I have two problems when it comes to sifting through research papers, particularly on Arxiv.
The first is wading through significant amounts of research on a topic in which I am actively involved. For me, this is the field of computer vision. I like to stay on top of new model architectures, some of which I go on to use or integrate into software that I maintain. The four main ways in which I find novel research in computer vision to look at further is:
With this setup above, I usually find out about significant model releases within a few hours of their launch. But those are the significant ones. What about the smaller discoveries that would be technically interesting to me? To skim every paper title on Arxiv and other sources would be burdensome, particularly if I am looking, specifically, for new model architectures or foundational changes that are valuable to how we understand a field.
I have imagined a system that feeds in all of this information and applies a ranking algorithm to help potentially interesting pieces of information bubble up. With that said, such an algorithm would need to be designed. I am unsure how it should be designed. Or, indeed, if it is necessary: perhaps there are already solutions to this problem.
I also wonder about the presentation of this information: is Slack best? Is a dedicated tool best? How can I monitor the health of feeds to make sure that a change in a company's site -- for example, the HTML that I have to download because they don't have an RSS feed -- does not silently break my system.
I am fascinated by computational linguistics: analyzing corpora of text for patterns. Can we reasonably watermark text generated by a generative text model, for example? How can we verify authorship? Arxiv has a category called "Computation and Language", but it talks heavily about LLMs, a subject in which I am less interested. I would like for new content about watermarking to be easy for me to find, but I'm not sure what the best way to find it is.
The generic pattern to be inferred is:
Herein, an ask: I would love to know how you sift through new academic research. How do you find papers that are new in your field and most interesting to you? How do you find novel research on specific topics? This is a problem of both information discovery (finding information) and of relevance (finding the most appropriate information given set parameters). If you have any helpful resources to share -- guides, tools, techniques, advice -- please send me an email at readers [at] jamesg [dot] blog.
The previous owner of the flat in which I live left a plant pot. A blue plant plot with patterns on its sides. I was left with no information about the plant. There was no message about what I could expect from the plant -- what type it was. I wondered: what would grow, if anything? As the months passed last year, the plant grew weeds then, seemingly from nowhere, thorns grew. I thought the thorns were weeds until, one day, a friend suggested otherwise. "James, those might be roses."
My grandparents may see some humour in that story, the avid gardeners and flower appreciators they are. I always look up to the efforts of keeping the garden clear. Of growing new fruits and vegetables every year. Of cultivating a space where Nature is allowed to do its work (Which also means seeing the occasional cat or pheasant walking through your bushes!), with the requisite attention to allow the flowers and fruits to flourish.
I was going to say that I want to embrace the plant outside, to help it thrive. Then I started worrying.
I stared at my struggle with commitment, a difficulty to which I have become more attuned of late. My houseplants have mostly thrived (except for one that I allowed too much sun last year and has since struggled to recover). I want the plant outside to be healthy, but I worry about what may happen if my care is not what it needs; if I do something wrong. Thus is the anxious mind: one where to be confident and say I will to something new -- an unknown -- is an act of great strength. To say that I am going to try and help something grow, even if it may end in tears.
I look out on the plant and see resilience. That through weather myriad -- from the snap of the cold of winter to the heavy rains of spring to the peak of summer -- the plant has stayed strong. I also recognise that, like humans, this plant may thrive with a little help from a friend. I see more weeds than I remember from last year: Nature is always changing. The plant only has so much room, so perhaps I need to pull out the weeds. I cannot yet make a decision: counsel will be needed from those I know who can help me clear space for this plant. With every passing word, I can see myself as the gardener of this plant: donning thick gloves, pulling weeds.
Perhaps I need to proudly proclaim that this is my plant. Not in the essence that I own it -- one can not own a plant, only co-exist with it -- so much as I say that I will try my best to care for it. To acknowledge that my plant cannot be in the background for another year. Perhaps the pink leaves of the roses last year were not just a reminder of the beauty of Nature, but were secondarily a siren call. A shout saying "I am here!". The shout that I needed to commit to helping this plant thrive.
I think I am ready to help this plant grow.
The leaves are growing through the blossom on the two trees near my flat. As I gaze out the window, I see the occasional petal fall. On the ground, there are many petals. The ground is a sea of pink, interspersed with the dark green of the grass on which the petals lay.
The fall of the blossom leaves me feeling melancoly. I love the pink colour, and it will soon be gone. With that said, there is so much joy to come with the burgeoning spring, and summer: warmth, the melodic birdsong, the sound of trees when the wind blows, the presence of green everywhere, seeing people going for a leisurely run in the evenings, the sun setting.
On reflection, I know nothing of why some trees blossom with such luscious pink colours, nor do I desire to know why this happens. To leave some of Nature a mystery for me to ponder is to leave ample opportunities for my mind to wander. To think about what could be, without feeling that I must know.
Periods of transition like this -- from blossom to full growth -- give me time to think about what full growth means. I know not of what full growth means to me, although this, unlike the science of a tree, is a pre-occupation. I wish I could be as stoic as a tree. With that said, to draw that comparison overlooks one important detail: that one can be stoic like a tree, but stoicism is a human idea. I see in the tree what I see; the tree, on the other hand, is itself.
If trees felt like we do, I wonder what it would say about the impending full growth. Is the blossoming tree like a teenager, excited for adulthood. (Like adults, does the tree then yearn for its childhood years?) Or would the tree look forward to its growth, knowing that its blossom, leaves falling, and re-growth again are all stages in its life. There are seasons with which the tree exists.
I am in my season of pondering. A time when I want to think about the bigger picture of who I am, while also giving myself the freedom not to push myself to create more. This follows a period of more activity than usual, when I pushed myself to my limits and, in the process, realised where my limits were. On my travels, I experienced so much that I knew I was unable to process everything that was going on in the moment. I allowed myself to tuck everything away for later pondering. That is what I am doing now.
One thought that has been on my mind is the role of home. In seeing the bright lights of Manhattan, I first felt awe, then felt that these lights are only something at which I can look for so long. In seeing the documents that started a great democracy, I felt awe, then I knew that I needed time to reflect on what those documents meant to me. One observation: The might of well-articulated word.
In trees, I see grace and peace. Perhaps that is why writing about a tree helped me realise that I am in my season of pondering. I knew the tree had a lesson to share with me but, gazing out my window, I was unsure what it was. Perhaps this is it. The joy of writing, and Nature, indeed.
I am still feeling down about the falling of the blossom, but I am excited to exist alongside such wonderful, tall, green trees, in the warmth of spring.