Archive for the ‘literature’ Category

Lisa Eckhart and her novel Omama

October 2, 2020

Lisa Eckhart is a young Austrian known for a type of comedy which is called Kabarett in German-speaking countries. Characteristic features of this form of entertainment are black humour and political content. In her stage performances she likes to break taboos and flout political correctness. I first happened to see her on TV and I was immediately interested by her performance. Since then I saw her on stage in Mainz, shortly before COVID-19 made going to the theatre impossible for some time. I had also previously seen another Austrian proponent of the same type of performance who I appreciate a lot, Josef Hader, on stage in Mainz. Recently Eckhart published her first novel, ‘Omama’, and I now read it. In her stage performances there are some obstacles to understanding. The first is that her humour relies essentially on ambiguity. The second is that the whole thing goes very fast. The third is that she likes to mix in quite a lot of Austrian dialect. I thought that if there is some similarity between the contents of the novel and that of the performances it might help me to understand more. After all, a novel can be read at the speed the reader desires and it is possible to take time to investigate anything which is unclear. Recently there has been some public controversy in Germany around Eckhart. She has been accused of antisemitism, which I do not believe is justified. In August she was supposed to give a reading from her novel at a literature festival in Hamburg. Her invitation was withdrawn because the organisers were afraid that her appearance there might lead to violent protests by left-wing groups which the police would not be able to control. I find the fact that such a thing can happen a disgrace. What happened to free speech? Later the organisers renewed the invitation in a modified form but this time Eckhart refused, which I can understand. On Wednesday evening I went to read the last few pages of the book but before I got properly started I was called by my wife, who was watching TV. When I came into the living room I understood why she had called me since Lisa Eckhart was on the screen. She was participating in a program on the channel ARTE on the subject of decadence. The word decadence was one which had not gone through my mind for many years but it interested me a long time ago. At that time I read ‘A Rebours’ by Huysmans, ‘Le Soleil des Morts’ by Mauclair and, of course, ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’. Looking back it is hard to imagine how different my world was then, a fact that has less to do with a change in the world than with a change in myself. In any case, when I think about it, it is clear that we are now living in a period of decadence.

Let me finally come to the novel itself. It struck me as a curate’s egg. Parts of it are very good. There are passages where I appreciate the humour and I find the author’s use of language impressive. On a more global level I do not find the text attractive. It is the story of the narrator’s grandmother. (Here is a marginal note for the mathematical reader. Walter Rudin, known for his analysis textbooks, was born in Austria. In  a biographical text about him I read that one of his grandmothers was referred to as ‘Omama’.) The expressions are often very crude, with a large dose of excrement and other unpleasant aspects of the human body, and many elements of the story seem to me pointless. There is no single character in the novel who I find attractive. This is in contrast to the novel of Banine which I previously wrote about, where I find the narrator attractive. That novel also contains plenty of crude expressions but there are more than enough positive things to make up for it. I would like to emphasize that just because I find a novel unpleasant to read it does not mean I judge it negatively. A book which I found very unpleasant was ‘Alexis ou le traite du vain combat’ by Marguerite  Yourcenar but in that case my conclusion was that it could only be so unpleasant because it was so well written. I do not have the same feeling about Omama. As to the insight which I hoped I might get for Eckhart’s stage performances I have not seen it yet, but maybe I will notice a benefit the next time I experience a stage performance by her.

The plague priest of Annaberg

March 26, 2020

I find accounts of epidemics, whether documentary or fictional, fascinating. I appreciated texts of this kind by Camus (La Peste), Defoe (Journal of the Plague Year) and Giono (Le Hussard sur le Toit). This interest is reflected in a number of posts in this blog, for instance this one on the influenza pandemic of 1918. At the moment we all have the opportunity to experience what a pandemic is like, some of us more than others. In such a situation there are two basic points of view, depending on whether you see the events as concerning other people or whether you feel that you are yourself one of the potential victims. The choice of one of these points of view probably does not depend mainly on the external circumstances, except in extreme cases, and is more dependent on individual psychology. I do feel that the present COVID-19 pandemic concerns me personally. This is because Germany, where I live, is one of the countries with the most total cases at the moment, after China, Italy, USA and Spain. Every evening I study the new data in the Situation Reports of the WHO. The numbers to be found in the Internet are sometimes quite inconsistent. This can be explained by the time delays in reporting, the differences in the definitions of classes of infected individuals used by different people or organizations and unfortunately in some cases by poltically motivated lies. My strategy for extracting real information from this data is to stick to one source I believe to be competent and trustworthy (the WHO) and to concentrate on the relative differences between one day and the next and one country and another in order to be able to see trends. I find interesting the extent to which diagrams coming from mathematical models have found their way into the media reporting of this subject. Prediction is a high priority for many people at the moment.

