Mathematical Allusions in Shantaram (Part 4)

I recently finished the novel Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. As I’m not a professional book reviewer, let me instead quote from the Amazon review:

Crime and punishment, passion and loyalty, betrayal and redemption are only a few of the ingredients in Shantaram, a massive, over-the-top, mostly autobiographical novel. Shantaram is the name given Mr. Lindsay, or Linbaba, the larger-than-life hero. It means “man of God’s peace,” which is what the Indian people know of Lin. What they do not know is that prior to his arrival in Bombay he escaped from an Australian prison where he had begun serving a 19-year sentence. He served two years and leaped over the wall. He was imprisoned for a string of armed robberies performed to support his heroin addiction, which started when his marriage fell apart and he lost custody of his daughter. All of that is enough for several lifetimes, but for Greg Roberts, that’s only the beginning.

He arrives in Bombay with little money, an assumed name, false papers, an untellable past, and no plans for the future. Fortunately, he meets Prabaker right away, a sweet, smiling man who is a street guide. He takes to Lin immediately, eventually introducing him to his home village, where they end up living for six months. When they return to Bombay, they take up residence in a sprawling illegal slum of 25,000 people and Linbaba becomes the resident “doctor.” With a prison knowledge of first aid and whatever medicines he can cadge from doing trades with the local Mafia, he sets up a practice and is regarded as heaven-sent by these poor people who have nothing but illness, rat bites, dysentery, and anemia. He also meets Karla, an enigmatic Swiss-American woman, with whom he falls in love. Theirs is a complicated relationship, and Karla’s connections are murky from the outset.

While it was a cracking good read, what struck me particularly were the surprising mathematical allusions that the author used throughout the novel. In this mini-series, I’d like to explore the ones that I found.

In this fourth and final installment, the narrator has a lengthy conversation with his mentor (a mafia don) about his mentor’s philosophy of life.

[The mafia don said,] “I will use the analogy of the way we measure length, because it is very relevant to our time. You will agree, I think, that there is a need to define a common measure of length, yes?”

“You mean, in yards and metres, and like that?”

“Precisely. If we have no commonly agreed criterion for measuring length, we will never agree about how much land is yours, and how much is mine, or how to cut lengths of wood when we build a house. There would be chaos. We would fight over the land, and the houses would fall down. Throughout history, we have always tried to agree on a common way to measure length. Are you with me, once more, on this little journey of the mind?”

“I’m still with you,” I replied, laughing, and wondering where the mafia don’s argument was taking me.

“Well, after the revolution in France, the scientists and government officials decided to put some sense into the system of measuring and weighing things. They introduced a decimal system based on a unit of length that they called the metre, from the Greek word metron, which has the meaning of a measure.”

“Okay…”

“And the first way they decided to measure the length of a metre was to make it one ten-millionth of the distance between the equator and the North Pole. But their calculations were based on the idea that the Earth was a perfect sphere, and the Earth, as we now know, is not a perfect sphere. They had to abandon that way of measuring a metre, and they decided, instead, to call it the distance between two very fine lines on a bar of platinum-iridium alloy.”

“Platinum…”

“Iridium. Yes. But platinum-iridium alloy bars decay and shrink, very slowly — even though they are very hard — and the unit of measure was constantly changing. In more recent times, scientists realised that the platinum-iridium bar they had been using as a measure would be a very different size in, say, a thousand years, than it is today.”

“And… that was a problem?”

“Not for the building of houses and bridges,” [the mafia don] said, taking my point more seriously than I’d intended it to be.

“But not nearly accurate enough for the scientists,” I offered, more soberly.

“No. They wanted an unchanging criterion again which to measure all other things. And after a few other attempts, using different techniques, the international standard for a metre was fixed, only last year, as the distance that a photon of light travels in a vacuum during, roughly, one three-hundred-thousandth of a second. Now, of course, this begs the question of how it came to be that a second is agreed upon as a measure of time. It is an equally fascinating story — I can tell it to you, if you would like, before we continue with the point about the metre?”

“I’m… happy to stay with the metre right now,” I demurred, laughing again in spite of myself.

“Very well. I think that you can see my point here — we avoid chaos, in building houses and dividing land and so forth, by having an agreed standard for the measure of a unit of length. We call it a metre and, after many attempts, we decide upon a way to establish the length of that basic unit.”
Shantaram, Chapter 23

After this back-and-forth, the mafia don then described how his philosophy of life can be likened to the need to redefine a basic unit, like the meter, based on our ability to make more accurate measurements with the passage of time.

