By Michael Nielsen, January 2019

What does it mean to understand a piece of mathematics? Naively, we perhaps think of this in relatively black and white terms: initially you don’t understand a piece of mathematics, then you go through a brief grey period where you’re learning it, and with some luck and hard work you emerge out the other side “understanding” the mathematics.

In reality, mathematical understanding is much more nuanced. My experience is that it’s nearly always possible to deepen one’s understanding of any piece of mathematics. This is even true – perhaps especially true – of what appear to be very simple mathematical ideas.

I first really appreciated this after reading an essay by the mathematician Andrey Kolmogorov. You might suppose a great mathematician such as Kolmogorov would be writing about some very complicated piece of mathematics, but his subject was the humble equals sign: what made it a good piece of notation, and what its deficiencies were. Kolmogorov discussed this in loving detail, and made many beautiful points along the way, e.g., that the invention of the equals sign helped make possible notions such as equations (and algebraic manipulations of equations).

Prior to reading the essay I thought I understood the equals sign. Indeed, I would have been offended by the suggestion that I did not. But the essay showed convincingly that I could understand the equals sign much more deeply.

This experience suggested three broader points. First, it’s possible to understand other pieces of mathematics far more deeply than I assumed. Second, mathematical understanding is an open-ended process; it’s nearly always possible to go deeper. Third, even great mathematicians – perhaps, especially, great mathematicians – thought it worth their time to engage in such deepening.

(I found Kolmogorov’s essay in my University library as a teenager. I’ve unsuccessfully tried to track it down several times in the intervening years. If anyone can identify the essay, I’d appreciate it. I’ve put enough effort into tracking it down that I must admit I’ve sometimes wondered if I imagined the essay. If so, I have no idea where the above story comes from.)

How can we make actionable this idea that it’s possible to deepen our mathematical understanding in an open-ended way? What heuristics can we use to deepen our understanding of a piece of mathematics?

Over the years I’ve collected many such heuristics. In these notes I describe a heuristic I stumbled upon a year or so ago that I’ve found especially helpful (albeit time intensive). I’m still developing the heuristic, and my articulation will therefore be somewhat stumbling. I’m certain it can still be much improved upon! But perhaps it will already be of interest to others.

One caveat is that I’m very uncertain how useful the heuristic will be to people with backgrounds different to my own. And so it’s perhaps worth saying a little about what that background is. I’m not a professional mathematician, but I was trained and worked as a professional theoretical physicist for many years. As such, I’ve written dozens of research papers proving mathematical theorems, mostly in the field of quantum information and computation. Much of my life has been spent doing mathematics for many hours each day. It’s possible someone with a different background would find the heuristic I’m about to describe much less useful. This applies to people with both much less and much more mathematical background than I have.

It’s also worth noting that my work mostly involves mathematics only incidentally these days. I still do some mathematics as a hobby, and occasionally as part of other research projects. But it’s no longer a central focus of my life in the way it once was. I suspect the heuristic I will describe would have been tremendously useful to me when mathematics was a central focus. But I’m honestly not sure.

The heuristic involves the use of spaced-repetition memory systems. The system I use is a flashcard program called Anki. You enter flashcards with a question on one (virtual) side of the card, and the answer on the other. Anki then repeatedly tests you on the questions. The clever thing Anki does is to manage the schedule. If you get a question right, Anki increases the time interval until you’re tested again. If you get a question wrong, the interval is decreased. The effect of this schedule management is to limit the total time required to learn the answer to the question. Typically, I estimate total lifetime study for a card to be in the range 5-10 minutes.

I’ve described many elements of my Anki practice in a separate essay. Reading that essay isn’t necessary to understand what follows, but will shed additional light on some of the ideas. Note that that essay describes a set of heuristics for reading papers – indeed, of syntopically reading entire literatures – that are largely orthogonal to the heuristic I’m about to describe. I find the heuristics in that essay useful for rapidly getting a broad picture of a subject, while the heuristics in this essay are for drilling down deeply.