Motivated by this background I started to read a historical novel by Gertrud Busch called ‘Der Pestpfarrer von Annaberg’ [the plague priest of Annaberg] which I got from my wife. The main character in the book is a person who really existed but many of the events reported there are fictional. Annaberg is a town in Germany, in the area called ‘Erzgebirge’, the literal English translation of whose name is ‘Ore mountains’. This mountain range lies on the border between Germany and the Czech republic. People were attracted there by the discovery of valuable mineral deposits. In particular, starting in the late fifteenth century, there was a kind of gold rush there (Berggeschrey), with the difference that the metal which caused it was silver rather than gold. My wife was born and grew up in that area and for this reason I have spent some time in Annaberg and other places close to there. The narrator of the book is Wolfgang Uhle, a priest in the Erzgebirge in the sixteenth century active in Annaberg during the outbreak of plague there. In fact in the end only a small part of the book concerns the plague itself but I am glad I read it. The author has created a striking picture of the point of view of the narrator, at a great distance from the modern world.

During Uhle’s first period as a priest there was a fire in a neighbouring village which destroyed many houses. He saved the life of a young girl, in fact a small child, who was playing in a burning house. Much to the amusement of the adults the girl said she would marry him when she was old enough. In fact she meant it very seriously and when she was old enough it did happen that after some difficulties she got engaged to him. The tragedy of Wolfgang Uhle is that he had a temper which was sometimes uncontrollable. Before the marriage took place he once got into a rage due to the disgraceful behaviour of the judge in his village. Unfortunately at that moment he was holding a large hammer in his hand. A young girl had asked him if a stone she had brought him was valuable. He had some knowledge of geology and he intended to use the hammer to break open the stone and find out more about its composition. In his sudden rage he hit the judge on the head with the hammer and killed him. He went home in a state of shock without any plan but his housekeeper brought him to flee over the border into Bohemia. He was sentenced to death in absentia and hid in the woods for five years. The girl who he was engaged to repudiated him, stamped on his engagement ring and quickly married another man. He partly lived from what he could find in nature, living at first in a cave. Later he started working together with a charcoal burner. I learned something about what that industry was like when I visited those woods myself a few years ago. Eventually he revealed his identity and had to leave.

In the woods he met a man who had got lost and asked him the way. The man wanted to go to Bärenstein, which is the town where my wife spent her childhood. He agreed to show him the way. The man told him that the plague had broken out in Annaberg and that the town was desperately searching for a priest to tend to the spiritual needs of the sick. Uhle decided that he should volunteer, despite the danger. He saw this as God giving him a chance to make amends for his crime. He wrote letters to the local prince and the authorities of the town. The prince agreed to grant him a pardon in return for his service as priest for the people infected with the plague. He then went to Annaberg and tended to the sick, without regard to the danger he was putting himself in. There is not much description of the plague itself in the book. There is a key scene where he meets his former love on her deathbed and it turns out that she had continued to love him and felt guilty for having abandoned him. Uhle survives the plague, gets a new position as a priest, marries and has children. This book was different from what I expected when I started reading it. Actually the fact that it was so different from things I otherwise encounter made it worthwhile for me to read it.

