What a system cannot say — page 2
Every derivation is a term
Write a variable for each assumption, an abstraction where one is discharged, and an application where an implication is used, and a natural-deduction derivation becomes a term. The formula it proves is the term's type, and checking the one is checking the other. A detour in the proof — a lemma introduced and at once used — is a term that simplifies, and simplifying it is removing the detour.
The sentence between a premise and its consequence
When one formula implies another, something sits between them written only in the words the two have in common: a sentence the first implies and that implies the second. A refutation of the first together with the denial of the second hands such a sentence over, and every possible one lies between a strongest and a weakest that can be computed outright.
A failed search is a proof
Search for an assignment by branching on variables and backing up whenever a clause turns false. If every branch fails, the tree the search leaves behind is itself a resolution refutation: write at each branch point the resolvent of the clauses below it, and the top of the tree is the empty clause. So every limit on short refutations is a limit on every such search — and the pigeonhole clauses, whose refutations are long, defeat them all.
Not one step but a continuum
Classical logic is the constructive system plus one axiom, which makes it sound as though there are two logics and one gap. There are uncountably many logics in that gap, each one a class of algebras, and the smallest separations between them fit in five elements.
Refutable in something small
A formula that is not a theorem of the constructive system fails in some finite algebra, and the algebra can be found by search. That single property is what makes the propositional logic decidable — and the predicate version loses the property and the decidability with it.
One gadget defeats every refinement
Colour refinement fails on two triangles against a hexagon; its two-dimensional version fixes that and fails on a pair of strongly regular graphs. For every k there are two graphs the k-dimensional version cannot separate, and they are built from one local piece whose only symmetry is a parity.
The boundary at three variables
Restrict a sentence to two variable names and it can still be arbitrarily long, because the names are reused. What it cannot be is deep: every satisfiable two-variable sentence has a small model, so asking whether one is satisfiable is a bounded search. Allow a third name and the question becomes undecidable.
A polynomial behind the colourings
The figure-eight knot and the cinquefoil both have determinant five, so they admit exactly the same colourings, and every counting argument treats them as one. Put a variable where the colouring rule has a two and the determinant becomes a polynomial — and the two knots come apart.
A number larger than every number
Ask for a number bigger than 0, bigger than 1, bigger than 2, and so on for ever. Every finite piece of that request is granted by an ordinary number, so compactness grants all of it at once — in a structure that satisfies every sentence true of the whole numbers and still contains something beyond all of them. Nothing in first-order logic can say 'and nothing else'.
A countable field that passes for the line
The real numbers are uncountable, and every first-order sentence about their addition, multiplication and order is also true of a countable field inside them — the real algebraic numbers. Löwenheim and Skolem showed this is no quirk of the reals: every theory with an infinite model has a countable one, including set theory, which then contains sets it calls uncountable.
Six sentences from two quantifiers
One relation, two variables, 'for every' and 'there is': there are eight ways to arrange them and six different sentences come out. Which of them imply which is a small, complete diagram, found by checking all 512 relations on three points — and the diagram crosses over in the middle, which is where every confusion about the order of quantifiers lives.
A quantifier is a shadow
'There is an x such that …' asks whether a column of a grid contains a mark — which is the same as asking whether a shape casts a shadow on the axis below it. Over the real numbers every such shadow can be described without the quantifier, by polynomial inequalities: 'x² + ax + 1 = 0 has a solution' is just a² ≥ 4. Over the whole numbers the same kind of shadow can carve out the primes, and any set a computer can list.
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.
A plane through the cube
Some truth functions are weighted votes: give each letter a weight, add the weights of the true letters, and say yes when the total passes a threshold. On the cube of assignments, such a function is a plane cutting the true corners from the false. Majority is one. Exclusive-or is not, and never can be — and of the 65,536 functions of four letters, only 1,882 are. The ones that are are exactly what a single artificial neuron can compute.
An order that proves a prime
Fermat's little theorem is a test that primes pass and composites mostly fail, and it can be fooled. Run backwards, it cannot. If some number a has order exactly n − 1 modulo n, then n is prime — because only a prime has n − 1 numbers to cycle through. Checking that takes the prime factors of n − 1, which need proofs of their own, and the proofs nest into a tree that anyone can check: Pratt's certificate, which shows every prime has a short proof of being one.
Twelve pentagons, whatever the hexagons
A football has twelve pentagons and twenty hexagons. A molecule of sixty carbon atoms has the same pattern, a molecule of seventy has twelve pentagons and twenty-five hexagons, and a geodesic dome of any size has twelve places where the pattern of six breaks. None of this is a coincidence of design: Euler's formula, rearranged, says that faces meeting three at a corner must fall short of hexagons by exactly twelve in total, and the hexagons are free.
One thing in each region is enough
Give first-order logic its full apparatus of nested quantifiers but only one-place predicates, and every question about truth is still settled by the regions of a diagram. A predicate cannot tell apart two things in the same region, so no model ever needs more than one thing per region — and with three predicates there are only 255 models to try.
A walk that may not step where it has been
Forbid a walk on the square grid from ever revisiting a site and the number of possible n-step walks grows like 2.638ⁿ instead of 4ⁿ — a number nobody can write down exactly. On the honeycomb it is exactly √(2 + √2), proved in 2010. And the walks spread out like n to the three-quarters, faster than any ordinary walk, which physicists have used since 1949 and mathematicians still cannot prove.
The word that cannot describe itself
Some adjectives describe themselves — 'short' is short — and some do not — 'lengthy' is not lengthy. Call the second kind heterological, and ask whether 'heterological' is heterological. It is exactly when it is not. The diagonal that beat every list of numbers, every set of sets and every provability predicate has been turned on words that describe words, and it proves that no language can contain a word for its own notion of describing, naming or truth.
Arithmetic with addition alone
Over the real numbers, a quantifier's shadow is described by inequalities. Over the whole numbers with addition and multiplication, a shadow can be any set a computer can list. In between lies arithmetic with addition and no multiplication, and there the shadows are always the same kind of thing: a finite exception, then a pattern that repeats. The whole numbers made from coins worth 6, 9 and 20 are every number from 44 on; the squares, which need multiplication, never repeat at all.
A proof that says which half
Classical logic proves p ∨ ¬p without any idea which half is true. The constructive system never does that: whenever it proves a disjunction, it proves one of the two halves. The reason is a picture — two countermodels placed side by side above a new first stage that forces neither — and the logics between the two lose the property exactly when their pictures are not allowed to be glued.
No table of truth values is enough
Two truth values decide classical logic. Gödel asked in 1932 whether some longer list of values could decide the constructive system, and answered with a pigeonhole: with n values, some two of n + 1 statements must share one, so a formula saying exactly that holds in every n-valued table and is not a theorem. The chains of truth values then descend forever, and what they share is a logic of its own — the logic of the real interval.
A contradiction that is only a sum
Put a variable on every edge of a graph and ask each vertex for an odd or an even number of true edges, with the demands adding up to odd. Add all the demands and every edge is counted twice, so the left side is zero and the right side is one: the contradiction is a single sum. Resolution cannot add. It has to reach the same conclusion clause by clause, and on a graph where every group of vertices has many edges leaving it, that takes exponentially long.
Two terms made equal, and no more
Resolution with variables needs two literals to clash, and they clash only after something has been substituted for their variables. There are infinitely many substitutions that would do. One of them is the most general — every other is it followed by something more — and an algorithm of four rewriting rules finds it or proves there is none. That single computation turns the search for instances from guessing into arithmetic.