Lizard 1: Wait, explain again why we bury our young in the sand and thereby place them into mortal peril?
Lizard 2: So they develop character! If it was good enough for me, it’s good enough for them.
(Feel free to choose your own metaphors.)
Lizard 1: Wait, explain again why we bury our young in the sand and thereby place them into mortal peril?
Lizard 2: So they develop character! If it was good enough for me, it’s good enough for them.
(Feel free to choose your own metaphors.)
For a young mathematician, there is a lot of pressure to publish (or perish). The role of for-profit academic publishing is to publish large amounts of crappy mathematics papers, make a lot of money, but at least in return grant the authors a certain imprimatur, which can then be converted into reputation, and then into job offers, and finally into pure cash, and then coffee, and then back into research. One great advantage of being a tenured full professor (at an institution not run by bean counters) is that I don’t have to play that game, and I can very selective in what papers I choose to submit. In these times — where it is easy to make unpublished work available online, either on the ArXiv, a blog, or a webpage — there is no reason for me to do otherwise. Akshay and I are just putting the finishing touches on our manuscript on the torsion Jacquet–Langlands correspondence (a project begun in 2007!), and approximately 100 pages of the original version has been excised from the manuscript. It’s probably unlikely we will publish the rest, not because we don’t think its interesting, but because it can already be found online. (Although we might collect the remains into a supplemental “apocrypha” to make referencing easier.) Sarnak writes lots of great letters and simply posts them online. I wrote a paper a few years ago called “Semistable modularity lifting over imaginary quadratic fields.” It has (IMHO) a few interesting ideas, including one strategy for overcoming the non-vanishing of cohomology in multiple degrees in an \(l_0 = 1\) situation, a way of proving a non-minimal modularity lifting theorem in an (admittedly restricted) \(l_0 = 1\) situation without having to use Taylor’s Ihara Avoidance or base change (instead using the congruence subgroup property), and an argument explaining why the existence of Nilpotent ideals in Scholze’s Galois representation is no obstruction to the modularity lifting approach in my paper with David. But while I wrote up a detailed sketch of the argument, gave a seminar about it, and put the preprint on my webpage, I never actually submitted it. One reason was that David and I were (at the time, this was written in 2014-2015 or so) under the cosh by an extremely persnickety referee (to give you some idea, the paper was submitted in 2012 and was only just accepted), and I couldn’t stomach the idea of being raked over the coals a second time merely to include tedious details. (A tiny Bernard Woolley voice at the back of my head is now saying: excuse me minister, you can’t be raked over by a cosh, it doesn’t have any teeth. Well done if you have any idea what I am talking about.) But no matter, the paper is on my webpage where anyone can read it. As it happens, the 10 author paper has certainly made the results of this preprint pretty much entirely redundant, but there are still some ideas which might be useful in the future someday. But I don’t see any purpose whatsoever in subjecting an editor, a reviewer, and (especially) myself the extra work of publishing this paper.
So I am all in favor of avoiding publishing all but a select number of papers if you can help it, and blogging about math instead. So take a spoon, pass around the brandy butter and plum pudding, and, for the rest of this post, let us tuck in to something from the apocrypha.
Galois Extensions Unramified Away From One Place:
I learned about one version of this question in the tea room at Havard from Dick Gross. Namely, does there exist a non-solvable Galois extension K/Q unramified at all primes except p? Modular forms (even just restricting to the two eigenforms of level one and weights 12 and 16) provide a positive answer for p greater than 7. On the other hand, Serre’s conjecture shows that this won’t work for the last three remaining primes. Dick explained a natural approach for the remaining primes, namely to consider instead Hilbert modular forms over a totally real cyclotomic extension ramified at p (once you work out how to actually compute such beasts in practice). And indeed, this idea was successfully used to find such representations by Lassina Dembélé in this paper and also this paper (with Greenberg and Voight). But there is something a little unsatisfactory to me about this, namely, these extensions are all ramified at \(p\) and \(\infty.\) What if one instead asks Gross’ question for a single place?