Ernst Jünger

December 25, 2019

The two German writers I admire most are Ernst Jünger and Hermann Hesse (not necessarily in that order). This might cause some surprise since these two authors are so different. There are, however, some telling similarities. One is that both are appreciated relatively little in their own country and have had a better reception in France. (As some evidence for this I mention that the Magazine Littéraire had a special issue on Hesse (No. 318, February 1994) and that there is an article on Jünger in the issue ‘Ecrire la guerre’ (No. 378, July-August 1999).) Another, which is not unrelated, is that both were individualists who did not fit well into the political categories of their society. In Germany Jünger has a widespread reputation (particularly among people who have not read him) as a Nazi. It is true that he had relations to the party in the very early days but he had sufficient opportunity to regret that later. His book ‘In Stahlgewittern’ was a favourite of Adolf Hitler but an author cannot be held responsible for his readers. This book has more generally been a source of animosity towards Jünger. In this context there is a story which I think is enlightening. Jünger was an officer in the German army which occupied Paris. He attempted to visit André Gide at his home but Gide did not receive him. This was based on prejudice since at that time Gide had read none of Jünger’s books. When he later read ‘In Stahlgewittern’ he called it ‘the best book ever written about war’ and completely changed his attitude to Jünger. Unfortunately, after the first opportunity had been missed, the two never met. (I no longer remember where I read about Gide’s statement and so the quote is only approximate.) I agree with Gide’s judgement on the book. Some people may be put off by the objectivity of the book – this also applies to other writings of Jünger. It does not waste time with general talk about how bad war is. Instead it shows directly how terrible war is for the benefit of those of us fortunate enough never to have experienced it directly.

The book of Jünger which ignited my enthusiasm for his writing is ‘Afrikanische Spiele’. This is a work of fiction but it is based rather closely on Jünger’s own experiences. He was often bored in school and preferred to read adventure stories. For him Africa was the land of adventure and he wanted to go there. He ran away from school and travelled to Verdun, where he enlisted in the Foreign Legion. He was then stationed in Algeria. This was not his real aim and so he deserted and tried to travel further. He was caught and put into prison in solitary confinement. A doctor in the place he was stationed wrote to his father. Since in fact Jünger was not old enough to have joined the foreign legion and had only managed to do so by lying about his age his father was able to get him discharged and took him home. Shortly after he returned the First World War began and Jünger enlisted immediately and had his opportunity for adventure, as related in ‘In Stahlgewittern’. One thing which attracts me to Jüngers writing, in ‘Afrikanische Spiele’ and elsewhere, is the style. At the same time, the content is often remarkable. Here is a striking example. The hero of the book has taken some money with him when he left home. He feels the danger that he might give up and not dare to carry out his plan. To avoid this he takes all the money he has and puts in down a drain in Verdun. In this way he removes the chance of turning back. This reminds me a little of the story of how Nansen became the first to cross the Greenland icecap. He chose the direction of crossing in such a way that failure would have meant almost certain death.

In a previous post I mentioned that I had read a book about Jünger by Banine. I now read her book ‘Rencontres avec Ernst Jünger’. She wrote more than one book about him and I think this is not the same one I read before. The reason is that apart from describing events from the time of the Second World War in Paris she also describes how she visited Jünger in Tübingen after the war. The copy of the book I am reading is from the university library. Interestingly it contains a stamp ‘Don du Gouvernement Français’ [gift of the French government]. It would be interesting to know how that came about. According to the description in the book it was hard for Banine and Jünger to form a warm personal relationship – the positive aspects of their communication during the time in Paris were on a purely intellectual level. It has been a pleasure reading Banine again. She too is a stylist who I appreciate a lot. There are also interesting facts. Banine mentions that Jünger had read neither Proust nor Huxley and that when she gave him their books to read he did not appreciate them. She tells the story of his meeting with Madame Cardot, a Jewish woman who ran a bookshop in Paris throughout the war. The first time he came into her shop (in uniform) the first thing he did was to thank her for having displayed his book ‘Gärten und Strassen’ (in French translation) prominently in her window. This was the start of an unusual friendship. When they met on the street they usually avoiding giving any sign that they knew each other for practical reasons. When they met for the last time it was on the street in July 1944 and Jünger whispered to her ‘in a few weeks you will be rid of us’.

I will mention a passage in ‘Gärten und Strassen’ which particularly struck me and which Banine mentions in her book. In this book Jünger described his experiences during the German invasion of France in the Second World War. This time, in contrast with what happened in the First World War, he was hardly involved in the fighting at all. At one time he was the commanding officer in the town of Laon. Laon has a magnificent gothic cathedral, which I have visited myself. He describes his experience of looking at this cathedral, for whose safety he was responsible at that time, and feeling that this huge building was like a small vulnerable creature. He was successful in preventing treasures from the cathedral being stolen or destroyed, helped by the fact that those who might have done so did not realize how valuable these things were.

