Grigory Perelman - Poincare Conjecture

An article in the August 28th issue of the New Yorker discusses the reclusive Grigory Perelman, a Russian, whose mathematical solution of the Poincare conjecture has elevated his name in the public's awareness not unlike J.D. Salinger, the author of "Catcher in the Rye" in literature. Refusing awards, removing himself from the world that extracts pleasure from celebrities, even in mathematics, strikes me as a wise move. But the move seems to have had the opposite effect and Mr. Perelman has more attention than less. Agreeing to interviews by New Yorker writers Sylvia Nasar and David Gruber can only enhance the mystic of this rare flower of the academic world. With each passing day of his reclusiveness his interest value increases. Was it a mistake to retreat and refuse prizes and cash? One million dollars and the Fields Medal in mathematics may be given to him without his acknowledgement of it. He refuses. He lives in St.Petersburg, Russia with his mother, uses the interent to communicate with his peers, and goes to the opera frequently. As I was reading this lengthy article about Perelman that dealt mostly with a quarrel about Perelman's solution to the Poincare conjecture and a former Fields Medal winner in China , I was
rooting for Perelman and his choice. His ability to solve a problem in mathematics and his recognition for it are separate matters. If he choses to remove himself from the public recognition of it, fine. We now see Albert Einstein's face in ads on televison and magazines. The marketplace is just waiting to snap up fame and use it commercially. Mr. Perelman has long bushy hair and a long beard. Even academia capitalizes on fame in gross and subtle ways not necessary to mention here. I suppose he could have submitted the solution over the internet in emails anonymously. We may have to allow that he is human and very smart.

Emmy Awards Wasteland

Do Americans watch the Emmy Awards ceremony? I gave it an hour of my life. I found it adolescent as I have always found actors and the entourage around them. That is not to say that I am scornful of their accomplishment. It is valid work for good pay. It requires discipline and talent. I am not quarreling with their accomplishment. From Sophocles to Barry Manilow the line is that of telling a story, singing a song, a celebration of some aspect of life. As the mocking tone of the host produced laughter, one could see that even the audience knew it was a tranparent make-believe celebration and a business. An industry of self-congratulation passing for a legitimate program worthy of your time is always a bit of a stretch. So when my hour had exhausted the program's credibility I rolled over and went to sleep. What lingers this morning is the awareness of the adolescent character of show business people. The host said in his monologue that if the people in audience came from a nurturing family they wouldn't be in show business. It got a laugh and is a half truth. Many of the recipients make a point of thanking their mom and dad for their success. Well, that may be the problem....or not. Some parents do cultivate what they see as their children's talent and we all have heard stories about stage parents. I am suggesting that actors and the film and television industry create a useful escape from the routine, if not dull, lives of their audience. They create, direct, produce, and perform in entertainments that distract us briefly from our toil in the work-a-day world. They must do something to acknowedge their hard work, so they have a party and give out awards to each other, since we only acknowledge their work by ratings for shows and sponsors by reveneues. A show business person once said that show business was like high school only more fun. I guess I am suggesting that entertainers with all of their talent and discipline make a sacrifice of truly growing up for make believe. If they are successful they can dress up for an awards night and hope to be chosen to receive a naked woman holding the world trophy and more work in the industry. The smart ones of course, are not the stars in gowns and tuxedos, but the investors, the sponsors, the producers, the directors, the agents. They are in the real world, while the boys and girls who come to accept their Emmy as adults gulp down their fame as a reward along with good pay.
Some of us roll over and go to sleep.

A More Cheerful Note?

Village fairs have an other worldly quality that is a distraction from its purpose, at least for me. In my village, West Barnstable, Massachusetts, we seem to live in the Twilght Zone. Each year the event is a mirror image of last year's event. The booths, the people, the food, the prizes, the awards, the speeches, are the same in most respects. I purchase six for five dollar raffle tickes. I eat an overcooked hamburger. I purchase a brownie in the library. I meet the very same people and have almost the same conversation. I have a sense of my being almost invisible except for the slight variations mentioned. Am I complaining? No. Am I certain that I attended this year's festival? No. That's what worries me.

Body Bag

My New York Times arrives each morning in a blue body bag
Announcing deaths,births,declines,failings,newness and oldness.
The news is still warm as I retrieve the parcel
Tossed out of a passing geriatric car at about sunrise.
I pull it into my life and slide its folded winged form
Out of the cold blue plastic sleeve
Knowing that what I see will not be news
To celebrate the dawn of a new day,
But mostly a darkening of my spirit
As the angel of death
Flutters above people and ruins.

"Destruction, Displacement, and Death"

The edge of the abyss for the Lebanese say the Israelies.
We can go home with our heads held high say the Lebanese.
The merchant, the mother, the child, stand in the rubble.
The cascading dust and smell of explosives lingering in the air
along with bewilderment as the destruction passes before us on
television or the page in the newspaper. It is news of war.
Business as usual for men and arms. But what of women with
children in their arms? What is in this for them? Do women
sell arms? Do children see an enemy? They only see destruction,
displacement, and death. Where is life then?
Is it in the corridors of power? Is it in the boardrooms
of arms manufacturers? LIFE is in war torn sreets
looking at the chaos. It is time we looked at life.