The Mathematician's Shiva

by Stuart Rojstaczer

I sat in the back of the car reading Gogol or some other Russian writer. In our home, reading was more important than conversation. When there were no guests at night, sometimes the only noises you could hear were the creaking of chairs, the sipping of tea, and the almost silent sound of pages being turned.

My room had once been my haven. I would come home from Chicago—where I was living my ironic life of religious instruction mixed with a nascent atheism and a lust for the daughter of a delightful and naïve couple—and spend hours in my room alone. I’d read novels and philosophy and write thoughts that at the time seemed profound. When I read these heartfelt musings now they seem ridiculously morose and infantile.

But with my family, you never know. The details that define the stories of our lives are malleable. If it isn’t science or math, it’s fair game to be trampled upon, stretched, wrung out of its water, and rehydrated with vodka.

My mother would say that she was only being honest, that there is no value in sugarcoating the truth. I think it’s just easier to be mean. To have a light touch takes work.

Now how do I put this in a nice way? Well, I can’t. I absolutely cannot put this in any way that makes me seem like anything but a jerk. Here it is, though. All of my life, I had been surrounded by smart people, smart women. Intellect is everything to me. Even drunk, it’s everything to me. Here I was with a woman who couldn’t possibly understand the first thing about what I did intellectually. But she was impressed in a way that no woman had ever been impressed with me. When I told her what I did, her eyes grew big, and she said, “Oh, you must be a big brain.” I liked that. Yes, it’s trivial and petty to like such stupid flattery, but I liked it.

It’s a wondrous bit of character, this optimism and hope. No one in my family possesses it. We pound and pound and work until something breaks and a little opening of light appears. I suppose it could be called optimism that we assume we can see that light eventually. But no, it’s really different. It’s not American at all. It’s our egos at work, not blind optimism about the world around us. It’s the idea that despite all the obvious and unforeseen obstacles, we will manage to beat the devil. It’s desperation that fuels us.

We couldn’t compete against our parents’ past misery, and they never let us forget it.

We like to think that our lives are ordered. It satisfies us to believe that there is cause and effect, that we can make corrections to our lives as easily as we change batteries in a radio. In fact, much of our life is chaotic. There are patterns, yes, but they are unpredictable. Very little can be improved.

She had also started to develop the ability (or liability) of being in one place physically but only partially there mentally. It was like dealing with a cell phone wavering between one and two bars of reception, functional but a bit worrisome. Her mind was not in the here and now but was usually preoccupied, just like my mind, just like my father’s, and just like my mother’s. This habit of only sort of being present can drive nonacademics crazy. But it’s the only way I know that anyone can solve intellectually difficult problems. It’s a constant processing of ideas and techniques in the background that happens even when you dream.

To Americans, the outward display of intelligence is considered unseemly. The Donald Trumps of the world can boast about their penthouses and Ferraris, their women can wear baubles the size of Nebraska, and no one says boo. If you have money, you’re almost always expected to flaunt it. But intellect? This is something else entirely. Women, especially, are supposed to play dumb. One of the richest men in America has said publicly that if your SAT score is too high, find a way to sell 200 points. Supposedly you don’t need them.

There is no such thing as unnecessary beauty, whether it be physical or intellectual.