Despite my admiration for Jünger’s writings there is one thing which I do not like and which I feel I have to mention. This is a tendency to esotericism which he shows from time to time and which I just try to ignore. Despite this I am sure that I will continue to read Jünger with pleasure in the future.

Science as a literary pursuit

August 24, 2019

I found something in a footnote in the book of Oliver Sacks I mentioned in the previous post which attracted my attention. There is a citation from a letter of Jonathan Miller to Sacks with the idea of a love of science which is purely literary. Sacks suggests that his own love of science was of this type and that that is the reason that he had no success as a laboratory scientist. I feel that my own love for science has a strong literary component, or at least a strong component which is under the control of language. In molecular biology there are many things which have to be named and people have demonstrated a lot of originality in inventing those names. I find the language of molecular biology very attractive in a way which has a considerable independence from the actual meaning of the words. I expect that there are other people for whom this jungle of terminology acts as a barrier to entering a certain subject. In my case it draws me in. In my basic field, mathematics, the terminology and language is also a source of pleasure for me. I find it stimulating that everyday words are often used with a quite different meaning in mathematics. This bane of many starting students is a charm of the subject for me. Personal taste plays a strong role in these things. String theory is another area where there is a considerable need for inventing names. There too a lot of originality has been invested but in that case the result is not at at all to my taste. I emphasize that when I say that I am not talking about the content, but about the form.

The idea of using the same words with different meanings has a systematic development in mathematics in context of topos theory. I learned about this through a lecture of Ioan James which I heard many years ago with the title ‘topology over a base’. What is the idea? For topological spaces X there are many definitions and many statements which can be formulated using them, true or false. Suppose now we have two topological spaces X and B and a suitable continuous mapping from X to B. Given a definition for a topological space X (a topological space is called (A) if it has the property (1)) we may think of a corresponding property for topological spaces over a base. A topological space X over a base B is called (A) if it has property (2). Suppose now that I formulate a true sentence for topological spaces and suppose that each property which is used in the sentence has an analogue for topological spaces over a base. If I now interpret the sentence as relating to topological spaces over a base under what circumstances is it still true? If we have a large supply of statements where the truth of the statement is preserved then this provides a powerful machine for proving new theorems with no extra effort. A similar example which is better known and where it is easier (at least for me) to guess good definitions is where each property is replaced by one including equivariance under the action of a certain group.

Different mathematicians have different channels by which they make contact with their subject. There is an algebraic channel which means starting to calculate, to manipulate symbols, as a route to understanding. There is a geometric channel which means using schematic pictures to aid understanding. There is a combinatoric channel which means arranging the mathematical objects to be studied in a certain way. There is a linguistic channel, where the names of the objects play an important role. There is a logical channel, where formal implications are the centre of the process. There may be many more possibilities. For me the linguistic channel is very important. The intriguing name of a mathematical object can be enough to provide me with a strong motivation to understand what it means. The geometric channel is also very important. In my work schematic pictures which may be purely mental are of key importance for formulating conjectures or carrying out proofs. By contrast the other channels are less accessible to me. The algebraic channel is problematic because I tend to make many mistakes when calculating. I find it difficult enough just to transfer a formula correctly from one piece of paper to another. As a child I was good in mental arithmetic but somehow that and related abilities got lost quite early. The combinatoric channel is one where I have a psychological problem. Sometimes I see myself surrounded by a large number of mathematical objects which should be arranged in a clever way and this leads to a feeling of helplessness. Of course I use the logical channel but that is usually on a relatively concrete level and not the level of building abstract constructs.

Does all this lead to any conclusion? It would make sense for me to think more about my motivations in doing (and teaching) mathematics in one way or another. This might allow me to do better mathematics on the one hand and to have more pleasure in doing so on the other hand.