To explain the heuristic, I need a piece of mathematics to use as an example. The piece I will use is a beautiful theorem of linear algebra. The theorem states that a complex normal matrix is always diagonalizable by a unitary matrix. The converse is also true (and is much easier to prove, so we won’t be concerned with it): a matrix diagonalizable by a unitary matrix is always normal.

Unpacking that statement, recall that a matrix $M$ is said to be normal if $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$, where $M^\dagger$ is the complex transpose, $M^\dagger := (M^*)^T$. And a matrix is diagonalizable by a unitary matrix if there exists a unitary matrix $U$ such that $M = U D U^\dagger$, where $D$ is a diagonal matrix.

(As shorthand, from now on I will use “diagonalizable” as shorthand to mean “diagonalizable by a unitary matrix”.)

What’s lovely about this theorem is that the condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ can be checked by simple computation. By contrast, whether $M$ is diagonalizable seems a priori much harder to check, since there are infinitely many possible choices of $U$ and $D$. But the theorem shows that the two conditions are equivalent. So it converts what seems like a search over an infinite space into simply checking a small number of algebraic conditions. Furthermore, working with diagonalizable matrices is often much easier than working with general matrices, and so it’s extremely useful to have an easy way of checking whether a matrix is diagonalizable.

Let me explain the proof. I shall explain it at about the level of detail I would use with a colleague who is a mathematician or quantum information theorist; people less comfortable with linear algebra may need to unpack the proof somewhat.

There are two ideas in the proof.

The first idea is to observe that $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ means the length of the $j$th row of $M$ is equal to the length of the $j$th column. It’s easiest to see this for the first row and first column. Suppose we write $M$ as

where $r$ is the first row and $M’$ is the remainder of the matrix. Then the top-left entry in $MM^\dagger$ is:

Similarly, suppose we write $M$ as:

where $c$ is the first column and $M’’$ is the remainder of the matrix. Then the top-leftmost entry in $M^\dagger M$ is:

The normalcy condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ then implies that $r r^\dagger = c^\dagger c$, and thus the length of the first row $r$ must be the same as the length of the first column $c$.

The second idea in the proof is to observe that since $M$ is over the algebraically complete field of complex numbers, the characteristic equation $|M-\lambda I|=0$ has at least one solution $\lambda$ and so there is an eigenvalue $\lambda$ and a basis in which $M$ can be written:

But we just saw that normalcy implies the length of the first column is equal to the length of the first row, so the remaining entries of the first row must be zero:

Recursively applying this to the bottom-right block in the matrix we can diagonalize $M$. That completes the proof.

Alright, so that’s the proof. But that’s not the end of the process. I then use Anki to go much deeper into the proof; I’ll call this the (deep) Ankification process. This Ankification process works in (roughly) two phases.

Phase I: understanding the proof: This involves multiple passes over the proof. Initially, it starts out with what I think of as grazing, picking out single elements of the proof and converting to Anki cards. For instance, for the above proof, I have Anki cards like the following:

Q: If $M$ is a complex matrix, how is the top-left entry of $M M^\dagger$ related to the first row $r$ of the matrix $M$?

A: It’s the length $\|r \|^2$.

Q: If $M$ is a complex matrix, how is the top-left entry of $M^\dagger M$ related to the first column $c$ of the matrix $M$?

A: It’s the length $\|c \|^2$.

I work hard to restate ideas in multiple ways. For instance, here’s a restatement of the first question above:

Q: If $M$ is a complex matrix, why is the top-left entry of $MM^\dagger$ equal to the length squared $|r|^2$ of the first row?

A: $% $

Indeed, I worked hard to simplify both questions and answers – the just given question-and-answer pair started out somewhat more complicated. Part of this was some minor complexity in the question, which I gradually trimmed down. The answer I’ve stated above, though, is much better than in earlier versions. Earlier versions mentioned $M$ explicitly (unnecessary), had more blocks in the matrices, used $\cdots$ rather than $\cdot$, and so on. You want to aim for the minimal answer, displaying the core idea as sharply as possible. Indeed, if it was easy to do I’d de-emphasize the matrix brackets, and perhaps find some way of highlighting the $r$, $r^\dagger$ and $\|r\|^2$ entries. Those are the thing that really matters.

