Can literature be wedded to mathematics? Yes, it can and it can be done so most admirably. Mr. Knaigel has stuck gold with this book. The best biographer that I have ever read has got to be Issac Deutscher, whose three volume biography of Trotsky and Stalin: A Political Biography has , to my mind, redefined the art of writing biographies. Well, this one comes close…very close. A biography about a mathematician and that too of someone with the unparalleled intellect of Ramanujan is a daunting task. Here the book succeeds colossally.
Formally, the language is kept simple and yet probing, with chapters often ending with a rejuvenating question, much like a high octane political thriller, hell its tough enough incorporating the mathematics of Ramanujan to expect the reader to delve in the intricacies of the language. The effort at succinct language, written in a wondrously evocative style is the best medium for scientific biographies. The structure is taught and no less attention is given to Hardy, as indeed it must be given, to understand the phenomenon of Ramanujan. The book does not shy away from the math, and indeed it can’t, for this is what the book is all about, the great genius of Ramanujan. Lucidly stated and explained, the theorems of Ramanujan and the Riemann’s hypothesis are given their due time and space. This is a masterstroke. Too often scientific biographies have the tendency to teeter too much towards the scientific or the personal side, this book has broken that chain and how! The description of the bygone Madras would do a literary author proud. I could almost see and smell Ramanujan’s Madras. The cold English weather with the looming and then cascading war is brilliantly captured.
Realistically too this is an unmitigated triumph. The picture of the starved genius, hesitant and yet strangely confident is brought out quite well. The snobbishness and the internationalism of Hardy are also laid down. Perhaps a bit more success is achieved with the image of Hardy, but then the effort of a westerner to understand and portray an India aeons ago will have some draw backs. Does it describe the workers? No, it does not but that’s not the main realistic endeavor of this book. It describes the bourgeoisie left leaning scholar Hardy and the Brahmin genius Ramanujan as realistically as possible. The quirks and the class habits of both, sometimes one is left to wonder which one’s is more puzzling, are exceptionally well documented. The war and its atmosphere, the cultural shock and of course as is wont of two of the greatest mathematician of this century, the professional pride and competitive spirit are also exhibited most charmingly. The effect is startling, overwhelming and one that realistically displays the life, times and the genius of these two extraordinary men. And last but perhaps the best is the almost photocopy like reproduction of the Indian domestic Indian scene, the clash between a child bride, timid and frightened and the overbearing mother-in-law. Kudos to Mr. Knaigel for capturing this most Indian of traits prevalent frequently then and still now.
To be fair, a biography does not need to assessed on a normal or natural case (unless of course like Deutscher, it tries to invoke some explanation or some meaning to be derived from the biography). To a large extent Ramanujan will always escape a normal analysis, a man about whom nothing much else is known except his amazing theorems, will always be a hard subject to explain on a natural scale and this work does not attempt it too seriously. There is no attempt made to even explain Hardy’s behavioral traits, beyond of course the obvious ones resulting from his glaring bourgeoisie class consciousness. Ramanujan will always remain a mystery for any author, on the normal scale. Science has not progressed far enough to determine the source of his genius. Naturally the only point that has been made and is really worth making is the rottenness of the educational system. The system then in India and Britain by extension is justifiably thrashed. It would, I guess give the author immense pleasure if this book can open the pedantic teacher’s eye to one raw, scintillating talent that is not made for the confines of marks and examinations.
For fans of math and for fans of Ramanujan (I undoubtedly was already one), this is must reading. This book is not just a good biography, it is a good novel. If there’s a better scientific biography, I am still to read it, period.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Shantaram : Gregory David Roberts
Finally, I got down to read the novel which has made such an impact, and I have one word of advice for readers, read it. I must admit that I have never read anything comparable and it reminded me a lot about ‘Midnight’s children’, there’s love, there’s politics, there’s war and pretty much nothing else is left to be included in this scintillating debut by Mr. Roberts.
Form wise it is hard-hitting, the author knows at what exact point to get emotional and leave his reader choked, he knows when to draw back and reflect and he knows above all how to combine all these in one single package. The adjectives and metaphors are fabulous and yet its not laid out too thick. The build ups are natural and synthesize effortlessly with the intended purpose. Writing as he does from the first person, which is both a risk as well as an advantage, Mr. Roberts manages quite successfully to breathe life into all his myriad characters.