Light and lighthouses

June 3, 2019

I recently had the idea that I should improve my university web pages. The most important thing was to give a new presentation of my research. At the same time I had the idea that the picture of me on the main page was not very appropriate for attracting people’s attention and I decided to replace it with a different one. Now I have a picture of me in front of the lighthouse ‘Les Éclaireurs’ in the Beagle Channel, taken by my wife. I always felt a special attachment to lighthouses. This was related to the fact that as a child I very much liked the adventure of visiting uninhabited or sparsely inhabited small islands and these islands usually had lighthouses on them. This was in particular true in the case of Auskerry, an island which I visited during several summers to ring birds, especially storm petrels. I wrote some more about this in my very first post on this blog. For me the lighthouse is a symbol of adventure and of things which are far away and not so easy to reach. In this sense it is an appropriate symbol for how I feel about research. There too the goals are far away and hard to reach. In this context I am reminded of a text of Marcel Proust which is quoted by Mikhail Gromov in the preface to his book ‘Metric structures for Riemannian and non-Riemannian spaces’:

‘Même ceux qui furent favorables à ma perception des vérités que je voulais ensuite graver dans le temple, me félicitèrent de les avoir découvertes au microscope, quand je m’étais au contraire servi d’un télescope pour apercevoir des choses, très petites en effet, mais parce qu’elles étaient situées à une grande distance, et qui étaient chacune un monde’

[Even those who were favourable to my perception of the truths which I wanted to engrave in the temple, congratulated me on having discovered them with a microscope, when on the contrary I used a telescope to perceive things, in fact very small, but because they were situated at a great distance, and each of which was a world in itself.]

I feel absolutely in harmony with that text. Returning to lighthouses, I think they are also embedded in my unconscious. Years ago, I was fascinated by lucid dreams. A lucid dream usually includes a key moment, where lucidity begins, i.e. where the dreamer becomes conscious of being in a dream. In one example I experienced this moment was brought about by the fact of simultaneously seeing three lighthouses, those of Copinsay, Auskerry and the Brough of Birsay. Since I knew that in reality it is impossible to see all three at the same time this made it clear to me that I must be dreaming.

The function of a lighthouse is to use light to convey information and to allow people (seafarers) to recognise things which are important for them. Thus a lighthouse is a natural symbol for such concepts as truth, reason, reliability, learning and science. These concepts are of course also associated with the idea of light itself, that which allows us to see things. These are the elements which characterize the phase of history called the enlightenment. Sometimes I fear that we are now entering a phase which is just the opposite of that. Perhaps it could be called the age of obscurity. It is characterized by an increasing amount of lies, deceit, ignorance and superstition. Science continues its progress but sometimes it seems to me like a thin ray among gathering darkness. A future historian might describe the arch leading from the eighteenth to the twenty-first century. I recently watched a video of the Commencement speech of Angela Merkel in Harvard. In a way many of the things she said were commonplaces, nothing new, but listening to her speech and seeing the reactions of the audience it became clear to me that it is important these days to repeat these simple truths. Those of us who have not forgotten them should propagate them. And with some luck, the age of obscurity may yet be averted.

Banine’s ‘Jours caucasiens’

April 11, 2019

I have just read the novel ‘Jours caucasiens’ by Banine. This is an autobiographical account of the author’s childhood in Baku. I find it difficult to judge how much of what she writes there is true and how much is a product of her vivid imagination. I do not find that so important. In any case I found it very interesting to read. It is not for readers who are easily shocked. Banine is the pen name of Umm-El-Banine Assadoulaeff. She was born in Baku into a family of oil magnates and multimillionaires. In fact she herself was in principle a multimillionaire for a few days after the death of her grandfather, until her fortune was destroyed when Azerbaijan was invaded by the Soviet Union. In later years she lived in Paris and wrote in French. To my taste she writes very beautifully in French. I first heard of her through the diaries of Ernst Jünger. While he was an officer in the German army occupying Paris during the Second World War he got to know Banine and visited her regularly. It was not entirely unproblematic for her during the occupation when she was visited at her appartment by a German army officer in uniform. She seemed to regard this with humour. The two had a close but platonic relationship.

