Hard Things
Sep. 16th, 2026 02:51 amWhat are some of the hard things you've done recently? What are some hard things you haven't gotten to yet, but need to do? Is there anything your online friends could do to make your hard things a little easier?

Does a weapon want to hurt people? What if it had opinions on the type of people it was used to slay? Author Marissa Lingen had these sorts of questions rattling around in her brain long enough that a story formed from them. Take up your (opinionated) sword and follow along in the Big Idea for A Dubious Clamor.
MARISSA LINGEN:
Some big ideas form in an instant, an explosion of brilliance, totally ready to write down and go–the Big Bang of idea formation, if you will. Others are more like planetary accretion. There’s a whole massive whirling disc of random crap, and over time it runs into each other and eventually you have an entire planet with rings and moons. A Dubious Clamor was definitely in the second group.
Twenty-five years ago I read the Francis Peabody Magoun translation of the Kalevala. This is my recommended translation. Rather than trying to preserve rhyme or structure, it preserves weirdness, which for my money is the exact right thing to preserve. Catch me at a con sometime and I’ll tell you about the milk from hell or the insults from your in-laws, as rendered in the Magoun translation of the Kalevala. But the one bit that kept poking at me over the years was when one of the magical swords made by the smith Ilmarinen said, “Probably I was not made for the slaying of young maidens.”
Probably. The sword was willing to leave room for discussion on this point. Huh.
That one word kept popping up in my head: probably. Probably. Maybe not, though! Who knows! Probably. I started to wonder: are there other swords with both opinions and a refreshing unwillingness to lay down immovable dictates? I mean, probably! Why wouldn’t there be? Who would make those swords? Was it all Ilmarinen? Probably not! There are lots of other magical smiths in mythology. Was I a little too obsessed with one word in a translation? Yeah, probably!
But I liked where it was going. I was trained as a physicist (can you tell from my go-to metaphors above?). I was a lab TA for three years. One of the most important things I taught in those lab sections was the section of lab reports devoted to error analysis. I tried to walk lab students through assessing where things might not be perfect, where their own error had a chance to slip in. Several students wanted to write, “There were no sources of error in this lab,” and I had to walk them through why that was in fact not true. But in the outside world I kept watching malicious actors treat uncertainty and error as if they were a sign that you were on the wrong track. As if they had perfect answers that would work every time. As though science acknowledging that it didn’t was a sign of dishonesty. And I kept returning to that sword and the way that it went with. Y’know. Probably.
I can’t say I’m a huge fan of Oliver Cromwell in general, but my favorite thing he ever said was, “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you might be mistaken.” He should have listened to himself a lot more on that, but–yeah. At least consider. Think it possible. I can come up with a few contemporary figures who could do some more thinking it possible that they might be mistaken. I bet you can too.
The harpies came later. Jenny Lind and operetta and the alternate history aftermath of a Chartist rebellion and all the little cakes–all of it came later. The first and biggest idea, the one I couldn’t leave alone, was a sword that was not fond of people being all too certain they had all the right boxes to put each other in. That seemed worth raising a dubious clamor about.

Today is the 100th birthday of Jean-Pierre Serre, the last of the twentieth-century mathematical titans. His most recent paper is less than a year old. By all accounts, he is still actively doing research.
When Serre was awarded the Fields Medal in 1954 at the age of 27, he was introduced to the audience by Hermann Weyl, a titan of an earlier age. “Never before”, said Weyl, “have I witnessed such a brilliant ascension of a star in the mathematical sky”.
It’s been pointed out that Serre now holds the distinction of being both the youngest and the oldest Fields medalist ever.
Unlike most of the other great mathematicians of his era, Serre worked in, and left a lasting imprint on, and in some cases completely transformed an astonishing variety of different mathematical subfields. His collaborations, often uncredited, are legendary. He was arguably the one collaborator who was absolutely necessary to Grothendieck. The proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem relies on a key observation of Serre’s (though in this case I’m guessing — but not certain — that while Serre sped things along, he doesn’t count as indispensable). Wikipedia lists over 30 “things named after Jean-Pierre Serre”. The list is incomplete (Where is “Serre’s GAGA”? Where is Auslander-Buchsbaum-Serre? Where are Serre’s regularity conditions?) but it still includes quite a few items that most mathematicians would be proud of as a once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment.
Once when I was very young (younger even than the age at which Serre won his Fields medal), I got up my courage and asked a senior mathematician a question that I was sure was extremely naive and silly but that I just couldn’t seem to figure out on my own. He was a very good senior mathematician, but his judgment was clearly quite imperfect, because he insisted that I send my question to Serre via an ancient system of communication that we called “airmail”. I balked, but the senior mathematician browbeat me into it. Two weeks later (which is about as soon as was physically possible in those days) I got back a three-page handwritten letter from Serre, making it crystal clear that the question was exactly as naive and silly as I thought it was, but taking the opportunity to teach me some related mathematics. It was kind, generous, and surely an extremely poor use of his time. I wonder what great theorem the world has been denied because I failed to stand by my “let’s not bother him” instinct.
But French mathematicians as a group are well known for their occasional sharp tongues. Here’s a story I’ve been told, which might or might not be entirely apocryphal. Serre once attended a lecture by another prominent mathematician, who, by some accounts, Serre considered both overrated and arrogant. That other mathematician (who I won’t name partly because this whole story might be fiction) started out by writing several theorems on the blackboard and then announcing that although the theorems were all pretty good in their own right, the best thing about these theorems was that they all followed from just one idea. At which point Serre raised his hand and corrected the speaker: “At most one idea.”
Again, I don’t know whether that one’s true. I do know that almost all of the mathematics that I know and love bears Serre’s imprint. I wish him a very happy birthday, and many more.

Behold these history textbooks: World in Motion, Vols. 1 &2. They were sent to me today. Why, you may ask? Because I contributed to them both, by writing an introduction that went into both volumes. Why was I asked to write the introduction? Because I am awesome, you see, and also because I know one of the authors, and he asked nicely, and I thought it would be fun. And it was fun! And now I have another thing checked of the bucket list: Being in a textbook! Yes, it was pretty far down the checklist. But it was still there.
— JS