For the purposes of this blog post, I won’t go into the worldview of a fictional mafia don, but I will discuss the history of the meter, which is accurately described in the above conversation. The definition of the meter has indeed changed over the years with our ability to measure things more accurately.

Initially, in the aftermath of the French revolution, the meter was defined so that the distance between the North Pole and the equator along the longitude through Paris would be exactly 10,000 kilometers. (Since that distance is a quarter-circle, the circumference of the Earth is approximately 40,000 kilometers.)

Later, in 1889, the meter was defined as the length of a certain prototype made of platinum and iridium.

In 1960, the meter was redefined in terms of the wavelength of a certain type of radiation from the krypton-86 atom.

In 1983, the meter was redefined so that the speed of light would be exactly 299,792,458 meters per second. (Incidentally, after 1967, a second was defined to be 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium 133 atom.) Regarding the novel, the above conversation happened in 1984, one year after the meter’s new definition.

These definitions of the meter and second were reiterated in the latest standards, which were released in 2018. This latest revision finally defined the kilogram without the need of a physical prototype.

Mathematical Allusions in Shantaram (Part 3)

I recently finished the novel Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. As I’m not a professional book reviewer, let me instead quote from the Amazon review:

Crime and punishment, passion and loyalty, betrayal and redemption are only a few of the ingredients in Shantaram, a massive, over-the-top, mostly autobiographical novel. Shantaram is the name given Mr. Lindsay, or Linbaba, the larger-than-life hero. It means “man of God’s peace,” which is what the Indian people know of Lin. What they do not know is that prior to his arrival in Bombay he escaped from an Australian prison where he had begun serving a 19-year sentence. He served two years and leaped over the wall. He was imprisoned for a string of armed robberies performed to support his heroin addiction, which started when his marriage fell apart and he lost custody of his daughter. All of that is enough for several lifetimes, but for Greg Roberts, that’s only the beginning.

He arrives in Bombay with little money, an assumed name, false papers, an untellable past, and no plans for the future. Fortunately, he meets Prabaker right away, a sweet, smiling man who is a street guide. He takes to Lin immediately, eventually introducing him to his home village, where they end up living for six months. When they return to Bombay, they take up residence in a sprawling illegal slum of 25,000 people and Linbaba becomes the resident “doctor.” With a prison knowledge of first aid and whatever medicines he can cadge from doing trades with the local Mafia, he sets up a practice and is regarded as heaven-sent by these poor people who have nothing but illness, rat bites, dysentery, and anemia. He also meets Karla, an enigmatic Swiss-American woman, with whom he falls in love. Theirs is a complicated relationship, and Karla’s connections are murky from the outset.

In this third installment, the narrator a sudden realization that he had.

I put all of my focus on the beating of my heart, trying by force of will to slow its too-rapid pace. It worked, after a time. I closed around a single, still thought. That thought was of [a mafia don], and the formula he’d made me repeat so often: “The wrong thing, for the right reasons.” And I knew, as I repeated the words in the fearing dark, that the fight with [another mafia don], the war, the struggle for power, was always the same, everywhere, and it was always wrong.

[My mafia don], no less than [other mafia dons] and all the rest of them, were pretending that their little kingdoms made them kings; that their power struggles made them powerful. And they didn’t. They couldn’t. I saw that then so clearly that it was like understanding a mathematical theorem for the first time. The only kingdom that makes any man a king is the kingdom of his own soul. The only power that has any real meaning is the power to better the world. And only men like [my noble friends, not in the mafia] were such kings and had such power.
Shantaram, Chapter 41

The author’s choice of language is music to my ears: “I saw that then so clearly that it was like understanding a mathematical theorem for the first time.” There have been many, many times throughout my education and career that I struggled to understand some theorem. But the moment that I figured it out, I couldn’t believe what had taken me so long to finally get it. That’s the type of epiphany that the author seems to be describing.