As I mentioned in a previous post, during the year I lived in Paris I was a frequent visitor to the library of the Centre Pompidou. One of the books I found and read there was a book by Banine about her meetings with Jünger. I believe she actually wrote three books about him and I am not sure which one it was I read. I enjoyed reading her book and it was nice to see an account of Jünger’s time in Paris which was complementary to his own. I had completely forgotten about Banine until recently. I was reminded of her by the following chain of circumstances. Together with my wife we were thinking of going on holiday to Georgia. I found an interesting organised tour visiting Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. One of the places to be visited was Baku. I must confess that it was not clear to me at that point that Baku was in Azerbaijan. In any case, it occurred to me that Banine was born in Baku and I looked her up in Wikipedia. I found out that she had written the book ‘Jours caucasiens’ and I thought it might be good to read it before the planned trip. I got the book from the university library without being sure I wanted to read it. The prose of the first page captured me immediately and did not let me go. The potential trip to Georgia will not take place this year, if at all. Even if it does not it has had the pleasant consequence of leading me to rediscover Banine.

The society in which Banine grew up was the result of the discovery of oil. Her ancestors had been poor farmers who suddenly became very rich because oil-wells were built on their land. She presents her family as being very uncivilised. They were muslims but had already been strongly affected by western culture. I found an article in the magazine ‘Der Spiegel’ from 1947 where ‘Jours caucasiens’ is described by the words ‘gehören zu den skandalösesten Neuerscheinungen in Paris’ [is one of the most scandalous new publications in Paris]. It also says that her family was very unhappy about the way they were presented in the book and I can well understand that. It seems that she had a low opinion of her family and their friends and the culture they belonged to, although she herself did not seem to mind being part of it. She was attracted by Western culture and Paris was the place of her dreams. As a child she had a German governess. Her mother died when she was very young and after her father had remarried she had a French and an English teacher for those languages. She quickly fell in love with French. On the other hand, she saw having to learn English as a bit of a nuisance. Her impression was that the English had just taken the words from German and French and changed them in a strange way.

After the Russian invasion Banine’s father, who had been a government minister in the short-lived Azerbaijan Republic, was imprisoned. He was released due to the efforts of a man whose motivation for doing so was the desire to marry Banine. She was very much against this. Perhaps the strongest reason was that he had red hair. There was a superstition that red-haired people, who were not very common in that region, had evil supernatural powers. Banine’s grandmother told her a story about an alchemist who discovered the secret of red-haired people. According to him they should be treated in the following way. He cut off their head, boiled it in a pot and put the head on a pedestal. If this was done correctly then the heads would start to speak and make prophecies which were always true. Banine could not help associating her potential husband with this horrible myth. Unfortunately she was under a lot of social pressure and after hesitating a bit agreed to the marriage. Apart from being a sign of gratitude for her father’s release this was also a way of persuading her suitor to use his influence to get a visa for her father to allow him to leave Russia. In the end she accepted this arrangement instead of running away with the man she loved. At this time she was fifteen years old. Her father got the visa and left the country. Later she also got a visa and was able to leave. The last stage of her journey was with the Orient Express from Constantinople to Paris. The book ends as the train is approaching Paris and a new life is starting for her.

Rereading ‘To the Lighthouse’

August 23, 2015

There are some statements I started to believe at a certain distant time in my life and which I have continued to accept without further examination ever since. One of these is ‘the English-language author who I admire most is Virginia Woolf’. Another is obtained by replacing ‘English-language author’ by ‘author in any language’ and ‘Virginia Woolf’ by ‘Marcel Proust’. At one point in her diary Virginia Woolf writes that she has just finished reading the latest volume of ‘A la Recherche du Temps Perdu’ which had recently been published. Then she writes (I am quoting from memory here) that she despairs of ever being able to write as well as Proust. Perhaps she was being too modest at that point. Until very recently it was a long time since I had read anything by Woolf. I was now stimulated to do so again by the fact that Eva and I were planning a trip to southern England, including a visit to St. Ives. For me that town is closely associated with Woolf and it is because of the connection to her that I was motivated to visit St. Ives when I spent some time in Cornwall several years ago. (Here I rapidly pass over the fact, without further comment, that the author with the widest popular success whose books have an association with St. Ives is Rosamunde Pilcher.) The other aspect of my first trip to Cornwall which is most distinct in my memory is missing the last bus in Land’s End and having to walk all the way back to Penzance where I was staying. We visited Land’s End again this time but since I did not want miss the bus again I did not have time to visit the ‘Shaun the Sheep Experience’ which is running there at the moment. As a consolation, during a later visit to Shaun’s birthplace, Bristol, I saw parts of the artistic event ‘Shaun in the City’ and had my photograph taken with some of the sculptures of Shaun.