I can’t emphasize enough the value of finding multiple different ways of thinking about the “same” mathematical ideas. Here’s a couple more related restatements:

Q: What’s a geometric interpretation of the diagonal entries in the matrix $MM^\dagger$?

A: The lengths squared of the respective rows.

Q: What’s a geometric interpretation of the diagonal entries in the matrix $M^\dagger M$?

A: The lengths squared of the respective columns.

Q: What do the diagonal elements of the normalcy condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ mean geometrically?

A: The corresponding row and column lengths are the same.

What you’re trying to do at this stage is learn your way around the proof. Every piece should become a comfortable part of your mental furniture, ideally something you start to really feel. That means understanding every idea in multiple ways, and finding as many connections between different ideas as possible.

People inexperienced at mathematics sometimes memorize proofs as linear lists of statements. A more useful way is to think of proofs is as interconnected networks of simple observations. Things are rarely true for just one reason; finding multiple explanations for things gives you an improved understanding. This is in some sense “inefficient”, but it’s also a way of deepening understanding and improving intuition. You’re building out the network of the proof, making more connections between nodes.

One way of doing this is to explore minor variations. For instance, you might wonder what the normalcy condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ means on the off-diagonal elements. This leads to questions like (again, it’s useful to enter many different variations of this question, I’ll just show a couple):

Q: What does the normalcy condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ mean for the $jk$th component, in terms of the rows $r_j$ and columns $c_j$ of the matrix $M$?

A: The inner product $r_k \cdot r_j = c_j \cdot c_k$.

Q: The normalcy condition $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ implies $r_k \cdot r_j = c_j \cdot c_k$ for rows and columns. What does this mean for row and column lengths?

A: They must be the same.

(By the way, it’s questions like these that make me think it helps to be fairly mathematically experienced in carrying this Ankification process out. For someone who has done a lot of linear algebra these are very natural observations to make, and questions to ask. But I’m not sure they would be so natural for everyone. The ability to ask the “right” questions – insight-generating questions – is a limiting part of this whole process, and requires some experience.)

I’ve been describing the grazing process, aiming to thoroughly familiarize yourself with every element of the proof. This is useful, but is also a rather undirected process, with no clear end point, and not necessarily helping you understand the broader to structure of the proof. I also impose on myself a set of aspirational goals, all variations on the idea of distilling the entire proof to one question and (simple) answer. The aim is to fill in the answers to questions having forms like:

Q: In one sentence, what is the core reason a (complex) normal matrix is diagonalizable?

And:

Q: What is a simple visual representation of the proof that (complex) normal matrices are diagonalizable?

I think of these question templates as boundary conditions or forcing functions. They’re things to aim for, and I try to write questions that will help me move toward answers. That starts with grazing, but over time moves to more structural questions about the proof, and about how elements fit together. For instance:

Q: How many key ideas are there in the proof that complex normal matrices are diagonalizable?

A: Two.

Q: What are the two key ideas in the proof that complex normal matrices $M$ are diagonalizable?

A: (1) Write $M$ in a basis where the first column is all zeroes except the first entry; and (2) use the normalcy condition to argue that row lengths are equal to column lengths.

The second card here is, in fact, too complicated – it’d be better to refactor into two or more cards, separating the two ideas, and sharpening the answers. In general, it’s helpful to make both questions and answers as atomic as possible; it seems to help build clarity. That atomicity doesn’t mean the questions and answers can’t involve quite sophisticated concepts, but they ideally express a single idea.

In practice, as I understand the proof better and better the aspirational goal cards change their nature somewhat. Here’s a good example of such an aspirational card:

Q: What is a simple visual representation of the reason that (complex) normal matrices are diagonalizable?