Minkowski showed there are no such extensions when \(v = \{\infty\},\) but I don’t see any obstruction to there being a positive answer for a finite place. The first obvious remark, however, is that Galois representations coming from Hilbert modular forms are not going to be so useful in this case at least when the residual characteristic is odd, for parity reasons.
On the other hand, conjecturally, the Langlands program still has something to say about this question. One could ask, for example, for the smallest prime p for which there exists a Galois representation:
\(\displaystyle{\overline{\rho}: G_{\mathbf{Q}} \rightarrow \mathrm{GL}_2(\overline{\mathbf{F}}_p)}\)
whose image is big (say not only irreducible but also not projectively exceptional) and is unramified at all places away from p including infinity. (This is related to my first ever blog post.) Here is how one might go about finding such a representation, assuming the usual suite of conjectures. First, take an imaginary quadratic field F, and then look to see if there is any extra mod-p cohomology of \(\mathrm{GL}_2(\mathcal{O}_F)\) in some automorphic local system which is not coming from any of the “obvious” sources. If you find such a class, you could then try to do the (computationally difficult) job of computing Hecke eigenvalues, or alternatively you could do the same computation for a different such imaginary quadratic field E, and see if you find a weight for which there is an “interesting” class simultaneously for both number fields. If there are no such classes for any of the (finitely many) irreducible local systems modulo p, then there are (conjecturally) no Galois representations of the above form.
There are some heuristics (explained to me by Akshay) which predict that the number of Galois representations of the shape we are looking for (ignoring twists) is of the order of 1/p. On the other hand, no such extensions will exist for very small p by combining an argument of Tate together with the Odlyzko bounds. So the number of primes up to X for which there exist such a representation might be expected to be of the form
\(\log \log X – \log \log C\)
for some constant C to account for the lack of small primes (which won’t contribute by Tate + Odlyzko GRH discriminant bounds). This is unfortunately a function well-known to be constant, and in this case, with the irritating correction term, it looks pretty much like the zero constant. Even worse, the required computation becomes harder and harder for larger p, since one needs to compute the cohomology in the corresponding local system of weight \((k,k)\) for k up to (roughly) p. Alas, as it turns out, these things are quite slippery:
Lemma: Suppose \(\overline{\rho}\) is absolutely irreducible with Serre level 1 and Serre weight k and is even. Assume all conjectures. Then:
Of course the extension for \(p = 163\) (which is well-known) does not have big image in the sense described above.
The most annoying thing about this computation (which is described in the apocrypha) is that it can only be done once! Namely, someone who could actually program might be able to extend the computation to (say) \(p \le 200,\) but the number of extensions which one would expect to see is roughly \(\log \log 200 – \log \log 79,\) which is smaller than a fifth. So maybe an extension of this kind will never be found! (Apologies for ruining it by not getting it right the first time.)
The ABC conjecture has (still) not been proved.
Five years ago, Cathy O’Neil laid out a perfectly cogent case for why the (at that point recent) claims by Shinichi Mochizuki should not (yet) be regarded as constituting a proof of the ABC conjecture. I have nothing further to add on the sociological aspects of mathematics discussed in that post, but I just wanted to report on how the situation looks to professional number theorists today. The answer? It is a complete disaster.
This post is not about making epistemological claims about the truth or otherwise of Mochizuki’s arguments. To take an extreme example, if Mochizuki had carved his argument on slate in Linear A and then dropped it into the Mariana Trench, then there would be little doubt that asking about the veracity of the argument would be beside the point. The reality, however, is that this description is not so far from the truth.
Each time I hear of an analysis of Mochizuki’s papers by an expert (off the record) the report is disturbingly familiar: vast fields of trivialities followed by an enormous cliff of unjustified conclusions. The defense of Mochizuki usually rests on the following point: The mathematics coming out of the Grothendieck school followed a similar pattern, and that has proved to be a cornerstone of modern mathematics. There is the following anecdote that goes as follows:
The author hears the following two stories: Once Grothendieck said that there were two ways of cracking a nutshell. One way was to crack it in one breath by using a nutcracker. Another way was to soak it in a large amount of water, to soak, to soak, and to soak, then it cracked by itself. Grothendieck’s mathematics is the latter one.