I again quote at length from Richard P. Feynman, who did a far better job of explaining the emotions of such a sudden realization after being stuck in a rut than I ever could:

Then I had another thought: Physics disgusts me a little bit now, but I used to enjoy doing physics. Why did I enjoy it? I used to play with it. I used to do whatever I felt like doing–it didn’t have to do with whether it was important for the development of nuclear physics, but whether it was interesting and amusing for me to play with. When I was in high school, I’d see water running out of a faucet growing narrower, and wonder if I could figure out what determines that curve. I found it was rather easy to do. I didn’t have to do it; it wasn’t important for the future of science; somebody else had already done it. That didn’t make any difference: I’d invent things and play with things for my own entertainment.

So I got this new attitude. Now that I am burned out and I’ll never accomplish anything, I’ve got this nice position at the university teaching classes which I rather enjoy, and just like I read the Arabian Nights for pleasure, I’m going to play with physics, whenever I want to, without worrying about any importance whatsoever.

Within a week I was in the cafeteria and some guy, fooling around, throws a plate in the air. As the plate went up in the air I saw it wobble, and I noticed the red medallion of Cornell on the plate going around. It was pretty obvious to me that the medallion went around faster than the wobbling.

I had nothing to do, so I start to figure out the motion of the rotating plate. I discover that when the angle is very slight, the medallion rotates twice as fast as the wobble rate–two to one. It came out of a complicated equation! Then I thought, “Is there some way I can see in a more fundamental way, by looking at the forces or the dynamics, why it’s two to one?”

I don’t remember how I did it, but I ultimately worked out what the motion of the mass particles is, and how all the accelerations balance to make it come out two to one.

I still remember going to Hans Bethe and saying, “Hey, Hans! I noticed something interesting. Here the plate goes around so, and the reason it’s two to one is . . .” and I showed him the accelerations.

He says, “Feynman, that’s pretty interesting, but what’s the importance of it? Why are you doing it?”

“Hah!” I say. “There’s no importance whatsoever. I’m just doing it for the fun of it.” His reaction didn’t discourage me; I had made up my mind I was going to enjoy physics and do whatever I liked.

I went on to work out equations of wobbles. Then I thought about how electron orbits start to move in relativity. Then there’s the Dirac Equation in electrodynamics. And then quantum electrodynamics. And before I knew it (it was a very short time) I was “playing”–working, really — with the same old problem that I loved so much, that I had stopped working on when I went to Los Alamos: my thesis-type problems; all those old-fashioned, wonderful things.

It was effortless. It was easy to play with these things. It was like uncorking a bottle: Everything flowed out effortlessly. I almost tried to resist it! There was no importance to what I was doing, but ultimately there was. The diagrams and the whole business that I got the Nobel Prize for came from that piddling around with the wobbling plate.

Richard P. Feynman, “The Dignified Professor,” from Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!

Mathematical Allusions in Shantaram (Part 2)

I recently finished the novel Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. As I’m not a professional book reviewer, let me instead quote from the Amazon review:

Crime and punishment, passion and loyalty, betrayal and redemption are only a few of the ingredients in Shantaram, a massive, over-the-top, mostly autobiographical novel. Shantaram is the name given Mr. Lindsay, or Linbaba, the larger-than-life hero. It means “man of God’s peace,” which is what the Indian people know of Lin. What they do not know is that prior to his arrival in Bombay he escaped from an Australian prison where he had begun serving a 19-year sentence. He served two years and leaped over the wall. He was imprisoned for a string of armed robberies performed to support his heroin addiction, which started when his marriage fell apart and he lost custody of his daughter. All of that is enough for several lifetimes, but for Greg Roberts, that’s only the beginning.

He arrives in Bombay with little money, an assumed name, false papers, an untellable past, and no plans for the future. Fortunately, he meets Prabaker right away, a sweet, smiling man who is a street guide. He takes to Lin immediately, eventually introducing him to his home village, where they end up living for six months. When they return to Bombay, they take up residence in a sprawling illegal slum of 25,000 people and Linbaba becomes the resident “doctor.” With a prison knowledge of first aid and whatever medicines he can cadge from doing trades with the local Mafia, he sets up a practice and is regarded as heaven-sent by these poor people who have nothing but illness, rat bites, dysentery, and anemia. He also meets Karla, an enigmatic Swiss-American woman, with whom he falls in love. Theirs is a complicated relationship, and Karla’s connections are murky from the outset.

In this second installment, the narrator describes a conversation with a new acquaintance.

“My father was a teacher of chemistry and mathematics… My father was a stubborn man — it is a kind of stubbornness that permits one to become a mathematician, isn’t it? Perhaps mathematics is itself a kind of stubbornness, do you think?”