A: $% $

This is pretty good – certainly, there’s a sense in which it’s much better than the original proof! But it’s still somewhat complicated. What you really want is to feel every element (and the connections between them) in your bones. Some substantial part of that feeling comes by actually constructing the cards. That’s a feeling you can’t get merely by reading an essay, it can only be experienced by going through the deep Ankification process yourself. Nonetheless, I find that process, as described up to now, is also not quite enough. You can improve upon it by asking further questions elaborating on different parts of the answer, with the intent of helping you understand the answer better. I haven’t done this nearly as much as I would like. In part, it’s because the tools I have aren’t well adapted. For instance, I’d love to have an easy way of highlighting (say, in yellow) the crucial rows and columns that are multiplied in the matrices above, and then connecting them to the crucial inference on the right. But while I can easily imagine multiple ways of doing that, in practice it’s more effort than I’m willing to put in.

Another helpful trick is to have multiple ways of writing these top-level questions. Much of my thinking is non-verbal (especially in subjects I’m knowledgeable about), but I still find it useful to force a verbal question-and-answer:

Q: In one sentence, what is the core reason a (complex) normal matrix is diagonalizable?

A: If an eigenvalue $\lambda$ is in the top-left of $M$, then normalcy means $|\lambda|^2 + \|r\|^2 = |\lambda|^2$, and so the remainder $r$ of the first row vanishes.

As described, this deep Ankification process can feel rather wasteful. Inevitably, over time my understanding of the proof changes. When that happens it’s often useful to rewrite (and sometimes discard or replace) cards to reflect my improved understanding. And some of the cards written along the way have the flavor of exhaust, bad cards that seem to be necessary to get to good cards. I wish I had a good way of characterizing these, but I haven’t gone through this often enough to have more than fuzzy ideas about it.

A shortcoming of my description of the Ankification process is that I cheated in an important way. The proof I wrote above was written after I’d already gone through the process, and was much clearer than any proof I could have written before going through the process. And so part of the benefit is hidden: you refactor and improve your proof along the way. Indeed, although I haven’t been in the habit of rewriting the refactored proof after the Ankification process (this essay is the first time I’ve done it), I suspect it would be a good practice.

The inner experience of mathematics: As I reread the description of Part I just given, it is rather unsatisfactory in that it conveys little of the experience of mathematics one is trying to move toward. Let me try to explain this in the context not of Anki, but rather of an experience I’ve sometimes had while doing research, an experience I dub “being inside a piece of mathematics”.

Typically, my mathematical work begins with paper-and-pen and messing about, often in a rather ad hoc way. But over time if I really get into something my thinking starts to change. I gradually internalize the mathematical objects I’m dealing with. It becomes easier and easier to conduct (most of) my work in my head. I will go on long walks, and simply think intensively about the objects of concern. Those are no longer symbolic or verbal or visual in the conventional way, though they have some secondary aspects of this nature. Rather, the sense is somehow of working directly with the objects of concern, without any direct symbolic or verbal or visual referents. Furthermore, as my understanding of the objects change – as I learn more about their nature, and correct my own misconceptions – my sense of what I can do with the objects changes as well. It’s as though they sprout new affordances, in the language of user interface design, and I get much practice in learning to fluidly apply those affordances in multiple ways.

This is a very difficult experience to describe in a way that I’m confident others will understand, but it really is central to my experience of mathematics – at least, of mathematics that I understand well. I must admit I’ve shared it with some trepidation; it seems to be rather unusual for someone to describe their inner mathematical experiences in these terms (or, more broadly, in the terms used in this essay).

If you don’t do mathematics, I expect this all sounds rather strange. When I was a teenager I vividly recall reading a curious letter Albert Einstein wrote to the mathematician Jacques Hadamard, describing his (Einstein’s) thought processes. I won’t quote the whole letter, but here’s some of the flavor:

The words or the language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my mechanism of thought. The psychical entities which seem to serve as elements in thought are certain signs and more or less clear images which can be “voluntarily” reproduced and combined… The above-mentioned elements are, in my case, of visual and some of muscular type. Conventional words or other signs have to be sought for laboriously only in a secondary stage, when the mentioned associative play is sufficiently established and can be reproduced at will.

When I first read this, I had no idea what Einstein was talking about. It was so different from my experience of physics and mathematics that I wondered if I was hopelessly unsuited to do work in physics or mathematics. But if you’d asked me about Einstein’s letter a decade (of intensive work on physics and mathematics) later, I would have smiled and said that while my internal experience wasn’t the same as Einstein’s, I very much empathized with his description.

