The Mathematics of Reading
Kathleen Roxby -- July 20, 2008
I can understand why some people choose to spend their lives immersed in numbers. There is an inherent comfort in working with arithmetic. No matter how complicated a current puzzle of numbers, you always know there will be an epiphany from which will follow a certainty, a balance into which all the pieces will resolve in the solution of the calculation. It is for this same reason, I think, that I choose mystery novels to interrupt the pattern of my days, ruffle up the doldrums in my mind, or simply to break out of the confinement of airline travel.
In the arithmetic of the mystery novel, the formula is unchanged no matter the author or the scene:
The person, persons or thing murdered or missing, a, is multiplied by all of the contacts, b. This result is then divided by the sum of the possible methods, c, and the timing of the events, d. The outcome, x, of this calculation is the revelation of the culprit.
Aware of the formula, I am content that all the elements of the calculation will be revealed and fall neatly into place at the end. And, if I can solve the puzzle before the author confirms my solution, so much the better. I can then congratulate myself on my skill in reading arithmetic.
The mathematics of reading, however, is another proposition entirely. It is as different as basic arithmetic is from higher mathematics where mighty calculations reach great lengths as a mathematician plays with theories, explores the possibilities of "what if" and "suppose". And, at the conclusion of all this effort and glorious formulaic hieroglyphics, there is a strong possibility that nothing may be proved at all--except that there is an error among the component formulas or with the numbers themselves. In either case, however, there is still a common element of suspense that feeds the hunger of philosopher or scientist. Yet the joy experienced by mathematicians, in disproving another's theory due to an error in the calculation or in the formula itself, is not at all like the sweet comfort found in solutions of ordinary arithmetic.
The reading mathematician's joy may be found in the mainstream novel, or more especially in the literary novel. It can also be found in many factual treatises in which theorems are proposed to explain the facts that exist, or to propose alternate versions should one or more events be slightly altered from reality.
I find, alas, that I do not desire reading mathematics as a hobby. The sheer length of the calculations takes more time than my day is willing to release. The mental and, especially, the emotional energy required to weigh each proof is more than my body will support. Then, too, the very possibility of a non-resolution, lurking like a cloud near the last page, does not inspire me to leap into these deep calculations.
No, for me, the simple arithmetic of the mystery is entertainment enough. I leave the higher mathematics of literary tomes to other folk.