When I go on a holiday trip somewhere I often like to take a book with me which has some special connection to the place I am going. Often I have little time to actually read the book during the holiday but that does not matter. For Cornwall and, in particular, St. Ives the natural choice was ‘To the Lighthouse’. That novel is set in the Isle of Skye but it is well known that the real-life setting which inspired it (and the lighthouse of the title) was in St. Ives. This lighthouse, Godrevy Lighthouse, cost a little over seven thousand pounds to build, being finished in 1859. In 1892, on one of two visits there, the ten year old Virginia signed the visitors book. The book was sold for over ten thousand pounds in 2011. So in a sense the little girl’s signature ended up being worth more money than the lighthouse she was visiting. Of course, due to inflation, this is not a fair comparison. Looking on my bookshelves at home I was surprised to find that I do not own a copy of ‘To the Lighthouse’. On those shelves I find ‘The Voyage Out’, ‘Jacob’s Room’, ‘Moments of Being’ and ‘Between the Acts’ but neither ‘To the Lighthouse’ nor ‘The Waves’. Perhaps I never owned them and only borrowed them from libraries. I have a fairly clear memory of having borrowed ‘To the Lighthouse’ from the Kirkwall public library. I do not remember why I did so. Perhaps it was just that at that time I was omnivorously consuming almost everything I found in the literature section in that library. Or perhaps it had to do with the fact that lighthouses always had a special attraction for me. An alternative explanation for the fact I do not own the book myself could be that I parted with it when I left behind the majority of the books I owned when I moved from Aberdeen to Munich after finishing my PhD. This was due the practical constraint that I only took as many belongings with me as I could carry: two large suitcases and one large rucksack. I crossed the English Channel on a ferry and I remember how hard it was to carry that luggage up the gangway due to the fact that the tide was high.

I find reading ‘To the Lighthouse’ now a very positive experience. Just a few paragraphs put me in a frame of mind I like. I have the feeling that I am a very different person than what I was the first time I read it but after more than thirty years that is hardly surprising. I also feel that I am reading it in a different way from what I did then. I find it difficult to give an objective account of what it is that I like about the book. Perhaps it is the voice of the author. I feel that if I could have had the chance to talk to her I would certainly have enjoyed it even if she was perhaps not always the easiest of people to deal with. Curiously I have the impression that although I would have found it extremely interesting to meet Proust I am not sure I would have found it pleasant. So why do I think that I may be appreciating aspects of the book now which I did not last time? A concrete example is the passage where Mrs Ramsay is thinking about two things at the same time, the story she is reading to her son and the couple who are late coming home. The possibility of this is explained wonderfully by comparing it to ‘the bass … which now and then ran up unexpectedly into the melody’. I feel, although of course I cannot prove it, that I would not have paid much attention to that passage during my first reading. The differences may also be connected to the fact that I am now married. Often when I am reading a book it is as if my wife was reading it with me, over my shoulder, and this causes me to pay more attention to things which would interest her. A contrasting example is the story about Hume getting stuck in a bog. I am sure I paid attention to that during my first reading and it now conjured up a picture of how I was then, perhaps eighteen years old and still keen on philosophy. After a little thought following the encounter with the story it occurred to me that I knew more of the story about Hume, that he was allegedly forced to say that he believed in God in order to persuade an old woman to pull him out. This extended version is also something I knew in that phase of my life, perhaps through my membership in the Aberdeen University philosophy society. On the other hand this story does come up (at least) two more times in the book and it is a little different from what I remember. What the woman forced him to do was to say the Lord’s Prayer.

I came back from England yesterday and although I did not have much time for reading the book while there I am on page 236 due to the head start I had by reading it before I went on the trip. The day we went to St. Ives started out rainy but the weather cleared up during the morning so that about one o’ clock I was able to see Godrevy lighthouse and look at it through through my binoculars. They also allowed me to enjoy good views of passing gannets and kittiwakes but I think I would have been disappointed if I had made that trip without seeing the lighthouse.