In retrospect, I think that what’s going on is what psychologists call chunking. People who intensively study a subject gradually start to build mental libraries of “chunks” – large-scale patterns that they recognize and use to reason. This is why some grandmaster chess players can remember thousands of games move for move. They’re not remembering the individual moves – they’re remembering the ideas those games express, in terms of larger patterns. And they’ve studied chess so much that those ideas and patterns are deeply meaningful, much as the phrases in a lover’s letter may be meaningful. It’s why top basketball players have extraordinary recall of games. Experts begin to think, perhaps only semi-consciously, using such chunks. The conventional representations – words or symbols in mathematics, or moves on a chessboard – are still there, but they are somehow secondary.

So, my informal pop-psychology explanation is that when I’m doing mathematics really well, in the deeply internalized state I described earlier, I’m mostly using such higher-level chunks, and that’s why it no longer seems symbolic or verbal or even visual. I’m not entirely conscious of what’s going on – it’s more a sense of just playing around a lot with the various objects, trying things out, trying to find unexpected connections. But, presumably, what’s underlying the process is these chunked patterns.

Now, the only way I’ve reliably found to get to this point is to get obsessed with some mathematical problem. I will start out thinking symbolically about the problem as I become familiar with the relevant ideas, but eventually I internalize those ideas and their patterns of use, and can carry out a lot (not all) of operations inside my head.

What’s all this got to do with the Ankification process? Well, I said that the only reliable way I’ve found to get to this deeply internalized state is to obsess over a problem. But I’ve noticed that when I do the Ankification process, I also start to think less and less in terms of the conventional representations. The more questions I write, the more true this seems to be. And so I wonder if the Ankification process can be used as a kind of deterministic way of attaining that type of state. (Unfortunately, I can’t get obsessed with a problem on demand; it’s a decidedly non-deterministic process!)

One consequence of this for the Ankification process is that over time I find myself more and more wanting to use blank answers: I don’t have a conventional symbolic or visual representation for the answer. Instead, I have to bring to mind the former experience of the answer. Or, I will sometimes use an answer that would be essentially unintelligible to anyone else, relying on my internal representation to fill in the blanks. This all tends to occur pretty late in the process.

Now, unfortunately, this transition to the chunked, deeply-internalized state isn’t as thorough when I’m Ankifying as it is when obsessively problem solving. However, I suspect it greatly enables such a transition. (I rarely obsessively problem solve these days, so I haven’t yet had a chance to see this happen.) And I do wonder if there are types of question I can ask that will help me get more fully to the deeply-internalized state. What seems to be lacking is a really strongly-felt internalization of the meaning of answers like that shown above:

A: $% $

That type of strongly-felt meaning can, however, be built by using such representations in many different ways as part of problem-solving; it builds fluency and familiarity. But I haven’t actually done it.

Phase II: variations, pushing the boundaries: Let’s get back to details of how the Ankification process works. One way of deepening your understanding further is to find ways of pushing the boundaries of the proof and of the theorem. I find it helpful to consider many different ways of changing the assumptions of the theorem, and to ask how it breaks down (or generalizes). For instance:

Q: Why does the proof that complex normal matrices are diagonalizable fail for real matrices?

A: It may not be possible to find an eigenvector for the matrix, since the real numbers aren’t algebraically complete.

Q: What’s an example of a real normal matrix that isn’t diagonalizable by a real orthogonal matrix?

A: $% $

As per usual, these questions can be extended and varied in many ways.

Another good strategy is to ask if the conditions can be weakened. For instance, you might have noticed that we only seemed to use the normality condition on the diagonal. Can we get away with requiring $M^\dagger M = MM^\dagger$ just on the diagonal? In fact, some reflection shows that the answer is no: we need it to be true in a basis which includes an eigenvector of $M$. So we can add questions like this:

Q: In the proof that normalcy implies diagonalizability, why does it not suffice to require that $M^\dagger M = MM^\dagger$ only on the diagonal?

A: Because we need this to be true in a particular basis, and we cannot anticipate in advance what that basis will be.

