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CHAPTER 1: THE INDIAN MATHEMATICIAN RAMANUJAN

I have set myself a task in these lectures which is genuinely difficult and which, if I were determined to begin by making every excuse for failure, I might represent as almost impossible. I have to form myself, as I have never really formed before, and to try to help you to form, some sort of reasoned estimate of the most romantic figure in the recent history of mathematics; a man whose career seems full of paradoxes and contradictions, who defies almost all the canons by which we are accustomed to judge one another, and about whom all of us will probably agree in one judgment only, that he was in some sense a very great mathematician.

The difficulties in judging Ramanujan are obvious and formidable enough. Ramanujan was an Indian, and I suppose that it is always a little difficult for an Englishman and an Indian to understand one another properly. He was, at the best, a half-educated Indian; he never had the advantages, such as they are, of an orthodox Indian training; he never was able to pass the “'First Arts Examination’’ of an Indian university, and never could rise even to be a “Failed B.A.” He worked, for most of his life, in practically complete ignorance of modern European mathematics, and died when he was a little over thirty and when his mathematical education had in some ways hardly begun. He published abundantly — his published papers make a volume of nearly 400 pages— but he also left a mass of unpublished work which had never been analysed properly until the last few years. This work includes a great deal that is new, but much more that is rediscovery, and often imperfect rediscovery; and it is sometimes still impossible to distinguish between what he must have rediscovered and what he may somehow have learnt. I cannot imagine anybody saying with any confidence, even now, just how great a mathematician he was and still less how great a mathematician he might have been.

These are genuine difficulties, but I think that we shall find some of them less formidable than they look, and the difficulty which is the greatest for me has nothing to do with the obvious paradoxes of Ramanujan’s career. The real difficulty for me is that Ramanujan was, in a way, my discovery. I did not invent him— like other great men, he invented himself— but I was the first really competent person who had the chance to see some of his work, and I can still remember with satisfaction that I could recognise at once what a treasure I had found. And I suppose that I still know more of Ramanujan than any one else, and am still the first authority on this particular subject. There are other people in England, Professor Watson in particular, and Professor Mordell, who know parts of his work very much better than I do, but neither Watson nor Mordell knew Ramanujan himself as I did. I saw him and talked with him almost every day for several years, and above all I actually collaborated with him. I owe more to him than to anyone else in the world with one exception, and my association with him is the one romantic incident in my life. The difficulty for me then is not that I do not know enough about him, but that I know and feel too much and that I simply cannot be impartial.

- Prof. G. H. Hardy, Ramanujan: Twelve Lectures On Subjects Suggested By His Life And Work (1940)

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"…I see. You are indeed a heroic spirit. You use death to save people from the agony of life. Then your wish is death?" "Of course. This age is filled with meaningless, worthless people. Exterminating them will be doing them a service."

His scornful voice is filled with absolute dominance and dignity. The priest does not stop his work as he listens.

"I see. You can use the Holy Grail, if that is what you wish. It will be yours unless someone who can defeat you appears." "Hm? You do not have a wish, Kotomine?" "I do not have a clear wish. The only thing I have is the desire for clear pleasure." "Ha -- Hahaha, I see, so you only have pleasure ----!"

The man starts laughing at the simple answer. It's as if he's delighted and proud of his partner.

"All right. I shall kill because they are disgusting, and you shall kill because it is fun. Our motives are different, but we seek the same thing from the Holy Grail. That must be why you have kept me around!" "----------" The priest does not answer. He merely continues his work.

"Hah -- I do not care even if you do nothing. I shall do as I please." The man's presence disappears. The priest glances at the exit of the silent stone room.

"Though he seems insane, he is sane at the core. It seems the mud was unable to pollute his soul." Gilgamesh, King of Heroes. The golden Servant is the most powerful being there is at this point in time. That fact is accepted as truth by all. Even Kotomine, the game master himself, does not doubt it. But ---

"There are worthless things, but there are no meaningless things. …Beware, king of heroes. If there is something that will bring you defeat, it will be just that." His monologue does not reach anyone. Lit by the dim light, the priest resembles a prophet seeing into the future.

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Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom - is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.

- Anthony Bourdain

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What had his life been about –

As he thought of this, he silently gazed up at the moon with Shirou.

“… When I was a kid, I used to want to be a hero of justice very much.”

Suddenly, he muttered this unconsciously.

Like a shipwreck that had sunken beneath the surface a long long time ago, those untouched and forgotten words suddenly escaped from his lips – that was right. He seemed to have said something like that to someone else some time ago, although he didn’t manage to fulfill it at the end. But just when did that happen?

However, when he heard Kiritsugu, Shirou suddenly showed an expression of displeasure.

“What? You’re saying you used to want to, so then have you given up now?”

Since the boy harbored a deep admiration for Kiritsugu, Shirou seemed to hate having Kiritsugu say such self-deprecating words. Kiritsugu had often felt extremely ashamed toward this sentiment.

The boy thought his foster father was an incomparably great man. He did not understand Emiya Kiritsugu’s past – including that disaster which made the man lose everything. He simply and merely made Kiritsugu a goal to be admired.

