The
book was indeed a cabinet itself. It was filled with robes of mathematical problems piled using interesting
short dialogues between fictional
characters with funny or peculiar-sounding names and certain practical situations that looked as simple as a Pongee
cloth but actually complex as silk.
One of
my favorite garments was the deck- of -cards.
I was confident that I can figure it out in less than a minute. Five, ten minutes passed. I was hopeless. But
I did not give up. I tried again. I had
no future in this. I skimmed through the
problems and found myself enjoying the short stories rather than doing what I
can to solve what was needed to be
solved. That’s the reason why I did not take up a math degree.
Anyway, math enthusiasts, in reading every
page, perhaps buried themselves in the caves built by their
burning passion for numbers, seeking the unknown and making sense of everything
known—eyes glued on the hints and hands writing down solutions dictated by the brain
in extreme excitement.
To some
, the book was just an easy game to be played, to others a painless suicide. Either
way, there was this probable guarantee that everyone who had read this may
not think and/ or see things the way they used to before. For he and she had
learned that everything does not deal with what was superficial alone, and that
one must have more than a pair of clear spectacles to discern any or every possible connections and fitting arguments
to obtain an answer and prove its validity.
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