“Maybe,” I replied, smiling. “I never thought about it that way, but maybe you’re right.”
Shantaram, Chapter 26

When I think of stubbornness, I think of the determination of a marathon runner to push through fatigue to keep running hour after hour to complete all 26.2 miles of the course. I don’t usually think of a mathematician.

Nevertheless, the author certainly hit on something with this allusion. Mathematicians certainly need a healthy dose of stubbornness when staring a conjecture and trying to figure out its proof; it’s normal for that frustration to last for weeks, months, or even years. That said, I wouldn’t say that this is unique to mathematicians — researchers in just about any field of study need to be persistent to discover something that nobody else has figure out before.

Nobel Prize laureate Richard P. Feynman had a couple of vivid descriptions about the frustration of getting stuck on a research project and the stubbornness that was necessary to break out of that rut.

I don’t believe I can really do without teaching. The reason is, I have to have something so that when I don’t have any ideas and I’m not getting anywhere I can say to myself, “At least I’m living; at least I’m doing something; I’m making some contribution”–it’s just psychological.

When I was at Princeton in the 1940s I could see what happened to those great minds at the Institute for Advanced Study, who had been specially selected for their tremendous brains and were now given this opportunity to sit in this lovely house by the woods there, with no classes to teach, with no obligations whatsoever. These poor bastards could now sit and think clearly all by themselves, OK? So they don’t get any ideas for a while: They have every opportunity to do something, and they’re not getting any ideas. I believe that in a situation like this a kind of guilt or depression worms inside of you, and you begin to worry about not getting any ideas. And nothing happens. Still no ideas come.

Nothing happens because there’s not enough real activity and challenge: You’re not in contact with the experimental guys. You don’t have to think how to answer questions from the students. Nothing!

In any thinking process there are moments when everything is going good and you’ve got wonderful ideas. Teaching is an interruption, and so it’s the greatest pain in the neck in the world. And then there are the longer periods of time when not much is coming to you. You’re not getting any ideas, and if you’re doing nothing at all, it drives you nuts! You can’t even say “I’m teaching my class.”

Richard P. Feynman, “The Dignified Professor,” from Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!

Also from Feynman:

The problem was to find the right laws of beta decay. There appeared to be two particles, which were called a tan and a theta. They seemed to have almost exactly the same mass, but one disintegrated into two pions, and the other into three pions. Not only did they seem to have the same mass, but they also had the same lifetime, which is a funny coincidence. So everybody was concerned about this…

At that particular time I was not really quite up to things: I was always a little behind. Everybody seemed to be smart, and I didn’t feel I was keeping up…

Anyway, the discovery of parity law violation was made, experimentally, by Wu, and this opened up a whole bunch of new possibilities for beta decay theory, It also unleashed a whole host of experiments immediately after that. Some showed electrons coming out of the nuclei spun to the left, and some to the right, and there were all kinds of experiments, all kinds of interesting discoveries about parity. But the data were so confusing that nobody could put things together.

At one point there was a meeting in Rochester–the yearly Rochester Conference. I was still always behind, and Lee was giving his paper on the violation of parity. He and Yang had come to the conclusion that parity was violated, and flow he was giving the theory for it.

During the conference I was staying with my sister in Syracuse. I brought the paper home and said to her, “I can’t understand these things that Lee and Yang are saying. It’s all so complicated.”

“No,” she said, “what you mean is not that you can’t understand it, but that you didn’t invent it. You didn’t figure it out your own way, from hearing the clue. What you should do is imagine you’re a student again, and take this paper upstairs, read every line of it, and check the equations. Then you’ll understand it very easily.”

I took her advice, and checked through the whole thing, and found it to be very obvious and simple. I had been afraid to read it, thinking it was too difficult.

Richard P. Feynman, “The 7 Percent Solution,” from Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!

Mathematical Allusions in Shantaram (Part 1)

I recently finished the novel Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. As I’m not a professional book reviewer, let me instead quote from the Amazon review:

Crime and punishment, passion and loyalty, betrayal and redemption are only a few of the ingredients in Shantaram, a massive, over-the-top, mostly autobiographical novel. Shantaram is the name given Mr. Lindsay, or Linbaba, the larger-than-life hero. It means “man of God’s peace,” which is what the Indian people know of Lin. What they do not know is that prior to his arrival in Bombay he escaped from an Australian prison where he had begun serving a 19-year sentence. He served two years and leaped over the wall. He was imprisoned for a string of armed robberies performed to support his heroin addiction, which started when his marriage fell apart and he lost custody of his daughter. All of that is enough for several lifetimes, but for Greg Roberts, that’s only the beginning.

