This novel is based on the incredible true story of Srinivasa Ramanujan, a self-taught mathematical genius who worked as a clerk in India, before being invited to Cambridge University after writing a letter to the famous English mathematician G.H. Hardy. In the ensuing pages, a vivid portrayal of England just prior and during World War I is presented, while a cast of famous characters (such as the renowned philosophers Bertrand Russell and Ludwig Wittgenstein, as well as the British mathematician John Littlewood) are scattered throughout the book.
So why am I so blasé about this story? The main problem is that Ramanujan, who is supposed to be the central focus of this book, comes across as an afterthought, playing second fiddle to Hardy's life. In fact, on various occasions, I had the sense that I was reading a literary biography of Hardy, rather than a novel about Ramanujan. As a result, after reading 478 pages, I still had no clear sense of who this brilliant Indian mathematician was, and instead was left with the sensation of having been given a long, generic sketch that could have been gathered by reading a Wikipedia entry.
The second problem with the novel is that it comes across as wooden in many parts. To use an image, the book reminded me of those stodgy, British-dramas that one only sees on TVO or PBS, and which despite looking interesting you never watch, because you know deep down inside that they will bore you. Coming to this realization after completing this book really upset me for I was really looking forward to reading it.
3 out of 5 stars