While rhetorically expedient, the comparison between Mochizuki and Grothendieck is a poor one. Yes, the Grothendieck revolution upended mathematics during the 1960’s “from the ground up.” But the ideas coming out of IHES immediately spread around the world, to the seminars of Paris, Princeton, Moscow, Harvard/MIT, Bonn, the Netherlands, etc. Ultimately, the success of the Grothendieck school is not measured in the theorems coming out of IHES in the ’60s but in how the ideas completely changed how everyone in the subject (and surrounding subjects) thought about algebraic geometry.
This is not a complaint about idiosyncrasy or about failing to play by the rules of the “system.” Perelman more directly repudiated the conventions of academia by simply posting his papers to the arXiV and then walking away. (Edit: Perelman did go on an extensive lecture tour and made himself available to other experts, although he never submitted his papers.) But in the end, in mathematics, ideas always win. And people were able to read Perelman’s papers and find that the ideas were all there (and multiple groups of people released complete accounts of all the details which were also published within five years). Usually when there is a breakthrough in mathematics, there is an explosion of new activity when other mathematicians are able to exploit the new ideas to prove new theorems, usually in directions not anticipated by the original discoverer(s). This has manifestly not been the case for ABC, and this fact alone is one of the most compelling reasons why people are suspicious.
The fact that these papers have apparently now been accepted by the Publications of the RIMS (a journal where Mochizuki himself is the managing editor, not necessary itself a red flag but poor optics none the less) really doesn’t change the situation as far as giving anyone a reason to accept the proof. If anything, the value of the referee process is not merely in getting some reasonable confidence in the correctness of a paper (not absolute certainty; errors do occur in published papers, usually of a minor sort that can be either instantly fixed by any knowledgeable reader or sometimes with an erratum, and more rarely requiring a retraction). Namely, just as importantly, it forces the author(s) to bring the clarity of the writing up to a reasonable standard for professionals to read it (so they don’t need to take the same time duration that was required for the referees, amongst other things). This latter aspect has been a complete failure, calling into question both the quality of the referee work that was done and the judgement of the editorial board at PRIMS to permit papers in such an unacceptable and widely recognized state of opaqueness to be published. We do now have the ridiculous situation where ABC is a theorem in Kyoto but a conjecture everywhere else. (edit: a Japanese reader has clarified to me that the newspaper articles do not definitively say that the papers have been accepted, but rather the wording is something along the lines of “it is planned that PRIMS will accept the paper,” whatever that means. This makes no change to the substance of this post, except that, while there is still a chance the papers will not be accepted in their current form, I retract my criticism of the PRIMS editorial board.)
So why has this state persisted so long? I think I can identify three basic reasons. The first is that mathematicians are often very careful (cue the joke about a sheep at least one side of which is black). Mathematicians are very loath to claim that there is a problem with Mochizuki’s argument because they can’t point to any definitive error. So they tend to be very circumspect (reasonably enough) about making any claims to the contrary. We are usually trained as mathematicians to consider an inability to understand an argument as a failure on our part. Second, whenever extraordinary claims are made in mathematics, the initial reaction takes into account the past work of the author. In this case, Shinichi Mochizuki was someone who commanded significant respect and was considered by many who knew him to be very smart. It’s true (as in the recent case of Yitang Zhang) that an unknown person can claim to have proved an important result and be taken seriously, but if a similarly obscure mathematician had released 1000 pages of mathematics written in the style of Mochizuki’s papers, they would have been immediately dismissed. Finally, in contrast to the first two points, there are people willing to come out publicly and proclaim that all is well, and that the doubters just haven’t put in the necessary work to understand the foundations of inter-universal geometry. I’m not interested in speculating about the reasons they might be doing so. But the idea that several hundred hours at least would be required even to scratch the beginnings of the theory is either utter rubbish, or so far beyond the usual experience of how things work that it would be unique not only in mathematics, but in all of science itself.