He arrives in Bombay with little money, an assumed name, false papers, an untellable past, and no plans for the future. Fortunately, he meets Prabaker right away, a sweet, smiling man who is a street guide. He takes to Lin immediately, eventually introducing him to his home village, where they end up living for six months. When they return to Bombay, they take up residence in a sprawling illegal slum of 25,000 people and Linbaba becomes the resident “doctor.” With a prison knowledge of first aid and whatever medicines he can cadge from doing trades with the local Mafia, he sets up a practice and is regarded as heaven-sent by these poor people who have nothing but illness, rat bites, dysentery, and anemia. He also meets Karla, an enigmatic Swiss-American woman, with whom he falls in love. Theirs is a complicated relationship, and Karla’s connections are murky from the outset.

In this first installment, the narrator describes a life-or-death situation as he is being choked:

He was a hard man. He didn’t give up. His hands squeezed tighter. My neck was strong and the muscles were well developed, but I knew he had the strength to kill me. My hand reached, groping for the pistol in my pocket. I had to shoot him. I had to kill him. That was all right. I didn’t care. The air in my lungs was spent, and my brain was exploding in Mandelbrot whirls of colored light, and I was dying, and I wanted to kill him.
Shantaram, Chapter 25

Someone being choked to death might be prosaically described as “seeing stars,” but the author instead to choose the more vivid imagery of “exploding in Mandelbrot whirls of colored light.” The Mandelbrot set is a fractal that solves a famous mathematical problem:

And the Mandelbrot set is quite colorful and complex, which might indeed be a better description than “seeing stars” of what might be going through someone’s mind when being choked to death. Although somewhat dated, here’s my favorite Mandelbrot zoom video:

My Mathematical Magic Show: Part 11

A couple years ago, I learned the 27-card trick, which is probably the most popular trick in my current repertoire. In this first video, Matt Parker performs this trick as well as the 49-card trick.

Here’s a quick explanation from the American Mathematical Society for how the magician performs this trick. In short, the magician needs to do some mental arithmetic quickly.

The 27 card trick is based on the ternary number system, sometimes called the base 3 system.

Suppose the volunteer chooses a card and also chooses the number 18. You want to make her chosen card move to the 18th position in the deck, which means you need 17 cards above it. You first need to express 17 in base 3, writing it as a three digit number. For the procedure used in this trick, it’s also handy to write the digits in backward order: 1s digit first, 3s digit second, and 9s digit last. In this backward base 3 notation 17 becomes 221, since 17 = 2×3⁰ + 2×3¹ + 1×3².

With the understanding that 2 = bottom, 1 = middle, and 0 = top, the number 17 becomes “bottom-bottom-middle.”

Now deal the cards into three piles. The subject identifies the pile containing her card. That pile should be placed at the position indicated by the 1s digit, which is 2, or bottom. After picking up the three piles with the pile containing the chosen card on the bottom, deal the cards a second time into three piles. This time place the pile containing the chosen card in the position indicated by the 3s digit, which is also 2, or bottom. Finally, after placing the pile containing the subject’s card on the bottom, deal the cards into three piles for a third time. When picking up the piles, this time place the pile containing her card in the position indicated by the 9s digit, which is 1, or middle. Deal out 17 cards. The 18th will be her card.

Making a schematic picture of the deck, like Matt does in his second video [below], should convince you that this procedure does precisely what is claimed. But there is no substitute for actually doing it—take 27 cards and try it!

Of course this procedure will work regardless of which position the subject chooses, for her choice is always a number between 1 and 27. This means you need between 0 and 26 cards on top of it, and in base 3 we have 0 = 000 (top-top-top) and 26 = 222 (bottom-bottom-bottom). Every possible position that the subject can choose corresponds to a unique base 3 representation.

In general, if you deal a pack of n^k cards into n piles, have the subject identify the pile that contains her card, and repeat this procedure k times, you can place her card at any desired position in the deck. The idea is the same: Subtract one from the desired position number, and convert the result to base n as a k digit number. The ones digit of this number tells you where to place the packet containing her card after the first deal (n – 1 = bottom, 0 = top), and the procedure continues for the remaining deals.

