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth. I’m as annoyed as the next netizen. But I also think it’s important to keep in mind that the web (along with the internet more generally) has always lived at the edge of the precipice. Losing net neutrality will further erode the foundations, but it is not the only threat, and probably not the worst one.

Need I point out that the internet lost its innocence a long time ago? In the early years, when the network was entirely funded by the federal government, most commercial activity was forbidden. That began to change circa 1990, when crosslinks with private-enterprise networks were put in place, and the general public found ways to get online through dial-up links. The broadening of access did not please everyone. Internet insiders recoiled at the onslaught of clueless newbies (like me); commercial network operators such as CompuServe and AmericaOnline feared that their customers would be lured away by a heavily subsidized competitor. Both sides were right about the outcome.

As late as 1994, hucksterism on the internet was still a social trangression if not a legal one. Advertising, in particular, was punished by vigorous and vocal vigilante action. But the cause was already lost. The insular, nerdy community of internet adepts was soon overwhelmed by the dot-com boom. Advertising, of course, is now the engine that drives most of the largest websites.

Commerce also intruded at a deeper level in the stack of internet technologies. When the internet first became inter—a network of networks—bits moved freely from one system to another through an arrangement called peering, in which no money changed hands. By the late 1990s, however, peering was reserved for true peers—for networks of roughly the same size. Smaller carriers, such as local ISPs, had to pay to connect to the network backbone. These pay-to-play arrangements were never affected by network neutrality rules.

Summer Street patch panel 3904

A patch panel in a “meet me room” allows independent nework carriers to exchange streams of bits. Some of the data transfers are peering arrangements, made without payment, but others are cash transactions. The meet-me room is at the Summer Street internet switching center in Boston.

Express lanes and tolls are also not a novelty on the internet. Netflix, for example, pays to place disk farms full of videos at strategic internet nodes around the world, reducing both transit time and network congestion. And Google has built its own private data highways, laying thousands of miles of fiber optic cable to bypass the major backbone carriers. If you’re not Netflix or Google, and you can’t quite afford to build your own global distribution system, you can hire a content delivery network (CDN) such as Akamai or Cloudflare to do it for you. What you get for your money: speedier delivery, caching of static content near the destination, and some protection against malicious traffic. Again the network neutrality rules do not apply to CDNs, even when they are owned and run by companies that also act as telecommunications carriers and ISPs, such as AT&T.

In pointing out that there’s already a lot of money grubbing in the temple of the internet, I don’t mean to suggest that the repeal of net neutrality doesn’t matter or won’t make a difference. It’s a stupid decision. As a consumer, I dread the prospect of buying internet service the way one buys bundles of cable TV channels. As a creator of websites, I fear losing affordable access to readers. As a citizen, I denounce the reckless endangerment of a valuable civic asset. This is nothing but muddy boots trampling a cultural treasure.

Still and all, it could be worse. Most likely it will be. Here are three developments that make me uneasy about the future of the web.

Dominance. In round numbers, the web has something like a billion sites and four billion users—an extraordinarily close match of producers to consumers. For any other modern medium—television stations and their viewers, newspaper and their readers—the ratio is surely orders of magnitude larger. Yet the ratio for the web is also misleading. Three fourths of those billion web sites have no content and no audience (they are “parked” domain names), and almost all the rest are tiny. Meanwhile, Facebook gets the attention of roughly half of the four billion web users. Google and Facebook together, along with their subsidiaries such as YouTube, account for 70 percent of all internet traffic. The wealth distribution of the web is even more skewed than that of the world economy.

It’s not just the scale of the few large sites that I find intimidating. Facebook in particular seems eager not just to dominate the web but to supplant it. They make an offer to the consumer: We’ll give you a better internet, a curated experience; we’ll show you what you want to see and filter out the crap. And they make an offer to the publisher and advertiser: This is where the people are. If you want to reach them, buy a ticket and join the party.

If everyone follows the same trail to the same few destinations, net neutrality is meaningless.

Fragmentation. The web is built on open standards and a philosophy of sharing and cooperation. If I put up a public website, anyone can visit without asking my permission; they can use whatever software they please when they read my pages; they can publish links to what I’ve written, which any other web user can then follow. This crosslinked body of literature is now being shattered by the rise of apps. Facebook and Twitter and Google and other large internet properties would really prefer that you visit them not on the open web but via their own proprietary software. And no wonder: They can hold you captive in an environment where you can’t wander away to other sites; they can prevent you from blocking advertising or otherwise fiddling with what they feed you; and they can gather more information about you than they could from a generic web browser. The trouble is, when every website requires its own app, there’s no longer a web, just a sheaf of disconnected threads.

This battle seems to be lost already on mobile platforms.

Suppression. All of the challenges to the future of the web that I have mentioned so far are driven by the mere pursuit of money. Far scarier are forms of manipulation and discrimination based on noneconomic motives.

