Erdös-Kác, Rényi-Turán, Keating-Snaith, and Katz-Sarnak
for a lecture at a forthcoming conference, I was naturally led to wonder about the marvelous English expression name-dropping, and I resorted to the OED for information. I was surprised to see that the word is claimed to go back no further than the 1940’s; in fact the first quotation is for name-dropper:
1939 Los Angeles Times 17 Jan. 115/5 My pet aversion..is the name dropper, the type that is always saying: ‘Well,..when I had lunch with the P. of W., he said-’ I say to them: ‘The P. of What?’ ‘The P. of W., the Prince of Wales, of course,’ they say.
The first instance of name-dropping is in 1945; a nice quotation from 1999 is
1999 Times 16 July 24/7 Name-dropping is so vulgar, as I was telling the Queen last week.
Considering that the phenomenon certainly goes back to the dawns of celebrity (there must have been some name-droppers in philosophical circles in Ancient Greece), it’s a surprise to see it acquire its specific name so recently. And most languages probably don’t even have a good equivalent; I would certainly be hard put to give a good translation of name-dropping in French. Are there other languages better suited to the task?
One of my mathematics teachers, a long time ago, once objected to statements of the type
Let X and Y be two compact topological spaces. Then X x Y is also compact
on the ground that the use of two implied that the statement did not apply to the case of X x X, whose compacity would need to be stated separately, as it was not, strictly speaking, an application of the given statement.
His favored solution was to drop the two (or, in French, to replace Soient X et Y deux espaces… by Soient X et Y des espaces….), with the idea (I presume) that making a grammatical mistake (using a plural form like des when, sometimes, there is only one object, if X=Y) would be less important than a mathematical one.
Strangely enough, I still sometimes remember this, and I have modified various sentences to try to go around it, although the whole thing seems quite absurd really… I wonder if others have heard this type of rules, and if there’s a mathematically and syntaxically correct way to phrase things without being absurdly formal?
A select few of my mathematical books exhibit the type of quirky behavior that (quite justifiably) causes authors to consider publishers as being in league with the devil. In increasing order of amusement, here is one page of the index of my copy of Reed and Simons’s “Functional Analysis” (Modern Methods of Mathematical Physics, Vol. I)
which almost looks normal, except for (as in the red circle I drew) the ligatures “fi” which are missing. It must have caused much grinding of teeth to the authors to note that this is not the case all over the book: many of the pages contain an abundance of “finite”, “definition”, etc, with no error whatsoever. In particular, opening the book at random, you would never detect the problem.
None of these, however, are as extraordinary as the instance reported in the story “The Missing Line” of Isaac Bashevis Singer, where an abstruse philosophical sentence — “the transcendental unity of the apperception” — mystically moves from one Yiddish newspaper to another. (Although it is in a work of fiction, so might be a complete invention, I have the impression that it is so bizarre that it must have actually happened).
I am currently looking at various papers (and books) about the representation theory of p-adic groups (especially GL(2,Qp)), and in particular about the so-called discrete series. I was convinced that the standard terminology for those representations (except for the special case of the Steinberg representation) was “supercuspidal”, but it turns out that various references use either “absolutely cuspidal” or simply “cuspidal”. The last is the terminology in the (outstanding) book of Bushnell and Henniart, who fortunately mention the other two possibilities, but I wonder how many outsiders have been hopelessly confused by this type of wobbling…
By a nice coincidence (though it may be showing that the Stars really suggest “cuspidate” as the right word), one of the citations for “cuspidal” in the Oxford English Dictionary is
3. Of teeth: = CUSPIDATE.
1867 BUSHNELL Mor. Uses Dark Th. 274 Cuspidal teeth.
(the reference is to the masterpiece “The complete ship-wright” of a certain Edward Bushnell in 1664).
Going further, intrepidly, we learn that “cuspidate” is an invention of a J. Hunter (“The natural history of the human teeth”, 1771–78), and that this learned man decided to call “cuspidati” what are “vulgarly called canine”. It follows that the friends of Langlands, if they moreover wish to be progressive, should speak proudly of “canine (or supercanine) representations”, of “canine forms”, and so on…
A classic advice about writing papers and books is to write the introduction last. I must admit that it makes excellent sense, and in fact, I’m sure I’ve told as much to students. However, I find that I’m usually sorely tempted to write the Introduction first, and that I end up doing this quite often (especially when the project involved is not a joint paper).
There is an advantage in this approach: if I write the introduction early, most often I do not know the precise technical statements that will come out of the arguments, so I am forced to try to explain the motivation, the main points and the qualitative interest of the paper, instead of focusing on the minutia of the actual theorem, which may well be of less importance. Of course, this is partly a consequence of working in a field (analytic number theory) where it is very frequent that the final theorem involves (for instance) some parameters whose value is not particularly important, but where it is instead crucial that it is positive, etc. Some other fields afford much cleaner statements: something like “for every elliptic curve E/Q, the group E(Q) is an abelian group of finite type”, or like “two compact hyperbolic manifolds M and N of dimension at least 3 are isometric if and only if they have isomorphic fundamental groups” can not really be made clearer by trying to focus on any larger picture…
The disadvantages, on the other hand, are in fact quite real: one may write and polish with enthusiasm an introduction (so it becomes suitable for a O’Henry award) only to realize when coming to the point of writing the proofs that a fatal mistake lurked somewhere in the arguments only sketched previously. Or one may find new ideas or points of view when writing the proofs in question that lead to a complete change of emphasis of the paper (e.g., going from proving a special case of a statement to a more general one), and require a complete overhaul of the finely chiseled prose of the already completed introduction…
Indeed, both have happened to me, except of course that the literary quality of my drafts are far from deserving any award. The elephant cemetery section of my LaTeX directories contains at least three sad and melancholy beginnings of papers that will most likely never be revived, and I don’t know how many times I ended up re-working the introduction to my book on the large sieve (the final version of which states, quite accurately, that this project started as a planned short paper on extending previous results about the large sieve for Frobenius over finite fields to work in small sieve contexts…)