In Mathematics, Magic and Mystery (Dover, 1956), Martin Gardner discusses the long history and many variations of this effect. See Chapter 3, “From Gergonne to Gargantua.”

In this Numberphile video, Matt Parker explains why the trick works.

My Mathematical Magic Show: Part 10

This magic trick is an optical illusion instead of a pure magic trick, but it definitely is a crowd-pleaser. This illusion is called Sugihara’s Impossible Cylinder:

This is actually a mathematical magic trick. As detailed by David Richeson in Math Horizons, there is a fair amount of math that goes into creating this unique shape. He also provided this interacted Geogebra applet as well as a printable pdf file for creating this illusion.

Confirming Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity With Calculus, Part 9: Pedagogical Thoughts

At long last, we have reached the end of this series of posts.

The derivation is elementary; I’m confident that I could have understood this derivation had I seen it when I was in high school. That said, the word “elementary” in mathematics can be a bit loaded — this means that it is based on simple ideas that are perhaps used in a profound and surprising way. Perhaps my favorite quote along these lines was this understated gem from the book Three Pearls of Number Theory after the conclusion of a very complicated proof in Chapter 1:

You see how complicated an entirely elementary construction can sometimes be. And yet this is not an extreme case; in the next chapter you will encounter just as elementary a construction which is considerably more complicated.

Here are the elementary ideas from calculus, precalculus, and high school physics that were used in this series:

Physics
- Conservation of angular momentum
- Newton’s Second Law
- Newton’s Law of Gravitation
Precalculus
- Completing the square
- Quadratic formula
- Factoring polynomials
- Complex roots of polynomials
- Bounds on $\cos \theta$ and $\sin \theta$
- Period of $\cos \theta$ and $\sin \theta$
- Zeroes of $\cos \theta$ and $\sin \theta$
- Trigonometric identities (Pythagorean, sum and difference, double-angle)
- Conic sections
- Graphing in polar coordinates
- Two-dimensional vectors
- Dot products of two-dimensional vectors (especially perpendicular vectors)
- Euler’s equation
Calculus
- The Chain Rule
- Derivatives of $\cos \theta$ and $\sin \theta$
- Linearizations of $\cos x$ , $\sin x$ , and $1/(1-x)$ near $x \approx 0$ (or, more generally, their Taylor series approximations)
- Derivative of $e^x$
- Solving initial-value problems
- Integration by $u-$ substitution

While these ideas from calculus are elementary, they were certainly used in clever and unusual ways throughout the derivation.

I should add that although the derivation was elementary, certain parts of the derivation could be made easier by appealing to standard concepts from differential equations.

One more thought. While this series of post was inspired by a calculation that appeared in an undergraduate physics textbook, I had thought that this series might be worthy of publication in a mathematical journal as an historical example of an important problem that can be solved by elementary tools. Unfortunately for me, Hieu D. Nguyen’s terrific article Rearing Its Ugly Head: The Cosmological Constant and Newton’s Greatest Blunder in The American Mathematical Monthly is already in the record.

Confirming Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity With Calculus, Part 8: Second- and Third-Order Approximations

In this series, I’m discussing how ideas from calculus and precalculus (with a touch of differential equations) can predict the precession in Mercury’s orbit and thus confirm Einstein’s theory of general relativity. The origins of this series came from a class project that I assigned to my Differential Equations students maybe 20 years ago.

In this series, we found an approximate solution to the governing initial-value problem

$u''(\theta) + u(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} + \delta [u(\theta)]^2$

$u(0) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon}{\alpha}$

$u'(0) = 0$ ,

where $u = \displaystyle \frac{1}{r}$ , $\displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} = \frac{GMm^2}{\ell^2}$ , $\delta = \displaystyle \frac{3GM}{c^2}$ , $G$ is the gravitational constant of the universe, $m$ is the mass of the planet, $M$ is the mass of the Sun, $\ell$ is the constant angular momentum of the planet, $\epsilon$ is the eccentricity of the orbit, and $c$ is the speed of light.

We used the following steps to find an approximate solution.