Or we can try to generalize:

Q: For which fields is it possible to generalize the result that complex normal matrices are diagonalizable?

A: [I haven’t checked this carefully!] For algebraically complete fields.

(My actual Anki card doesn’t have the annotation in the last answer. But it’s true: I haven’t checked the proof carefully. Still, answering the question helped me understand the original proof and the result better.)

This second phase really is open-ended: we can keep putting in variations essentially ad infinitum. The questions are no longer directly about the proof, but rather are about poking it in various ways, and seeing what happens. The further I go, and the more I connect to other results, the better.

“The” proof? Having described the two phases in this Ankification process, let me turn to a few miscellaneous remarks. One complication is that throughout I’ve referred to “the” proof. Of course, mathematical theorem often have two or more proofs. Understanding multiple proofs and how they relate is a good way of deepening one’s understanding further. It does raise an issue, which is that some of the Anki questions refer to “the” proof of a result. I must admit, I don’t have an elegant way of addressing this! But it’s something I expect I’ll need to address eventually.

A related point is how much context-setting to do in the questions – do we keep referring, over and over, to “the proof that $MM^\dagger = M^\dagger M$ implies normalcy”, or to “if $M$ is a complex matrix” (and so on)? In my Anki cards I do (note that I’ve elided this kind of stuff in some of the questions above), but frankly find it a bit irritating. However, since the cards are studied at unknown times in the future, and I like to mix all my cards up in a single deck, some context-setting is necessary.

What have I used this to do? I’ve used this process on three-and-a-half theorems so far:

• Complex normal matrices are diagonalizable.
• Euler’s theorem that $a^{\phi(n)} \equiv 1 (\mod n)$ for any number $a$ coprime to positive integer $n$, and $\phi(n)$ is Euler’s totient function.
• Lagrange’s theorem (used in the proof of Euler’s theorem) that the order of a subgroup of a finite group must divide the order of the entire group.
• I’ve started the process for the fundamental theorem of algebra, stating that every non-constant polynomial has a zero in the complex plane. I was interrupted (I don’t recall why), and never finished it.

It’s quite time-intensive. I don’t have any easy way to count the number of questions I’ve added for each of these theorems, but I guess on the order of dozens of cards for each. It takes a few hours typically, though I expect I could easily add many more questions.

[Note added: in the initial version of this essay I wrote “100 cards for each”. I looked, and in fact there are fewer – on the order of dozens, well short of 100. This surprised me – if anything, I’d have guessed my error was in underestimation. The card-adding process was intense, however, which perhaps accounts for my badly mistaken impression.]

Seeing through a piece of mathematics: This is all a lot of work! The result, though, has been a considerable deepening in my understanding of all these results. There’s a sense of being able to “see through” the result. Formerly, while I could have written down a proof that normal matrices are diagonalizable, it was all a bit murky. Now, it appears almost obvious, I can very nearly see directly that it’s true. The reason, of course, is that I’m far more familiar with all the underlying objects, and the relationships between them.

My research experience has been that this ability to see through a piece of mathematics isn’t just enjoyable, it’s absolutely invaluable; it can give you a very rare level of understanding of (and flexibility in using) a particular set of mathematical ideas.

Discovering alternate proofs: After going through the Ankification process described above I had a rather curious experience. I went for a multi-hour walk along the San Francisco Embarcadero. I found that my mind simply and naturally began discovering other facts related to the result. In particular, I found a handful (perhaps half a dozen) of different proofs of the basic theorem, as well as noticing many related ideas. This wasn’t done especially consciously – rather, my mind simply wanted to find these proofs.

At the time these alternate proofs seemed crystalline, almost obvious. I didn’t bother writing them down in any form, or adding them to Anki; they seemed sufficiently clear that I assumed I’d remember them forever. I regret that, for later I did not recall the proofs at all.

Curiously, however, in the process of writing these notes I have recalled the ideas for two of the proofs. One was something like the following: apply the condition $M^\dagger M = MM^\dagger$ directly to the upper triangular form $M = D+T$ where $D$ is diagonal and $T$ is strictly upper triangular; the result drops out by considering the diagonal elements. And another was to apply the normalcy condition to the singular value decomposition for the matrix $M$; the proof drops out immediately when the singular values are distinct, and can be recovered with a little work when the singular values are not.

