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Numerical
Python
Scientific Computing and Data Science
Applications with Numpy,
SciPy and Matplotlib
—
Second Edition
—
Robert Johansson
Numerical Python
Scientific Computing and Data
Science Applications with Numpy,
SciPy and Matplotlib
Second Edition
Robert Johansson
Numerical Python: Scientific Computing and Data Science Applications with
Numpy, SciPy and Matplotlib
Robert Johansson
Urayasu-shi, Chiba, Japan
Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xxi
v
Table of Contents
vi
Table of Contents
Aggregate Functions������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 79
Boolean Arrays and Conditional Expressions������������������������������������������������������������������������ 82
Set Operations����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 85
Operations on Arrays������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 87
Matrix and Vector Operations������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 88
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 95
Further Reading�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 95
References���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 96
vii
Table of Contents
Summary���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 134
Further Reading������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 134
Reference���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 134
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
x
Table of Contents
xii
Table of Contents
xiii
Table of Contents
JSON����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 631
Serialization������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 636
Summary���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 639
Further Reading������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 639
Reference���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 640
Index��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 683
xiv
About the Author
Robert Johansson is an experienced Python programmer
and computational scientist, with a Ph.D. in Theoretical
Physics from Chalmers University of Technology, Sweden.
He has worked with scientific computing in academia and
industry for over 10 years, and he has participated in both
open source development and proprietary research projects.
His open source contributions include work on QuTiP, a
popular Python framework for simulating the dynamics of
quantum systems; and he has also contributed to several
other popular Python libraries in the scientific computing
landscape. Robert is passionate about scientific computing
and software development and about teaching and communicating best practices for
bringing these fields together with optimal outcome: novel, reproducible, and extensible
computational results. Robert’s background includes 5 years of postdoctoral research in
theoretical and computational physics, and he is now working as a data scientist in the
IT industry.
xv
Other documents randomly have
different content
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
Scientific? Perhaps not. And yet science and art may embrace in the
recording of such stories as this. But it is in the museum of the arts,
not in that of the sciences, that Herodotus holds his immortal place.
He may not be the first of the scientific historians: he is certainly the
first of the European masters of the art of entertaining prose.
XIII
A WORDSWORTH DISCOVERY
1
I understand that Professor Harper disclaims
what seemed to me the obvious interpretation of
a passage in his book.
Professor Harper, then, has discovered an interesting episode in
Wordsworth’s life, but I do not think he has discovered what may be
called a key episode. It may turn out to have had more influence on
Wordsworth’s destiny than at present appears. But we do not yet
know enough even about the circumstances to get any fresh light
from it either on his work or on his character.
As regards Annette, we learn from a letter of Dorothy’s, written
in 1815, that she shared, and continued to share, the Royalist
convictions of her people. She often, Dorothy affirms, “risked her life
in defence of adherents to that cause, and she despised and
detested Buonaparte.” In 1820, Wordsworth, his wife, and Dorothy
visited Paris and lived on intimate terms with Annette, Caroline, and
Caroline’s husband. They even went to lodge in the same street. Of
Caroline it was reported earlier that “she resembles her father most
strikingly.” For the rest, Christopher Wordsworth, Bishop of Lincoln,
when writing his uncle’s biography, said nothing about the matter.
He cannot be accused of having hidden anything of very great
significance. The truth is now out, and we know little more about
Wordsworth than we knew before.
XIV
THE POETRY OF POE
“My first object (as usual) was originality,” said Poe, in discussing the
versification of “The Raven.” It is a remarkable fact that the two
great poets of America—Poe and Whitman—were two of the most
deliberately original poets of the nineteenth century—in English at
least. They were both conscious frontiersmen of poetry, drawn to
unmapped territories, settlers on virgin soil. This may help to explain
some of their imperfections. Each of them gives us the impression of
a genius rich but imperfectly cultivated. Different though they were
from each other, they resembled each other in a certain lack of the
talent of order, of taste, of “finish.” They were both capable of lapses
from genius into incompetence, from beauty into provincialism, to an
unusual degree. A contemporary critic said of Poe that he had not
talent equal to his genius. Neither had Whitman. In the greatest
poets, genius and talent go hand in hand. Poe seldom wrote a poem
in which his mood seems to have attained its perfect expression. His
poetry does not get near perfection even in the sense in which
Coleridge’s fragments do. It seems, as a rule, like a first sketch for
greater things. His Complete Poems, indeed, is one of the most
wonderful sketch-books of a man of genius in literature.