Bootstrap arguments

November 22, 2009

A bootstrap argument is an analogue of mathematical induction where the natural numbers are replaced by the non-negative real numbers. This type of argument is a powerful tool for proving long-time existence theorems for evolution equations. For instance, it plays a central role in the proof of the stability of Minkowski space by Christodoulou and Klainerman and the theorem on formation of trapped surfaces by Christodoulou discussed in previous posts. The name comes from a story where someone pulls himself up by his bootstraps, leather attachments to the back of certain boots. This story is often linked to the name of Baron Münchhausen. In another variant he pulls himself out of a bog by his pigtail. This was a person who really lived and was known for telling tall tales. In later years people wrote various books about him and incorporated many other tall tales from various sources. The word ‘booting’ applied to computers is derived from ‘bootstrapping’ in the sense of this story. There are also bootstrap methods used in statistics. They involve analysing new samples drawn from a fixed sample. In some sense this means obtaining more knowledge about a system without any further input of information. It is this aspect of ‘apparently getting something for nothing’ which is typical of the bootstrap. In French the procedure in statistics has been referred to as ‘méthode Cyrano’. Unfortunately is seems that in PDE theory the French have just adopted the English term. I say ‘unfortunately’ because of a fondness for Cyrano de Bergerac. As in the case of Münchhausen there was a real person of this name, this time a writer. However the name is much better known as that of a fictional character, the hero of a play by Edmond Rostand. The non-fictional Cyrano wrote among other things about a trip to the moon. There is also a Münchhausen story where he uses a kind of inverse bootstrap (could there be a PDE analogue here?) to return from the moon. He constructs a rope which he attaches to one of the horns of the moon but it is much too short to reach down to the ground. He climbs to the bottom of the rope, reaches up and cuts off and detaches the part ‘which he does not need any more’ and ties it onto the bottom. He then repeats this process. Returning to Cyrano, he describes seven methods for getting to the moon of which the sixth is the one relevant to the bootstrap. He stands on an iron plate and throws a magnet into the air. The iron plate is attracted by the magnet and starts to rise. Then he rapidly catches the magnet and throws it into the air again. I should point out that Cyrano does not believe in the nonsensical stories he is telling – his aim is a practical one, holding the attention of the Duc de Guiche so as to delay him for a very specific reason.

Now I return to the topic of bootstrap arguments for evolution equations. I have given a discussion of the nature of these arguments in Section 10.3 of my book. Another description can be found in section 1.3 of Terry Tao’s book ‘Nonlinear dispersive equations: local and global analysis‘. A related and more familiar concept is that of the method of continuity. Consider a statement P(t) depending on a parameter t belong to the interval [0,\infty). Let S be the subset consisting of those t for which the statement P is true on the interval [0,t). If it can be shown that S is non-empty, open and closed then it can be concluded that the statement holds for all t, by the connectedness of the interval. The special feature of a bootstrap argument is the way in which openness is obtained. Suppose that, starting from P(t), we can prove a string of implications which ends again with P(t). This is nothing other than a circular argument and proves nothing. Suppose, however, that in addition this can be improved so that the statement at the end of the string is slightly stronger than that at the beginning. This improvement is something to work with and is a typical way of proving the openness needed to apply the continuity argument. It is more convenient here to work with the open interval (0,\infty) since we want to look at properties of solutions of an evolution equation defined on the interval (0,t). Let P(t) be the statement that a certain inequality (1) holds on the interval (0,t) and suppose that P(t) implies the statment Q(t) that a stronger inequality (2) holds on the same interval. Things are usually set up so that Q(t) implies by continuity that (2) holds at t and that the the property of being ‘stronger’ then shows that P(t') holds for t' slightly greater than t. This shows the openness property. I think the best way to really understand what a bootstrap argument means is to write out a known example explicitly or, even better, to invent a new one to solve a problem which interests you. The key thing is to find the right choice of P and Q. What I have described here is only the simplest variant. In the work of Christodoulou mentioned above he uses a continuity argument on two-dimensional sets.