Step 0. Ignore the general-relativity contribution and solve the simpler initial-value problem

$u_0''(\theta) + u_0(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha}$

$u_0(0) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon}{\alpha}$

$u_0'(0) = 0$ ,

which is a zeroth-order approximation to the real initial-value problem. We found that the solution of this differential equation is

$u_0(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon \cos \theta}{\alpha}$ ,

which is the equation of an ellipse in polar coordinates.

Step 1. Solve the initial-value problem

$u_1''(\theta) + u_1(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} + \delta [u_0(\theta)]^2$

$u_1(0) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon}{\alpha}$

$u_1'(0) = 0$ ,

which partially incorporates the term due to general relativity. This is a first-order approximation to the real differential equation. After much effort, we found that the solution of this initial-value problem is

$u_1(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon \cos \theta}{\alpha} + \frac{\delta}{\alpha^2} + \frac{\delta \epsilon^2}{2\alpha^2} + \frac{ \delta\epsilon}{\alpha^2} \theta \sin \theta - \frac{ \delta \epsilon^2}{6\alpha^2} \cos 2\theta - \frac{\delta(3+\epsilon^2)}{3\alpha^2} \cos \theta$ .

For large values of $\theta$ , this is accurately approximated as:

$u_1(\theta) \approx \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon \cos \theta}{\alpha} + \frac{ \delta\epsilon}{\alpha^2} \theta \sin \theta$ ,

which can be further approximated as

$u_1(\theta) \approx \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} \left[ 1 + \epsilon \cos \left( \theta - \frac{\delta \theta}{\alpha} \right) \right]$ .

From this expression, the precession in a planet’s orbit due to general relativity can be calculated.

Roughly 20 years ago, I presented this application of differential equations at the annual meeting of the Texas Section of the Mathematical Association of America. After the talk, a member of the audience asked what would happen if we did this procedure yet again to find a second-order approximation. In other words, I was asked to consider…

Step 2. Solve the initial-value problem

$u_2''(\theta) + u_2(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} + \delta [u_1(\theta)]^2$

$u_2(0) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon}{\alpha}$

$u_2'(0) = 0$ .

It stands to reason that the answer should be an even more accurate approximation to the true solution $u(\theta)$ .

I didn’t have an immediate answer for this question, but I can answer it now. Letting Mathematica do the work, here’s the answer:

Yes, it’s a mess. The term in red is $u_0(\theta)$ , while the term in yellow is the next largest term in $u_1(\theta)$ . Both of these appear in the answer to $u_2(\theta)$ .

The term in green is the next largest term in $u_2(\theta)$ , with the highest power of $\theta$ in the numerator and the highest power of $\alpha$ in the denominator. In other words,

$u_2(\theta) \approx \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon \cos \theta}{\alpha} + \frac{ \delta\epsilon}{\alpha^2} \theta \sin \theta -\frac{\delta^2 \epsilon}{2\alpha^3} \theta^2 \cos \theta$ .

How does this compare to our previous approximation of

$u(\theta) \approx \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} \left[ 1 + \epsilon \cos \left( \theta - \frac{\delta \theta}{\alpha} \right) \right]$ ?

Well, to a second-order Taylor approximation, it’s the same! Let

$f(x) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} \left[ 1 + \epsilon \cos \left( \theta - x \right) \right]$ .

Expanding about $x = 0$ and treated $\theta$ as a constant, we find

$f(x) \approx f(0) + f'(0) x + \displaystyle \frac{f''(0)}{2} x^2 = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} \left[ 1 + \epsilon \cos \left( \theta\right) \right] + \frac{\epsilon}{\alpha} x \sin \theta - \frac{\epsilon}{2\alpha} x^2 \cos \theta$ .

Substituting $x = \displaystyle \frac{\delta \theta}{\alpha}$ yields the above approximation for $u_2(\theta)$ .

Said another way, proceeding to a second-order approximation merely provides additional confirmation for the precession of a planet’s orbit.

Just for the fun of it, I also used Mathematica to find the solution of Step 3:

Step 2. Solve the initial-value problem

$u_3''(\theta) + u_3(\theta) = \displaystyle \frac{1}{\alpha} + \delta [u_2(\theta)]^2$

$u_3(0) = \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon}{\alpha}$

$u_3'(0) = 0$ .