Simplicity of the theorems: The three-and-a-half theorems mentioned above are all quite elementary mathematics. What about using this Ankification process to deepen my understanding of more advanced mathematical ideas? I’ll certainly try it at some point, and am curious about the effect. I’m also curious to try the process with networks of related theorems – I suspect there will be some surprising mutual benefits in at least some cases. But I don’t yet know.

In what sense is this really about Anki flashcards? There’s very little in the above process that explicitly depended on me using Anki’s spaced-repetition flashcards. Rather, what I’ve described is a general process for pulling apart the proof of a theorem and making much more sense of it, essentially by atomizing the elements. There’s no direct connection to Anki at all – you could carry out the process using paper and pencil.

Nonetheless, something I find invaluable is the confidence Anki brings that I will remember what I learn from this process. It’s not so much any single fact, but rather a sense of familiarity and fluency with the underlying objects, an ability to simply see relationships between them. That sense does fade with time, but far less rapidly than if I simply didn’t think about the proof again. That’s a large payoff, and one that I find makes me far more motivated to go through the process. Perhaps other people, with different motivations, would find Anki superfluous.

That said, I do have some sense that, as mentioned earlier, some of the cards I generate are a type of exhaust, and would be better off excluded from the process. This is especially true of many of the cards generated early in the process, when I’m still scratching around, trying to get purchase on the proof. Unfortunately, also as mentioned above, I don’t yet have much clarity on which cards are exhaust, and which are crucial.

Can I share my deck? When I discuss Anki publicly, some people always ask if I can share my deck. The answer is no, for reasons I’ve explained here. I must admit, in the present case, I don’t really understand why you’d want to use a shared deck. In part, that’s because so much of the value is in the process of constructing the cards. But even more important: I suspect a deck of 100+ of my cards on the proof above would be largely illegible to anyone else – keep in mind that you’d see the cards in a randomized order, and without the benefit of any of the context above. It’d be an incomprehensible mess.

Discovery fiction: I’ve described this Ankification process as a method for more deeply understanding mathematics. Of course, it’s just one approach to doing that! I want to briefly mention one other process I find particularly useful for understanding. It’s to write what I call discovery fiction. Discovery fiction starts with the question “how would I have discovered this result?” And then you try to make up a story about how you might have come to discover it, following simple, almost-obvious steps.

Two examples of discovery fiction are my essay explaining how you might have come to invent Bitcoin, and my essay explaining how you might have invented an advanced data structure (the Bloom filter).

Writing discovery fiction can be tough. For the theorem considered in this essay, it’s not at all clear how you would have come to the result in the first place. But maybe you started out already interested in $M^\dagger$, and in the question of when two matrices $A$ and $B$ commute. So you ask yourself: “Hmm, I wonder what it might mean that $M$ and $M^\dagger$ commute?” If you’re willing to grant that as a starting point, then with some work you can probably find a series of simple, “obvious” steps whereby you come to wonder if maybe $M$ is diagonalizable, and then discover a proof.

Any such “discovery fiction” proof will be long – far longer than the proof above. Even a cleaned-up version will be – should be! – messy and contain false turns. But I wanted to mention discovery fiction as a good example of a process which gives rise to a very different kind of understanding than the Ankification process.

What about other subjects? Mathematics is particularly well suited to deep Ankification, since much of it is about precise relationships between precisely-specified objects. Although I use Anki extensively for studying many other subjects, I haven’t used it at anything like this kind of depth. In the near future, I plan to use a similar process to study some of the absolute core results about climate change, and perhaps also to study some of the qualities of good writing (e.g., I can imagine using a similar process to analyze the lead sentences from, say, 30 well-written books). I don’t know how this will go, but am curious to try. I’m a little leery of coming to rely too much on the process – creative work also requires many skills at managing uncertainty and vagueness. But as a limited-use cognitive tool, deep Ankification seems potentially valuable in many areas.