What an absolutely beautiful ( If that is the right way to descibe a book about murder and some truly disturbing ideas.) novel. I have to assume it is an accurately translated english version of this book, by Sonja Soto, as language and its use is so nuanced and things can get lost or changed in translation. Its a simple enough tale with complex undertones, its structure mathmatically precise, which given its subject matter, is a vital component. Yet, for all that precision, it is not a cold reading of events as its humanity pulses with a warm bloodedness.
I think there was a film adaption but it works so well as a book it hardly seems neccessary. Almost like writing a song to capture the essence of a painting. Which I suppose has been done. That song might well sound sweet but much can be lost as art is so subjective. Of off literatures strengths and magicks is its fluidity of impression, something I did not think would apply to mathmatics. After reading this book I am not so sure of that. Step back from an equation and it takes on the glamour of written music.
Cannot really say too much about the actual events and story without diluting the books many charms. The city comes alive as Oxfordians abound in eccenric precision. Its a rarefied atmosphere, where one could toss a rock into a crowd and be garunteed of boffing a boffin,. By their standards Pythagaros is but a bubble in the spirit level of mathmatics.
Not a sentence I have ever used before.