So where to from here? There are a number of possibilities. One is that someone who examines the papers in depth is able to grasp a key idea, come up with a major simplification, and transform the subject by making it accessible. This was the dream scenario after the release of the paper, but it becomes less and less likely by the day (and year). But it is still possible that this could happen. The flip side of this is that someone could find a serious error, which would also resolve the situation in the opposite way. A third possibility is that we have (roughly) the status quo: no coup de grâce is found to kill off the approach, but at the same time the consensus remains that people can’t understand the key ideas. (I should say that whether the papers are accepted or not in a journal is pretty much irrelevant here; it’s not good enough for people to attest that they have read the argument and it is fine, someone has to be able to explain it.) In this case, the mathematical community moves on and then, whether it be a year, a decade, or a century, when someone ultimately does prove ABC, one can go back and compare to see if (in the end) the ideas were really there after all.
This last summer, I undertook my last official activity as a faculty member at Northwestern University, namely, graduation day! (I had a 0% courtesy appointment for two years until my last Northwestern students graduated.)
Here I am with four of my six former students. (Richard and Vlad actually graduated in 2016, but were hooded together with Joel in 2017.)

From left-to-right: Richard Moy is a postdoc at Wilamette College in Portland (for previous blog posts on Richard’s work, see Hilbert Modular Forms Part II and Part III), Zili Huang (Thurston and Random Polynomials) has a real job at a consulting firm in Chicago but swung by to say hello on graduation day, Vlad Serban (The Thick Diagonal) has as postdoctoral position in Vienna, and Joel Specter (Hilbert Modular Forms Part II and … hmmm, I guess I didn’t blog about any of his other papers) has just started a postdoc position at Johns Hopkins. Missing are Zoey Guo (Abelian Spiders), now at the Institute of Solid Mechanics at Tsinghua University in Beijing , and my first student Maria Stadnik (who just moved to Florida Atlantic University, and whose thesis predates this blog).
It’s easy to get the sense as a student that math departments are fairly static (which is mostly true over the 4 years or so it takes to do a PhD), but as time goes on, people end up moving around much more than you expect, and the characters of various departments change quite a bit. A sign of good hiring is that your faculty leave because they have been recruited elsewhere! And even though my departure two years ago brought one era of number theory at Northwestern to an end — starting with Matt, then me, two one-year cameo appearances by Toby, and a string of very successful postdocs (not to mention the occasional visitors) — a new era has already begun, with the hiring of Yifeng Liu and Bao Le Hung.
Job season is upon us. Now is probably a good time to give applicants (and letter writers!) a few pointers. Of course, there are many other sources of advice on this topic, so let me try to narrow the focus on suggestions that you might not find elsewhere.
But first, I am contractually obligated (and also happy) to remind you all to make sure all your best graduate students (in all fields) apply for a Dickson Instructorship at Chicago. Occasionally people get the impression that our deadline is November 1st. In fact, that is merely the date after which we are allowed to start reading recommendations. In reality, committee members will most likely start reading the files over Thanksgiving break, so definitely try to have all your materials (and letters of recommendation) submitted by then. In contrast, some of the public schools (including the UC system, correct me if I’m wrong) have hard application deadlines. In those cases, it is vital that you submit your application before the deadline (it doesn’t need to be complete, just submitted).