Realistically, it is an overwhelming triumph. The scenes from the Leopold café to the dogs in the slums are quite simply put, brilliant, there’s no other word for it, really. Maybe the only failure here is of the scenes set in Afghanistan, but I do suspect that the main reason for my feeling so, truly is because everywhere else, Mr. Roberts scores hands down. The fight with the dogs one dark night in the slums, the breeze of the bike rides past the marine drive would do any author proud, but Mr. Roberts has an even greater ace up his sleeve, the Indian prison scenes. When Mr. Roberts writes like this, when he lets go of all hesitancy, of all timidity, he writes like no one else and he writes like I daresay, Tolstoy. If ever there was a successor who could ruminate about morals like Tolstoy, it is him, of that I am in no doubt.
With such form, such realism is mixed the enormous normal failure of this work. From the very beginning till the end I kept asking myself what’s the main idea of this novel?
And in the end I must admit that all it boils down to is this, this is the saga of the repentance of an escaped convict and heroin addict, which by itself is not unworthy of being good literature, but there is a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt of finding some deep meaning in all that he has written about by Mr. Roberts, which never quite makes it somehow. Politically, the transition from Fabianism to anarchism is left unexplained, which in itself is a glaring omission and there is a pathetic attempt to expound anarchist views which does not quite succeed. Mr. Roberts would have us believe that all his illegal activities were done just like that, as if he floated into it, while the truth is no one egged him on into the arms of the great Khan. From socialism to heroin addiction in itself is extraordinary, no less than from treating cholera to selling illegal passports. The author emerges as a hopelessly lost figure who has never been able to make out what he exactly wants from life and that is the great tragedy of this novel. From Mr. Roberts at least one could have expected a sobering reflection towards the end of the novel; instead it ends rather abruptly with the character still floating around aimlessly like in his drug crazy robber days.
Mr. Roberts is not a bourgeoisie at heart. But the lack of any sort of political and hence social convictions leads him to end up in despair, not from his many sufferings, but from his own inability to reconcile himself to his total incomprehension of the society around him.
Overall, a tremendous first novel of extraordinary brilliance and the search that is still on at the end of the novel, by the author of some guiding philosophy promises another grand novel in the future. I can hardly wait for it.
Form wise it is hard-hitting, the author knows at what exact point to get emotional and leave his reader choked, he knows when to draw back and reflect and he knows above all how to combine all these in one single package. The adjectives and metaphors are fabulous and yet its not laid out too thick. The build ups are natural and synthesize effortlessly with the intended purpose. Writing as he does from the first person, which is both a risk as well as an advantage, Mr. Roberts manages quite successfully to breathe life into all his myriad characters.
Realistically, it is an overwhelming triumph. The scenes from the Leopold café to the dogs in the slums are quite simply put, brilliant, there’s no other word for it, really. Maybe the only failure here is of the scenes set in Afghanistan, but I do suspect that the main reason for my feeling so, truly is because everywhere else, Mr. Roberts scores hands down. The fight with the dogs one dark night in the slums, the breeze of the bike rides past the marine drive would do any author proud, but Mr. Roberts has an even greater ace up his sleeve, the Indian prison scenes. When Mr. Roberts writes like this, when he lets go of all hesitancy, of all timidity, he writes like no one else and he writes like I daresay, Tolstoy. If ever there was a successor who could ruminate about morals like Tolstoy, it is him, of that I am in no doubt.
With such form, such realism is mixed the enormous normal failure of this work. From the very beginning till the end I kept asking myself what’s the main idea of this novel?
And in the end I must admit that all it boils down to is this, this is the saga of the repentance of an escaped convict and heroin addict, which by itself is not unworthy of being good literature, but there is a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt of finding some deep meaning in all that he has written about by Mr. Roberts, which never quite makes it somehow. Politically, the transition from Fabianism to anarchism is left unexplained, which in itself is a glaring omission and there is a pathetic attempt to expound anarchist views which does not quite succeed. Mr. Roberts would have us believe that all his illegal activities were done just like that, as if he floated into it, while the truth is no one egged him on into the arms of the great Khan. From socialism to heroin addiction in itself is extraordinary, no less than from treating cholera to selling illegal passports. The author emerges as a hopelessly lost figure who has never been able to make out what he exactly wants from life and that is the great tragedy of this novel. From Mr. Roberts at least one could have expected a sobering reflection towards the end of the novel; instead it ends rather abruptly with the character still floating around aimlessly like in his drug crazy robber days.
Mr. Roberts is not a bourgeoisie at heart. But the lack of any sort of political and hence social convictions leads him to end up in despair, not from his many sufferings, but from his own inability to reconcile himself to his total incomprehension of the society around him.
Overall, a tremendous first novel of extraordinary brilliance and the search that is still on at the end of the novel, by the author of some guiding philosophy promises another grand novel in the future. I can hardly wait for it.
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