Governments have ultimate control over virtually all communications media—radio and TV, newspapers, books, movies, the telephone system, the postal service, and certainly the internet. Nations that we like to think of as enlightened have not hesitated to use that power to shape public discourse or to suppress unpopular or inconvenient opinions, particularly in times of stress. With internet technology, surveillance and censorship are far easier and more efficient than they ever were with earlier media. A number of countries (most notoriously China) have taken full advantage of those capabilities. Others could follow their example. Controls might be introduced overtly through legislation or imposed surreptitiously through hacking or by coercing service providers.

Still another avenue of suppression is inciting popular sentiment—burning down websites with tiki torches. I can’t say I’m sorry to see the Nazi site Daily Stormer hounded from the web by public outcry; no one, it seems, will register their domain name or host their content. Historically, however, this kind of intimidation has weighed most heavily on the other end of the political spectrum. It is the labor movement, racial and ethnic and religious minorities, socialists and communists and anarchists, feminists, and the LGBT community who have most often had their speech suppressed. Considering who wields power in Washington just now, a crackdown on “fake news” on the internet is hardly an outlandish possibility.

In spite of all these forebodings, I remain strangely optimistic about the web’s prospects for survival. The internet is a resilient structure, not just in its technological underpinnings but also in its social organization. Over the past 20 years, for many of us, the net has wormed its way into every aspect of daily life. It’s too big to fail now. Even if some basement command center in the White House had a big red switch that shuts down the whole network, no one would dare to throw it.

Posted in computing, modern life | 4 Comments

Sudden Deaf

My erstwhile employer, mentor, and dearest friend was Dennis Flanagan, who edited Scientific American for 37 years. He is the larger of the two aquatic specimens in the photograph below.

Dennis Flanagan in a wet suit, lying on the lawn next to the striped bass he just speared in Great South Bay.

One of the quirks of life with Dennis was that he didn’t hear well, as a result of childhood ear infections. In an unpublished memoir he lists his deafness as a major influence on his path through life. It was a hardship in school, because he missed much of what his teachers were saying. On the other hand, it kept him out of the military in World War II.

Later in life, hearing aids helped considerably, but only on one side. When we went to lunch, I learned to sit to his right, so that I could speak to the better ear. When we took someone out to lunch, the guest got the favored chair. In our monthly editorial meetings, however, he turned his deaf ear to Gerard Piel, the magazine’s co-founder and publisher. (They didn’t always get along.) In Dennis’s last years, after both of us had left the magazine, we would take long walks through Lower Manhattan, with stops in coffee shops and sojourns on park benches, and again I made sure I was the right-hand man. Dennis died in 2005. I miss him all the time.

Although I was always aware of Dennis’s hearing impairment, I never had an inkling of what his asymmetric sensory experience might feel like from inside his head. Now I have a chance to find out. A few days ago I had a sudden failure of hearing in my left ear. At the time I had no idea what was happening, so I can’t reconstruct an exact chronology, but I think the ear went from normal function to zilch in a matter of seconds or minutes. It was like somebody pulled the plug.

I have since learned that this is a rare phenomenon (5 to 20 cases per 100,000 population) but well-known to the medical community. It has a name: Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss. It is a malfunction of the cochlea, the inner-ear transducer between mechanical vibration and neural activity. An audiological exam confirmed that my eardrum and the delicate linkage of tiny bones in the middle ear are functioning normally, but the signal is not getting through to the brain. In most cases of SSNH, the cause is never identified. I’m under treatment, and there’s a decent chance that at least some level of hearing will be restored.

I don’t often write about matters this personal, and I’m not doing so now to whine about my fate or to elicit sympathy. I want to record what I’m going through because I find it fascinating as well as distressing. A great deal of what we know about the human brain comes from accidents and malfunctions, and now I’m learning some interesting lessons at first hand.

The obvious first-order effect of losing an ear is cutting in half the amplitude of the received acoustic signal. This is perhaps the least disruptive aspect of the impairment, and the easiest to mitigate.

The second major effect is more disturbing: trouble locating the source of a sound. Binaural hearing is key to localization. For low-pitched sounds, with wavelengths greater than the diameter of the head, the brain detects the phase difference between waves reaching the two ears. The phase measurement can yield an angular resolution of just a few degrees. At higher frequencies and shorter wavelengths, the head effectly blocks sound, and so there is a large intensity difference between the two ears, which provides another localizing cue. This mechanism is somewhat less acurate, but you can home in on a source by turning your head to null the intensity difference.

With just one ear, both kinds of directional guidance are lacking. This did not come as a surprise to me, but I had never thought about what it would be like to perceive nonlocalized sounds. You might imagine it would be like switching the audio system from stereophonic to monoaural. In that case, you lose the illusion that the strings are on the left side of the stage and the brasses on the right; the whole orchestra is all mixed up in front of you. Nevertheless, in your head you are still localizing the sounds; they are all coming from the speakers across the room. Having one ear is not like that; it’s not just life in mono.

In my present state I can’t identify the sources of many sounds, but they don’t come from nowhere. Some of them come from everywhere. The drone of the refrigerator surrounds me; I hear it radiating from all four walls and the floor and ceiling; it’s as if I’m somehow inside the sound. And one night there was a repetitive thrub-a-dub that puzzled me so much I had to get out of bed and go searching for the cause. The search was essentially a random one: I determined it was not the heating system, and nothing in the kitchen or bathroom. Finally I discovered that the noise was rain pouring off the roof into the gutters and downspouts.