Poe himself attributed the defects of his work to lack of leisure
rather than to lack of talent. “Events not to be controlled,” he said in
the preface to the 1845 edition of his poems, “have prevented me
from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier
circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
poetry has been not a purpose but a passion, and the passions
should be held in reverence; they must not—they cannot at will be
excited, with an eye to the petty compensations, or the more petty
commendations, of mankind.” Other poets, however, who have lived
in as bitter circumstances as Poe, have written an incomparably
greater body of good poetry. There was in him some flaw that kept
him, as a rule, from being more than a great beginner. It may have
been partly due to theatrical qualities that he inherited from his
actress mother. Again and again he mingles the landscape of
dreamland with the tawdry grandeur of the stage. He takes a
footlights view of romance when, having begun “Lenore” with the
lines——
he continues:
This, no doubt, was in tune with the fashionable romance of the day,
but Poe’s romantic conceptions at times were those of one who was
especially entranced by stage trappings. He made his heroines rich
and highborn as well as beautiful. In “Lenore” he cries:
Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth, and hated her for her pride!
Poe was a poet for whom life was darkened by experience and
illuminated only by visions. In the beginning, romance
loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head and painted wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake.
But in the best of the decadents the soul survived; and if they have
a place in literature it is because they have left a record of the
travels of the prodigal soul in a far country. Poe, though not sharing
their decadence, is also the poet of a far country. That loveliest of
his poems (if we except “Annabel Lee”), “To Helen”—what is it but a
triumphant cry of return? Unlike “The Raven,” it is a poem that never
loses its beauty with repetition. “Annabel Lee” may be the fullest
expression of his genius, but “To Helen” is the most exquisite. Even
to write it down, hackneyed though it is, renews one’s delight:
You may turn Hawthorne’s pages almost at random, and you can
scarcely help noticing example after example of this characteristic
rhythm of his. It is noticeable even in such a simple narrative
sentence as that with which The Artist of the Beautiful opens:
This all flows with something of the noble ease of hexameters, yet
without falling into the vices of pseudo-poetic prose. The mere
sound of his sentences gives Hawthorne’s prose a wonderful
momentum that keeps us interested even when at times we begin to
wonder if his subject-matter is quite as interesting as it ought to be.
This grave and equable momentum is one of his greatest technical
qualities. It is a quality that cannot be adequately illustrated in single
sentences or detached passages, because its success is not the
success of occasional felicities but of something sustained and
pervasive. It may even be imputed as a fault to Hawthorne that he
can never, or almost never, escape from the equable rhythm of his
prose. He seldom ends a story with the slightly different momentum
due to an ending. It is not merely, however, that his stories end
quietly: he is like a rider who rides beautifully but does not know
how to dismount. He maintains his graceful ease of motion until the
last moment, and then he slides off as best he can.
But it would be folly to regard Hawthorne’s rhythm as wholly—or
even mainly—a technical quality. The rhythm of prose is never that,
and it is in vain to play the sedulous ape to the great masters if
nothing but their style is imitated. It is not an accident that the
greatest English prose is to be found in the Bible. The rhythm of the
greatest prose seems at times the rhythm of the spirit of man as it
contemplates the life of men in the light of eternity. The rhythm to a
Plato, a Milton, a Sir Thomas Browne, is inevitably of a kind that a
Jane Austen or a Thackeray, with all their genius, could never
achieve. It is the echo of the emotion felt by men to whom time and
place are fables with another meaning besides that which appears
on the surface. The realists can never write the greatest prose,
because to them the world they see is not fabulous but a hard fact.
The greatest writers all see the world as fabulous. Their men and
women are inhabited by angels or devils, or, on a lower plane, have
something of the nature of ghosts or fairies or goblins. If Othello
were not a fable as well as a man, he would be no better than a
criminal lunatic. If King Lear were not a fable as well as man, he
would be a subject for the psychoanalyst. Imagine either of them as
a modern Englishman, putting his case before a judge and jury, and
you will see how the artist, even though his characters as a rule are
characters such as may be found in reality, must remove them out of
and above reality into the region of fables in order to make them
permanently real to the imagination. Dickens turned Victorian
England into a myth peopled by goblins. Dostoievsky turned Russia
into a myth peopled by goblins and demons. It is not that they
denied the reality of the world before their eyes, but that they saw
within it and about it another world apart from which it had very
little meaning.
