Among my collection of books sits “Quadrivium,” so far more of a curiosity than a tome I refer to with endearment. Like the two books on topology, this volume is something I approach with trepidation, the hope of totally understanding its content long since dashed. It’s like trying to understand a cloud- hard to visualize or quantify, yet there, all the same, challenging me to understand much more than its function or existence. And even that is tough sledding.
The easiest place to start is with a description of the form and format. The title is followed by a subtitle: “The Four Classical Liberal Arts of Number, Geometry, Music, and Cosmology,” which pretty much sums up the content. Published by Walker & Company, the 410-page book measures 6” wide by 7.5” tall and 1.5” thick.
“Quadrivium” is part of a series called “Wooden Books.” (Apparently, there are two other books in the series: “Trivium” (covering Grammar, Logic, and Rhetoric), and “Sciencia” (Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, and Astronomy.)
Judging by stiff nature of the Quad’s 3/16”-thick cover, it could very well be made of some wood product. But an online search reveals nothing about “Quad’s” construction. Notes opposite the title page do an admirable job of earth-friendly virtue-signaling with the statement that the paper used by Walker & Company consists of “natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests,” and that “manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.” Thank goodness for the reassurance. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to own a book culled from mismanaged forests.
The cover- similar to the book’s standard font color- is dark brown (though the internal font for the body text is closer to sepia. The title and subtitle embody a subtle glow, as if laser-etched, the words surrounded by scores of arcane and geometrical symbols, thus lending the tome an eternal or mystical feel.
As for the internal contents, the choice of sepia is troublesome. While not difficult to read, the graphics tend to be washed-out, at times, lessening their impact. But given the wealth of information presented, it’s a shortcoming we’ll just have to live with. Maybe the color cut down on printing costs.
The contents are divided into six sections, each one originally published at an earlier time; the dates range from 2001-2009, and the collection itself released in 2010. Book I is “Sacred Number” (Miranda Lundy); Book II, “Sacred Geometry” (Miranda Lundy); Book III, “Platonic & Archimedean Symbols” (Daud Sutton); Book IV, “Harmonograph” (Anthony Ashton); Book V, “The Elements of Music” (Jason Martineau); and Book VI, “A Little Book of Coincidence.”
As for the book’s nature and intent, the editor states that it is three things: a rare treasure, immortal, and universal. The foreword informs us that in its original state, the Quadrivium was “first formulated and taught by Pythagoras as the Tetrakyts around 500 BC,” and that it was “the first European schooling structure that honed education down to seven essential subjects.”
As I read all of this, I am reminded of why I’ve never gotten too far with the book in previous attempts: it’s a reference book, not exactly the kind of thing you curl up with for an evening of easy reading. But it is what it is.
For the visually-oriented learner, every section is accompanied by one or more illustrations. And the illustrations themselves are interesting, for they represent the old and the new, as well as approaching the respective topic from several different directions to aid in understanding- not that every subject is readily-accessible, despite visual aids.
To delve further into description of Quadrivium’s contents is futile, for it’s similar to giving an overview of a dictionary or encyclopedia- for this is a reference book. That being said, it’s one of the more fascinating examples of a reference book that there is. Where else will one fond a section on games, where the hopscotch diagram shows the starting square as “Earth,” and the final two destination areas as “Heaven,” just past “Hell”? Or instructions for building your own harmonograph? Or yet another attempt to explain the “circle of fifths,” a section of musical theory that continues to baffle me? Then there’s the “Little Book of Coincidence in the Solar System,” a compendium of galactic patterns and parallels that may challenge a reader’s beliefs about the Big Bang theory and evolution as much as it might support them.
As if all of this weren’t enough, the final section is a cornucopia of magic squares, early number systems, symbology incarnate in “Some Numbers of Things” and a “Select Glossary of Numbers,” ruler and compass constructions, scary-looking Platonic Solids formulas, equally intimidating square roots for harmonic constants and equations, and planetary tunings (whatever the hell those are).
After I’d owned the book for a few years, we moved to SoCal. One day I was visiting with Seth, a local transient who was surprisingly well-spoken and educated- not to mention surprisingly well-versed in hygiene, having some secret knowledge of accessible bathing facilities his fellow hoboes were not privy to. (Yes, I said “privy,” so get over it.) The fact that he was also a paranoid schizophrenic- though a high-functioning one- didn’t deter me from inviting him to lunch, one afternoon.
After we spent time over a meal, discussing everything from religion to rock music, it became apparent that he had some cognitive issues that hampered his ability to control his emotions. Having repeatedly assured me that he loathed books- a trait he extended to most humans he came in contact with- his increasingly erratic behavior indicated to me that it was time for him to go. As he headed out the door, I noticed that he had my copy of “Quadrivium” surreptitiously tucked under one arm. I hadn’t seen him grab it, but now I asked for it back. He apologetically handed it over with an unconvincing “How did that get there?” look on his face.
Ever since then, I’ve thought of Seth every time I grab “Quadrivium,” for another go at it. If the tome is good enough for a brilliant, high-functioning schizophrenic, it will always have a place on my bookshelf.