The night before defending my Masters thesis, I ran out of shampoo. I ran out late enough that I wouldn’t defend from beneath a mop like Jack Sparrow’s; but, belonging to the Luxuriant Flowing-Hair Club for Scientists (technically, if not officially), I’d have to visit Shopper’s Drug Mart.
The author’s unofficially Luxuriant Flowing Scientist Hair
Before visiting Shopper’s Drug Mart, I had to defend my thesis. The thesis, as explained elsewhere, concerns epsilons, the mathematical equivalents of seed pearls. The thesis also concerns single-shot information theory.
Ordinary information theory emerged in 1948, midwifed by American engineer Claude E. Shannon. Shannon calculated how efficiently we can pack information into symbols when encoding long messages. Consider encoding this article in the fewest possible symbols. Because “the” appears many times, you might represent “the” by one symbol. Longer strings of symbols suit misfits like “luxuriant” and “oobleck.” The longer the article, the fewer encoding symbols you need per encoded word. The encoding-to-encoded ratio decreases, toward a number called the Shannon entropy, as the message grows infinitely long.
Claude Shannon
We don’t send infinitely long messages, excepting teenagers during phone conversations. How efficiently can we encode just one article or sentence? The answer involves single-shot information theory, or—to those stuffing long messages into the shortest possible emails to busy colleagues—“1-shot info.” Pioneered within the past few years, single-shot theory concerns short messages and single trials, the Twitter to Shannon’s epic. Like articles, quantum states can form messages. Hence single-shot theory blended with quantum information in my thesis.
Sooner or later, most scientists are asked to deliver a public lecture about their research specialties. When successful, lecturing about science to the lay public can give one a feeling of deep satisfaction. But preparing the lecture is a lot of work!
Caltech sponsors the Earnest C. Watson lecture series (named after the same Earnest Watson mentioned in my post about Jane Werner Watson), which attracts very enthusiastic audiences to Beckman Auditorium nine times a year. I gave a Watson lecture on April 3 about Quantum Entanglement and Quantum Computing, which is now available from iTunes U and also on YouTube:
I did a Watson lecture once before, in 1997. That occasion precipitated some big changes in my presentation style. To prepare for the lecture, I acquired my first laptop computer and learned to use PowerPoint. This was still the era when a typical physics talk was handwritten on transparencies and displayed using an overhead projector, so I was sort of a pioneer. And I had many anxious moments in the late 1990s worrying about whether my laptop would be able to communicate with the projector — that can still be a problem even today, but was a more common problem then.
I invested an enormous amount of time in preparing that 1997 lecture, an investment still yielding dividends today. Aside from figuring out what computer to buy (an IBM ThinkPad) and how to do animation in PowerPoint, I also learned to draw using Adobe Illustrator under the tutelage of Caltech’s digital media expert Wayne Waller. And apart from all that technical preparation, I had to figure out the content of the lecture!
That was when I first decided to represent a qubit as a box with two doors, which contains a ball that can be either red or green, and I still use some of the drawings I made then.
Entanglement, illustrated with balls in boxes.
This choice of colors was unfortunate, because people with red-green color blindness cannot tell the difference. I still feel bad about that, but I don’t have editable versions of the drawings anymore, so fixing it would be a big job …
I also asked my nephew Ben Preskill (then 10 years old, now a math PhD candidate at UC Berkeley), to make a drawing for me illustrating weirdness.
The desire to put weirdness to work has driven the emergence of quantum information science.
I still use that, for sentimental reasons, even though it would be easier to update.
The turnout at the lecture was gratifying (you can’t really see the audience with the spotlight shining in your eyes, but I sensed that the main floor of the Auditorium was mostly full), and I have gotten a lot of positive feedback (including from the people who came up to ask questions afterward — we might have been there all night if the audio-visual staff had not forced us to go home).
I did make a few decisions about which I have had second thoughts. I was told I had the option of giving a 45 minute talk with a public question period following, or a 55 minute talk with only a private question period, and I opted for the longer talk. Maybe I should have pushed back and insisted on allowing some public questions even after the longer talk — I like answering questions. And I was told that I should stay in the spotlight, to ensure good video quality, so I decided to stand behind the podium the whole time to curb my tendency to pace across the stage. But maybe I would have seemed more dynamic if I had done some pacing.
I got some gentle criticism from my wife, Roberta, who suggested I could modulate my voice more. I have heard that before, particularly in teaching evaluations that complain about my “soporific” tone. I recall that Mike Freedman once commented after watching a video of a public lecture I did at the KITP in Santa Barbara — he praised its professionalism and “newscaster quality”. But that cuts two ways, doesn’t it? Paul Ginsparg listened to a podcast of that same lecture while doing yardwork, and then sent me a compliment by email, with a characteristic Ginspargian twist. Noting that my sentences were clear, precise, and grammatical, Paul asked: “is this something that just came naturally at some early age, or something that you were able to acquire at some later stage by conscious design (perhaps out of necessity, talks on quantum computing might not go over as well without the reassuring smoothness)?”
Another criticism stung more. To illustrate the monogamy of entanglement, I used a slide describing the frustration of Bob, who wants to entangle with both Alice and Carrie, but finds that he can increase his entanglement with Carrie only my sacrificing some of his entanglement with Alice.