Hawthorne was a writer extremely conscious of this second
world within and about the world. He had abandoned the Puritanical
orthodoxy of his people, but none the less he was haunted like them
by a sense of a second meaning in life beyond the surface meaning
of the day’s work and the day’s play. Many of his stories are stories
in which, as in Young Goodman Brown, everyday reality passes into
fable and back again as swiftly as though the two worlds were but
different stages in a transformation scene. His genius turned more
naturally to allegory than any other writer’s since Bunyan. This is
generally counted a defect, and, indeed, if, instead of alternating the
everyday world with the fabulous world, he had interwoven them in
such a way that the world never became less real on account of the
fable it bore within it like an inner light, Hawthorne would have been
a greater writer. At the same time, it is better that he should have
sacrificed observation than that he should have sacrificed
imagination. He lived in an atmosphere in which it must have been
extraordinarily difficult to stand sufficiently remote from everyday life
to see it not merely with the eye but with the imagination. To the
eye, there must have been little enough of fantasy in the narrow
lives of the men and women about him. “Never comes any bird of
Paradise into that dismal region,” he wrote of the Custom-house in
which he passed so many years and that made “such havoc of his
wits.” He had to transform his surroundings into a strange land into
which a bird of Paradise might enter. He did this by the invention of
a sort of moral fairyland, into which he could project his vision of the
mystery of human life. He often offends our sense of reality, but he
never leaves us in doubt of the reality of this moral fairyland as the
image of all he knew and felt about human life. It is a Puritanical
fairyland into which sin has come. But, strong though his sense of
sin is, Hawthorne does not always in his view of sin agree with the
Puritans. He is more Christian, and he condemns the sin of self-
righteousness more than the sins of the flesh. Even so, his
imagination is very close to that of the Puritans, who believed in
witches and in men possessed by the Devil. The difference is that
Hawthorne was inclined to believe that the good church-going
people were also witches and men possessed by the Devil. Unless I
misunderstand Young Goodman Brown, Hawthorne is here telling us
how he was tempted to believe this, and reproaching himself for
having given way to temptation. In The Scarlet Letter, the egoism of
the vengeful husband, not the adultery of the wife or the cowardice
of the minister who sins with her, is the unpardonable sin of the
story. That Hawthorne’s imaginative morality had the vehemence of
genius is shown by the fact that The Scarlet Letter still holds us
under its spell in days in which moral values have subtly and swiftly
changed. People are no longer thrilled at the thought of a scarlet A
on a woman’s breast; they would scarcely be thrilled by the
spectacle of a whole scarlet alphabet hung round a woman’s neck
like a collar. Yet Hawthorne’s novel survives—a fable of the
permanent and dubious warfare between good and evil, in which
good changes its shape into that of evil, and evil is transmuted into
good through suffering. His genius survives, like that of Hans
Andersen, because, not only does it carry the burden of morality, but
it is led on its travels by a fancy wayward and caressing as the
summer wind. He is the first prose myth-maker of America, and he
has left no successors in his kind.
XVI
JONAH IN LANCASHIRE
we are told in a lively line at this point of the narrative. The storm
that follows is described with such a sense of reality that it has been
suggested that the poet himself must have experienced some such
tempest when making a pilgrimage to Compostella, “the favourite
journey of Englishmen at the time,” and a journey of the ancient
popularity of which we are still reminded in the streets of London
once a year when children set up their grottoes on the footpaths as
an excuse for begging pennies. Mr. Bateson attempts to bring home
to us the desperate circumstances of seafaring in the Middle Ages by
quoting the statement that “John of Gaunt, on one occasion, was
tossing about in the Channel for nine months, unable to land at
Calais.” I confess I cannot believe the story in this form, and we
need no such incredible example to enable us to realise the terrors
of the storm that swept down on Jonah, when the frightened sailors
attempted to lighten the ship by throwing overboard
Her bagges, and her feather-beddes, and her bryght
wedes.
The English poet writes still more vividly that Jonah lay in the
bottom of the boat,
A “freke,” or man, was sent to rouse him and to prepare him for the
casting of lots:
The freke hym frunt with his fot, and bede hym ferk up.
Then came the casting of the lots:
The poet describes him as passing down the throat like a “mote in at
a minster door”:
He glydes in by the gills ...;
Ay, hele ouer hed, hourlande aboute,
Til he blunt [staggered] in a blok as brod as a halle;
And ther he festnes the fete, and fathmes about,
And stod up in his stomak, that stank as the deuel.