Sensitive to everything
The road paved with doublings
Turn one dial slowly and watch what a map settles into. It settles on a point, then on two points, then four, then eight — faster and faster, and the doublings run out at a parameter that is finite.
A difference too small to draw
Two starting points a ten-thousandth apart, under the same rule, with nothing random anywhere. Within forty steps they have nothing in common — and the rule was not doing anything to them that it does not do to everything.
How fast two orbits part
The word "sensitive" is an adjective. Averaging the logarithm of one derivative along an orbit turns it into a number — one that says how many steps of prediction the map allows, and whose sign says whether it allows any.
The shape in every picture of itself
One line of arithmetic, repeated, with a single complex number as its only input. Sort the numbers by whether the result stays bounded and the boundary between the two answers is the most complicated object anyone draws from a rule this short.
One c, one picture
The same iteration, with the parameter held still and the starting point varied instead. Every complex number gets its own picture, and moving the parameter a hair can shatter it into dust.
Where Newton's method goes instead
An algorithm designed to find roots, run from every starting point at once. Three roots, three basins, and a boundary at which all three are arbitrarily close — so a rule with no randomness in it has starting points whose answer cannot be predicted.
Two lobes and no cycle
Three equations, three variables, and a trajectory that never crosses itself, never repeats, and never leaves a region of zero volume. The set it settles onto is not a point, not a loop, and not a surface.
The road that makes everyone later
An equilibrium is a state nobody can improve alone, which is a much weaker thing than a state anybody would choose. Adding a link that costs nothing to use makes every traveller in this network strictly slower, and the arithmetic says by exactly how much.
The orbit a computer draws
A chaotic orbit computed in floating point is not the orbit of the point it started from. Sometimes it is the true orbit of a nearby point, which is enough; sometimes the arithmetic simply runs out, and the picture is of the rounding.
The obstacle that makes a table chaotic
Put one round post in the middle of a square table and every trace of order goes. Two paths that start a hundred-thousandth of a degree apart end up on opposite sides of the table, and the reason is that a wall curving outwards multiplies a gap where a flat one only adds to it.
The flow that is really a map
A trajectory wandering through three dimensions is hard to reason about. Record only the successive maxima of one coordinate and the wandering collapses onto a curve — a map of an interval to itself, with a corner in the middle, which is a thing the theory can handle.
A closer start buys only time
Two trajectories from almost the same place separate exponentially, and the rate does not depend on how close they began. Halving the initial error buys one fixed interval of extra agreement, and no amount of precision buys more than a fixed number of those.
Two equilibria and no way to choose
A game can have two states nobody wants to leave, one paying more than the other, and the definition of an equilibrium has nothing to say about which happens. The two standard tie-breakers disagree, and the one that wins is usually the worse.
A dimension from the stretching rates
An attractor has no construction rule, so its dimension has to be counted — which was the whole case for defining dimension by counting. Kaplan and Yorke's formula computes it instead, from two numbers that describe the map and never look at the set.
A mixture that is a population
A mixed equilibrium between two choosers is a knife-edge nobody has a reason to stand on. Read the same mixture as a population whose shares grow with how well they do, and it becomes a point every population is carried to — or one every population circles for ever without arriving.
The folds that measure chaos
Apply the logistic map six times and its graph goes up and down 38 times at r = 3.5 and 64 times at r = 4. How fast that number of folds multiplies with each further step is the map's topological entropy: zero through the whole cascade of period doublings, log of the golden ratio in the window of three, log 2 at the top — and it never decreases as r rises.
An area that never finishes
Newton's method's famous failure is a boundary, and a boundary has no area — a random start misses it with probability one. The real failure is different in kind: a polynomial with small whole-number coefficients whose method has a region of starting points, with area, from which it provably never terminates.
The window that opens with a stutter
The period-three window does not fade in. At r = 1 + √8 a cycle of three appears out of nothing, and just before it does, the chaotic orbit keeps imitating the cycle that is not there yet — for twenty steps, then fifty, then hundreds, in quiet stretches whose length grows as one over the square root of the distance to the window.
Sensitivity comes free
The standard definition of chaos asks for three things: an orbit that goes everywhere, periodic orbits everywhere, and sensitive dependence on the starting point. The third, the one the word chaos is usually taken to mean, turns out to follow from the other two. A periodic point and a wandering point that start side by side must eventually part, because the wanderer has to visit places the periodic orbit never goes.
Chaos on a set nobody lands on
Stretch the interval by three and fold it, and a third of it lands outside. Almost every starting point wanders chaotically for a few steps and then leaves for good; the points that never leave form a Cantor set of no length, on which the map is as chaotic as any map can be. How fast points escape, how fast they are stretched, and how thin the surviving set is are three numbers tied by one equation: the dimension is one minus their ratio.
A double root halves the error instead of squaring it
Near an ordinary root, Newton's method squares its error at every step and a handful of steps reach full precision. Near a double root it only halves the error — twenty steps where five would do, and a ceiling of about eight correct digits that no number of steps can break through. Doubling the step repairs the double root and ruins the simple one.
A cubic method that is Newton's in disguise
Halley's method, from 1694, uses the second derivative as well as the first and cubes the error at every step where Newton's squares it. It is also, exactly, Newton's method applied to a different function — p divided by the square root of p′ — and that single fact explains why its basins are calmer, why it walks out of the trap that holds Newton for ever, and why its boundaries are still fractal.