Entanglement is monogamous. Bob is frustrated to find that he cannot be fully entangled with both Alice and Carrie.
This got a big laugh. But I used the same slide in a talk at the APS Denver meeting the following week (at a session celebrating the 100th anniversary of Niels Bohr’s atomic model), and a young woman came up to me after that talk to complain. She suggested that my monogamy metaphor was offensive and might discourage women from entering the field!
After discussing the issue with Roberta, I decided to address the problem by swapping the gender roles. The next day, during the question period following Stephen Hawking’s Public Lecture, I spoke about Betty’s frustration over her inability to entangle fully with both Adam and Charlie. But is that really an improvement, or does it reflect negatively on Betty’s morals? I would appreciate advice about this quandary in the comments.
In case you watch the video, there are a couple of things you should know. First, in his introduction, Tom Soifer quotes from a poem about me, but neglects to name the poet. It is former Caltech postdoc Patrick Hayden. And second, toward the end of the lecture I talk about some IQIM outreach activities, but neglect to name our Outreach Director Spiros Michalakis, without whose visionary leadership these things would not have happened.
The most touching feedback I received came from my Caltech colleague Oskar Painter. I joked in the lecture about how mild mannered IQIM scientists can unleash the superpower of quantum information at a moment’s notice.
Mild mannered professor unleashes the superpower of quantum information.
After watching the video, Oskar shot me an email:
“I sent a link to my son [Ewan, age 11] and daughter [Quinn, age 9], and they each watched it from beginning to end on their iPads, without interruption. Afterwards, they had a huge number of questions for me, and were dreaming of all sorts of “quantum super powers” they imagined for the future.”
I’m lazy. The only reason I ever do anything is that sometimes in a weak moment I agree to do something, and after that I don’t have the nerve to back out. And that’s how I happened to give the introductory lectures leading off the 12th Canadian Summer School on Quantum Information last June.
The video of the lectures recently became available on YouTube in two one-hour segments, which is my reason for posting about them now:
Here are the slides I used. The school is pitched at beginning graduate students who have a solid background in quantum mechanics but may not be very familiar with quantum information concepts.
Andrew Childs, who knows my character flaws well, invited me to lecture at the school nearly a year in advance. Undaunted by my silence, he kept resending the invitation at regular intervals to improve his chances of catching me on a weak day. Sure enough, feeling a twinge of guilt over blowing off David Poulin when he made the same request the year before, and with a haunting sense that I had refused to do something Andrew had asked me to do on an earlier occasion (though I can’t recall what), one day in September I said yes, feeling the inevitable stab of regret just seconds after pushing the Send button. I consoled myself with the thought that this could be a Valuable Service to the Community.
Actually, it was fun to think about what to include in my lectures. The job was easier because I knew that the other lecturers who would follow me, all of them excellent, would be able to dig more deeply into some of the topics I would introduce. I decided that my first responsibility should be to convey what makes the topic important and exciting, without getting too bogged down in technicalities which were likely to be addressed later in the school. That meant emphasizing the essence of what makes quantum information different from ordinary “classical” information, and expounding on the theme that classical systems cannot in general simulate quantum systems efficiently.
The conditions under which I delivered the lectures were not quite ideal. Preparing PowerPoint slides is incredibly time consuming, and I believe in the principle that such a task can fill however much time is allotted for it. Therefore, as a matter of policy, I try to delay starting on the slides until the last moment, which has sometimes gotten me into hot water. In this case it meant working on the slides during the flight from LA to Toronto, in the car from Toronto to Waterloo, and then for a few more hours in my hotel room until I went to bed about midnight, with my alarm set for 6 am so I could finish my preparations in the morning.
It seemed like a good plan. But around 2 am I was awakened by an incredibly loud pounding, which sounded like a heavy mallet hammering on the ceiling below me. As I discovered when I complained to the front desk, this was literally true — they were repairing the air-conditioning ducts in the restaurant underneath my room. I was told that the hotel could not do anything about the noise, because the restaurant is under different ownership. I went back to bed, but lost patience around 3:30 am and demanded a different room, on the other side of the hotel. I was settled in my (perfectly quiet) new room by 4 am, but I was too keyed up to sleep, and read a book on my iPad until it was 6 am and time to get up.
I worked in my room as late as I could, then grabbed a taxi, showing the driver a map with the location of the summer school marked on it. Soon after he dropped me off, I discovered I was on the wrong side of the University of Waterloo campus, about a 20 minute walk from where I was supposed to be. It was about 8:15, and the school was to begin at 8:30, so I started jogging, though not, as it turned out, in the right direction. After twice asking passersby for help, I got to the lecture hall just in time, my heart pounding and my shirt soaked with sweat. Not in the best of moods, I barked at Andrew that I needed coffee, which he dutifully fetched for me.
Though my head was pounding and my legs felt rubbery, adrenalin kicked in as I started lecturing. I felt like I was performing in a lower gear than usual, but I wasn’t sure whether the audience could tell.
And as often happens when I reluctantly agree to do something, when it was all over I was glad I had done it.
Quantum Frontiers 