I won’t copy-and-paste the solution from Mathematica; unsurpisingly, it’s really long. I will say that, unsurprisingly, the leading terms are

$u_3(\theta) \approx \displaystyle \frac{1 + \epsilon \cos \theta}{\alpha} + \frac{ \delta\epsilon}{\alpha^2} \theta \sin \theta -\frac{\delta^2 \epsilon}{2 \alpha^3} \theta^2 \cos \theta -\frac{\delta^3 \epsilon}{6\alpha^4} \theta^3 \sin \theta$ .

I said “unsurprisingly” because this matches the third-order Taylor polynomial of our precession expression. I don’t have time to attempt it, but surely there’s a theorem to be proven here based on this computational evidence.

Happy Pythagoras Day!

I’m posting one day early this week to wish everyone a Happy Pythagoras Day! Today is 7/25/24 (or 25/7/24 in other parts of the world), and $25^2 = 7^2 + 24^2$ .

Bonus points if you can figure out (without Googling) when the next Pythagoras Day will be.

Confirming Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity With Calculus, Part 7e: Computing Precession

We have shown that under general relativity, the motion of a planet around the Sun precesses by

$\phi = \displaystyle \frac{6\pi GM}{ac^2 (1-\epsilon^2)} \qquad \hbox{radians per orbit}$ ,

where $a$ is the semi-major axis of the planet’s orbit, $\epsilon$ is the orbit’s eccentricity, $G$ is the gravitational constant of the universe, $M$ is the mass of the Sun, and $c$ is the speed of light.

Notice that for $\phi$ to be as observable as possible, we’d like $a$ to be as small as possible and $\epsilon$ to be as large as possible. By a fortunate coincidence, the orbit of Mercury — the closest planet to the sun — has the most elliptical orbit of the eight planets.

Here are the values of the constants for Mercury’s orbit in the SI system:

$G = 6.6726 \times 10^{-11} \qquad \hbox{N-m}^2/\hbox{kg}^2$
$M = 1.9929 \times 10^{30} \qquad \hbox{kg}$
$a = 5.7871 \times 10^{10} \qquad \hbox{m}$
$c = 2.9979 \times 10^{8} \qquad \hbox{m/s}$
$\epsilon = 0.2056$
$T = 0.2408 \qquad \hbox{years}$

The last constant, $T$ , is the time for Mercury to complete one orbit. This isn’t in the SI system, but using Earth years as the unit of time will prove useful later in this calculation.

Using these numbers, and recalling that $1 ~ \hbox{N} = 1 ~ \hbox{kg-m/s}^2$ , we find that

$\phi = \displaystyle \frac{6\pi \times 6.6726 \times 10^{-11} ~ \hbox{m}^3/(\hbox{kg-s}^2) \times 1.9929 \times 10^{30} ~ \hbox{kg}}{5.7871 \times 10^{10} ~ \hbox{m} \times (2.9979 \times 10^{8} ~ \hbox{m/s})^2 \times (1-(0.2408)^2)} \approx 5.03 \times 10^{-7}$ .

Notice that all of the units cancel out perfectly; this bit of dimensional analysis is a useful check against careless mistakes.

Again, the units of $\phi$ are in radians per Mercury orbit, or radians per 0.2408 years. We now convert this to arc seconds per century:

$\phi \approx 5.03 \times 10^{-7} \displaystyle \frac{\hbox{radians}}{\hbox{0.2408 years}} \times \frac{180 ~\hbox{degrees}}{\pi ~ \hbox{radians}} \times \frac{3600 ~ \hbox{arc seconds}}{1 ~ \hbox{degree}} \times \frac{100 ~ \hbox{years}}{1 ~ \hbox{century}}$

$\phi = 43.1 \displaystyle \frac{\hbox{arc seconds}}{\hbox{century}}$ .

This indeed matches the observed precession in Mercury’s orbit, thus confirming Einstein’s theory of relativity.

This same computation can be made for other planets. For Venus, we have the new values of $a = 1.0813 \times 10^{11} ~ \hbox{m}$ , $\epsilon = 0.0068$ , and $T = 0.6152 ~ \hbox{years}$ . Repeating this calculation, we predict the precession in Venus’s orbit to be 8.65” per century. Einstein made this prediction in 1915, when the telescopes of the time were not good enough to measure the precession in Venus’s orbit. This only happened in 1960, 45 years later and 5 years after Einstein died. Not surprisingly, the precession in Venus’s orbit also agrees with general relativity.