Mr Perelman the bearded recluse of maths
lives with his Russian mother now, lived
in America for a time
he won the famous prize million-dollar for
his solution of the Poincare' Conjecture
which he refused, he lives in St. Petersburg
and eats black bread and oranges
a Jew who played violin and suffered discrimination
Dr. Grigori Yakovlevich Perelman is 44 years old
and doesn't need to receive the prize money
or appear before crowds, rather not say
anything about it, says "If the proof is correct
then no further recognition is needed"
he lives in a tower-block flat with nothing but
cockroaches that maybe kafka-esque to him
and hits ping-pong balls against the flat wall
so they say,we don't know if he reads poetry
or Tolstoy, or if he reads newspapers even
but he does have friends because they call
him 'Grisha' ( one pictures his friends)
we can only imagine that Grisha see's some
stark poetry in numbers only he could see
and that allows him to see somethings
that poets only have stark words to see it by
what adds up and subtracts all the rest
they say he wears his pants too short
he apparently saw his fellow mathematicians
in an interview by an American Journalist
"there are many mathematicians who are
more less honest. But almost all of them
are conformists" so his understanding
of the Poincare' Conjecture seems to
know the solution through
non conformist eyes, like a poet maybe
or some counterculture hermit of maths
maths man
- revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
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- SadLuckDame
- Posts: 4216
- Joined: September 17th, 2009, 8:25 pm
One thing about you rabbit, that is good by me, and you might agree, is you tell a fine story between the lines. I liked this and the math man.
`Do you know, I was so angry, Kitty,' Alice went on...`when I saw all the mischief you had been doing, I was very nearly opening the window, and putting you out into the snow! And you'd have deserved it, you
little mischievous darling!
~Lewis Carroll
little mischievous darling!
~Lewis Carroll
- revolutionrabbit
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in the case of this one, i mostly took the story
from the story, almost word for word.
and added my own tweak on it.If my tweak misses
the story, then the poem might not work, or it messes
it, but poetry is messy too, like anything else.I liked
this story about Mr. Perelman, it has a lot of poetic
elements, but i wonder if Mr Perelman sees that, or
if it has more to do with his brain and his DNA, that
he can use that part of his brain that allowed him to
solve the problem, and that puts him in a unique position
to see life in a more simple way, or if he just can't function
any other way, again the story is between the lines and the
maths.
from the story, almost word for word.
and added my own tweak on it.If my tweak misses
the story, then the poem might not work, or it messes
it, but poetry is messy too, like anything else.I liked
this story about Mr. Perelman, it has a lot of poetic
elements, but i wonder if Mr Perelman sees that, or
if it has more to do with his brain and his DNA, that
he can use that part of his brain that allowed him to
solve the problem, and that puts him in a unique position
to see life in a more simple way, or if he just can't function
any other way, again the story is between the lines and the
maths.
- revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
the poincare' conjecture is about a three-dimensional sphere among three- dimensional manifolds.About spheres and closed spheres.
like a poem that goes around
it self in a ball of inter-folding
surfaces of language resembling
a snake eating its tail.The snake
of words becomes a ball of light
as it you read it it gets smaller
and smaller, until it swallows
the poem and the poet.The
poet sat and thought about
the road we start out on,and
saw the road as a mirror that
does not reflect anything but
some moving image of eternity.
a ball of light pointing everywhere
and nowhere, moving road of word.
like a poem that goes around
it self in a ball of inter-folding
surfaces of language resembling
a snake eating its tail.The snake
of words becomes a ball of light
as it you read it it gets smaller
and smaller, until it swallows
the poem and the poet.The
poet sat and thought about
the road we start out on,and
saw the road as a mirror that
does not reflect anything but
some moving image of eternity.
a ball of light pointing everywhere
and nowhere, moving road of word.
- hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
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