The spirit of self-sacrifice and sense of justice that Shirou held in his heart were so great that it almost seemed twisted, and all this was displayed through the extreme respect and admiration that he showed to Kiritsugu. That was also the only regret in the days that the father and the son passed together. Shirou wished to become Kiritsugu. He wanted to follow the road that Kiritsugu had walked. Although Kiritsugu wanted to tell him how foolish such an idea was, he didn’t manage to say it once even till the end.

If Shirou lived like Kiritsugu and walked toward destruction just like him, then these five peaceful years of life would become a curse at the end as well.

Is your aspiration still there? Shirou questioned back. This made Kiritsugu’s heart ache – that’s right, how wonderful would it be if it could gradually disappear with the passage of time.

Kiritsugu pretended to gaze out towards the distant moon, and hid the sorrowful memories with a bitter smile.

“Hmm, it is rather regrettable. Heroes have a time limit too, and it’s hard to fulfill once you become an adult... It would have been better if I realized that earlier.”

Had he realized it earlier – then he wouldn’t have been tricked by the sweet lie of miracles that flew the banner called dreams.

Kiritsugu had once released a demon powerful enough to destroy the world because of his misguided aspirations. It was too late when he finally realized his mistake. Countless people had died because of it, including Shirou’s own father and mother.

Shirou seemed to have been guided into a deep contemplation from Kiritsugu’s casual words. However, he seemed to have accepted Kiritsugu’s viewpoint, and answered with a nod.

“Really? Then there’s really nothing you can do.”

“True. I’m really powerless.”

Kiritsugu also answered with a slight hint of heartfelt pain.

Nothing you can do –

There wasn’t much lament or sorrow in that phrase. Kiritsugu gazed up at the night sky.

“ – Ahh, what a beautiful moon – ”

It was as if this was the only night in his life that had such a beautiful moon, and Kiritsugu was overjoyed to be sharing such a beautiful memory with Shirou.

“Hmm. If you can’t fulfill it anymore, then let me fulfill it for you.”

The youth promised casually in the elegant night. He said that he’ll achieve something, something Kiritsugu had longed for but could not fulfill, in Kiritsugu’s place.

In that moment, Kiritsugu remembered.

He had also made a promise like this once. He had also said something like this before a person that was more important to him than anyone else.

Back then, he had firmly believed that the things within his heart will never be lost. But that confidence – had now been forgotten, forgotten until just a moment ago.

“Dad is an adult already, so maybe you can’t do anything anymore. But I’m alright. So entrust it to me, entrust Dad’s dream –”

Shirou kept saying those words that sounded like a promise. His words, together with tonight’s view, became an unforgettable memory that was carved into Kiritsugu’s heart.

That’s right. If it was under such a beautiful moon – then he would never forget.

Emiya Shirou’s very first thought and this precious and innocent prayer will definitely become the most beautiful memory, and be forever retained in his heart.

However, had the boy really inherited the dream of his foolish father, he would probably begin an endless lament and experience a bottomless despair.

... But he would definitely be able to recall the self that existed at this moment as long as he remembered this night. He would remember this heart his young self had; this heart which was fearless, unknown to sorrow, and full of aspirations.

That would also be – the salvation that Kiritsugu, who had lost himself without knowing and had been ground down by time little by little, had hoped for.

“Yes. Ahh – then I’ll be at peace now.”

Even if Shirou walks the same path as him, he would never become the same man.

All the scars in his heart seemed to have healed when he understood this. Emiya Kiritsugu closed his eyes.

Then –

This man who accomplished nothing in his life and did not win a single victory stopped breathing. His last moments were full of quiet relief, and he passed away as if he had merely fallen asleep.

– Kerry, what kind of a man would you like to become?

She had asked under the dazzling sunlight.

He would never forget her smile and her gentleness.

This world is so beautiful. How he wished that time would forever be stopped in this beautiful moment.

As he thought this, he spoke his promise without knowing.

I’ll never forget what I felt today.

– I... want to be a hero of justice!

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'You are correct in your surmise, Mister Trev. Before I was born I did indeed use to lift weights. I was only a child then, of course.'

They strolled on and after a while Trev said, 'Could you say that again? It's got stuck in my head. Actually, I think part of it's stickin' out of my ear.'

'Ah, yes. Perhaps I have confused you. There was a time when my mind was full of darkness. Then Brother Oats helped me to the light, and I was born.'

'Oh, religion stuff.'

'But here I am. You asked why I am strong? When I lived in the dark of the forge, I used to lift weights. The tongs at first, and then the little hammer and then the biggest hammer, and then one day I could lift the anvil. That was a good day. It was a little freedom.'

'Why was it so important to lift the anvil?'

'I was chained to the anvil.'

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I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness; and, instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth.

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Life is trouble. Only death is not. To be alive is to unfasten your belt and look for a fight.

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The decay spreads over the State, and the sweet smell is a great sorrow on the land. Men who can graft the trees and make the seed fertile and big can find no way to let the hungry people eat their produce. Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow.

The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit—and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains

And the smell of rot fills the country.

Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificate—died of malnutrition—because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.

The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

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“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us, ‘It was no Englishman that thus saved us.’” Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said he eagerly.

“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—he believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith. How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend—a friend lost to him forever; and on his death–bed, when the near approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!’”

At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian,—”Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit you occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment.

“This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,” said Emmanuel.

“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart, and that he likes us.”