The failures of localization are most disturbing when the apparent source is not vague or unknown but rather quite definite—and wrong! My phone rings, and I reach out to my right to pick it up, but in fact it’s in my shirt pocket. While driving the other day, I heard the whoosh of a car that seemed to be passing me on the right, along the shoulder of the road. I almost veered left to make room. If I had done so, I would have run into the overtaking vehicle, which was of course actually on my left. (Urgent priority: Learn to ignore deceptive directional cues.)

In the first hour or so after this whole episode began, I did not recognize it as a loss of hearing; what I noticed instead was a distracting barrage of echoes. I was chatting with three other people in a room that has always seemed acoustically normal, but words were coming at me from all directions like high-velocity ping-pong balls. The echoes have faded a little in the days since, but I still hear double in some situations. And, interestingly, the echo often seems to be coming from the nonfunctioning ear. I have a hypothesis about what’s going on. Echoes are real, after all; sounds really do bounce off walls, so that the ears receive multiple instances of a sound separated by millisecond delays. Normally, we don’t perceive those echoes. The ears must be sensing them, but some circuitry in the brain is suppressing the perception. (Telephone systems have such circuitry too.) Based on my experience, I suspect that the suppression mechanism depends on the presence of signals from both ears.

Similar to echo suppression is noise suppression. I find I have lost the benefit of the “cocktail party effect,” whereby we select a single voice to attend to and filter out the background chatter. The truth is, I was never very good at that trick, but I’m notably worse now. A possibly related development is that I have the illusion of enhanced hearing acuity for some kinds of noise. The sound of water running from a faucet carries all through the house now. And the sound of my own chewing can be thunderous. In the past, perhaps the binaural screening process was turning down the gain on such commonplace distractions.

Even though no sounds of the outside world are reaching me from the left side of my head, that doesn’t mean the ear is silent. It seems to emit a steady hiss, which I’m told is common in this condition. Occasionally, in a very quiet room, I also hear faint chimes of pure sine tones. Do any of these signals actually originate in the affected cochlea, or are they phantoms that the brain merely attributes to that source?

The most curious interior noise is one that I’ve taken to calling the motor. In the still of the night, if I turn my head a certain way, I hear a putt-putt-putt with the rhythm of a sputtering lawn-mower engine, though very faint and voiceless. The intriguing thing is, the sound is altered by my breathing. If I hold my breath for a few seconds, the putt-putting slows and sometimes stops entirely. Then when I take a breath, the motor revs up again. Could this response indicate sensitivity to oxygen levels in the blood reaching my head? I like to imagine that the source of the noise is a single lonely neuron in the cochlea, bravely tapping out its spike train—the last little drummer boy in my left ear. But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it comes from somewhere higher up in the auditory pathway.

One of the first manuscripts I edited at Scientific American (published in October 1973) was an article by the polymath Gerald Oster.

Oster title 1280x501

Ordinary beat tones are elementary physics: Whenever two waves combine and interfere, they create a new wave whose frequency is equal to the difference between the two original frequencies. In the case of sound waves at frequencies a few hertz apart, we perceive the beat tone as a throbbing modulation of the sound intensity. Oster asked what happens when the waves are not allowed to combine and interfere but instead are presented separately to the two ears. In certain frequency ranges it turns out that most people still hear the beats; evidently they are generated by some interference process within the auditory networks of the brain. Oster suggested that a likely site is the superior olivary nucleus. There are two of these bodies arrayed symmetrically just to the left and right of the midline in the back of the brain. They both receive signals from both ears.

Whatever the mechanism generating the binaural beats, it has to be happening somewhere inside the head. It’s a dramatic reminder that perception is not a passive process. We don’t really see and hear the world; we fabricate a model of it based on the sensations we receive—or fail to receive.

I’m hopeful that this little experiment of nature going on inside my cranium will soon end, but if it turns out to be a permanent condition, I’ll cope. As it happens, my listening skills will be put to the test over the next several months, as I’m going to be spending a lot of time in lecture halls. There’s the annual Joint Mathematics Meeting coming up in early January, then I’m spending the rest of the spring semester at the Simons Institute for the Theory of Computing in Berkeley. Lots of talks to attend. You’ll find me in the front of the room, to the left of the speaker.

My years with Dennis Flanagan offer much comfort when I consider the prospect of being half-deaf. His deficit was more severe than mine, and he put up with it from childhood. It never held him back—not from creating one of the world’s great magazines, not from leading several organizations, not from traveling the world, not from spearing a 40-pound bass while free diving in Great South Bay.

One worry I face is music—will I ever be able to enjoy it again?—but Dennis’s example again offers encouragement. We shared a great fondness for Schubert. I can’t know exactly what Dennis was hearing when we listened to a performance of the Trout Quintet together, but he got as much pleasure out of it as I did. And in his sixties he went beyond appreciation to performance. He had wanted to learn the cello, but a musician friend advised him to take up the brass instrument of the same register. He did so, and promptly learned to play a Bach suite for unaccompanied cello on the slide trombone.

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