I’m applying (or writing a letter) for the second year in a row. Any tips? A number of people apply when they have an extra year remaining in their current position to a limited number of schools. I don’t know enough game theory to evaluate this strategy, but the scales are definitely tipped in favor of doing this when two body problems are involved. But be warned! There is a technical issue on mathjobs which arises which you almost definitely will not be able to anticipate as an applicant. It is the following. When a letter writer submits a letter of recommendation to mathjobs, there is a default setting on how long that letter can be viewed. And for some ridiculous reason, that time period is something like 18 months. A letter writer can, and I do, change the default period to any date one wants (I usually make the letter expire sometime during the following summer). But not all of your letter writers seem to realize this! That means that when you go to apply the following year, your mathjobs listing will have your letters from the current year AND your letters from the previous year, unless your letter writer actively makes the effort to delete the old letter. The first thing this signals to those reading your letters is that you applied the previous year. This on its own is not so bad. However, it is very often the case that the letter in year N+1 is pretty much identical to the letter in year N. And that does give the impression that the applicant hasn’t really done anything in the previous twelve months. The worst aspect of this problem is that there is not really any way for the candidate prevent it, beyond warning their letter writers about the problem. So this is mostly a reminder for letter writers who are writing for the second time in two years: make sure you delete/replace your letters from the previous year! (Or do make sure your secretaries do this on your behalf, if that’s how you roll.)
Should I write to people at universities letting them know about my application? This is generally considered a worthwhile thing to do, because, even in cases in which you are not offered the job, it does give a way of letting people know about your research. In the other direction, a suitably customized and genuine email can let the relevant people know that you might accept a position if you are offered one. A few caveats, however. I appreciate letters which let me know about an application but don’t require a response. Secondly, there should be some synergy between your own research and the person you are writing to, otherwise it looks a little like you are just spamming everyone. Finally, there should be something at least slightly realistic about your application, especially for more senior positions. (But slightly is good enough.)
How many letters do I really need? Let’s specialize now to the case of postdoc applications, although some of this also applies to tenure track letters. This definitely a case where “more” is usually not “better.” Counting the teaching letter separately, a first approximation would be as follows:
Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out.
Here’s the problem with having (say) six letters. Most of the time, as a graduate student, there are not going to be six people who know your thesis work really well. Maybe you feel your application looks a little fancier because Professor Fancy McBoatface agreed to write for you, even though you just had that one conversation at a conference. But then the first letter people will click on will be from Professor McBoatface, which will say something like “I chatted with X at a conference once, it seems like they are doing something interesting, although I don’t know the work very well.” Basically, too many letters will dilute the message. Of course, it does look good if you can get a strong letter from a well known expert who is not at your university, but that is much more likely to happen if you have had some genuine sustained mathematical interaction with that person, rather than some fleeting interaction. (I had letters out of graduate school from Kevin Buzzard, with whom I was writing a paper, and René Schoof, who visited Berkeley for a semester and with whom my interaction was directly related to part of my thesis.) There are circumstances in which there is someone (say your advisor) who has to write for you, but for some reason you suspect that their letter may not be as strong as you would like; that’s one justifiable reason to hedge with an extra letter. But in the end, the people who are going to write the strongest letters for you are probably going to be the people who know your work the best.
I found the following documentary remarkable and quite interesting. Without offering here any opinion on its merits, I certainly give it credit for taking an unpopular position and sticking with it. This blog is no stranger to challenging perceived wisdom, although I usually aim to be slightly more subtle (some may argue I do not always succeed). Here is an excerpt from the opening:
The fishing village of Aldeburgh, home and inspiration to Benjamin Britten, England’s finest 20th century composer, or so it’s widely claimed. In fact, much of what he wrote in the sycophantic, closed world of Aldeburgh was anaemic, and loveless; spiritually dead long before he was buried here in 1976.
I’m not entirely sure what the academic consensus about Britten is nowadays (if any exists). I do appreciate some of his smaller scale choral works. I wouldn’t say that Britten’s work is played excessively in relation to its merit in the US, but possibly things are different in London.
I found out a good way to describe how long my commute is: about three minutes more than the length of the second movement of Beethoven’s 9th (the greatest movement!)
On the other hand, that measure proved inaccurate the very next day, when I also found out the answer to “is the drawbridge on Lake Shore Drive ever used?”
(channelling my inner Stanley Kubrick with a little well-timed help from 98.7WFMT). The whole opening/closing of the bridge did cause quite some delay, but the process did, in in the end, finish.