When I decided that my friend, the genius mathematician, is a genius, I was not wrong. By a stretch, and since he keeps dragging me into his life, I have to admit that I wouldn’t be surprised at all, one day to hear that he had just published a solid proof of some as yet unsolved mathematical mystery under the name of Cornean/Elias theorem. I conjecture and he axiomatizes. This in fact sums up the story of my life as a mathematician. I’ve never been good at math, but I’ve been unbeatable at imagining abstracts. Alas, however, since abstracts are hard to materialize, I’ll die like Socrates with not a number on the page, unless some clever Plato decides to acknowledge my contribution in a more or less authentic fashion. Again we have proof that life imitates fiction and not the other way around. Jolly good, there is hope for everything, also for all those who have nothing better to do than listen to Wagner and his cohorts of Valkyries.

Now, what has Herr Lektor been saying, to be more precise? As he likes to formulate quizzes, and pose crucial, universal, and irreversible questions, to which he provides an answer himself, in his latest entry on his blog on the life and times of the genius, he takes issue with 6 scenarios that go from: 1) what have you learned from the wise that has contributed to your success – "Nothing," he says, to 6) Romans or Greeks? – "Good question," he says. Question nr 2 sounds like this: Who among the grand classics would you invite for dinner? – Me, he says, and then adds, however, that he is afraid of me. "You never know with such classics and whether they like sancerre with halibut filet," he then says.

Two weeks ago, I took my nephew to the Planetarium. We had coffee at the Cassiopeia restaurant while also enjoying the ducks and the lake outside, and talking about cosmic things. I ordered a bottle of water, and asked him if it was all right to share it, as neither of us was too thirsty. He said yes, and then continued: “Don’t bother to ask for two glasses. If you don’t mind, I’d really like to drink the water from the same glass as you. Perhaps that will make me as smart.” His wish was granted. Now, my question is this: Is this a sign of becoming a classic? And is this good, or bad? Maybe the genius is also right when he calls me that. So, yes, dinner: Mon Chevalier, Herr Lektor, I’m totally at your disposal. I’m ready to swoon over your treat, and imagine the continuum paved with flying cushions, even though indeed, I’ve always preferred the Persian flying carpet to Don Quixote’s pink thing – the damned classics, you never know with them - I’ll even allow it, if you might also fancy it, to drink the wine from the same glass.


lektor said…
hmmmmmm.... drinking wine from the same glass could be very dangerous, cause in any physical space there is a ruthless measure of separation which cannot be avoided... but this issue can be circumvented if we take two bottles of wine!

Red and white, alpha and omega. Distanced enough I would say. QED.
Camelia said…
Yes, distance. In a fictional context, it allows us to never ever mind the potentially distorted picture we might have of each other. Where close encounters are concerned, there's evidence that two bottles of good wine can have the same effect, namely that of maintaining the illusion of the other's perfection. More concretly, isn't wonderful if an old hag can all of a sudden be seen as a classical nymph? In reality, well, I leave that to you to imagine it.

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