A review-essay of: “The Man who knew Infinity – A Life of the Genius Ramanujan ”

by Robert Kanigel (Washington Square Press – 1991) © H.J. Spencer (2017).

The essay component here is to investigate the ‘Dual-Pillars’ of mathematics; while the review is
motivated by two of my lifetime obsessions: physics and philosophy, so I looked forward to reading
this book after seeing the film of the same title (released in 2015 – 24 years after the book), starring
Dev Patel and Jeremy Irons. That enjoyable film encouraged me to find out more about the Cambridge
mathematician, G. H. Hardy, so I read his famous book “A Mathematician’s Apology” and wrote a
critical essay thereon, as it appeared more like a justification for fellow “pure” mathematicians than an
informative autobiography. This review now ‘balances the books’ for me, by herein writing a book
about the true genius in this famous duo – the self-educated Indian, S. Ramanujan.

This book adds invaluable insights into this incredible man’s early life, whereas the film only begins as
Ramanujan gets his first job at 25 in Madras <book=p.95>; in reality, Ramanujan made a huge personal
effort to make others aware of his major innovations caused by his total obsession with mathematics
causing him to lose scholarships and a degree that all required he have a ‘rounded’ education.
Furthermore, the author visited South India for book research, so providing an in-depth cultural
background to illustrate the spiritual forces, inspiring and motivating Ramanujan. In particular, an
informative discussion of the Hindu caste system, especially the top caste of Brahmins (even
impoverished ones, such as Ramanujan). If the readers of this review have ever been touched by the
‘Magic of Math’ (as I have) then they will really enjoy this book, even if they saw the film first (as I
did). Those who were never touched by this ‘magic’ (most of the population) will still gain great
insights into any personality, who has lived in the grip of any abstract intellectual obsession. The
drama in this highly personalized story is the conflict between the conception of mathematics in the
Western tradition, following the classic Greeks and their obsession with geometry and the use of
“proofs” to demonstrate the logic <222> of the results. In contrast, the Indian tradition emphasized
intuition and ‘getting the results’; this was Ramanujan’s natural mode for discovering his brilliant
results. Ironically, the Emperor of Intuition was discovered by the Prince of Proof. But professional
mathematicians also want to see a ‘proof’ so they might follow the developmental logic as very few
have the power of intuitive insight to see the deep relationships. While the West was still struggling
with Roman numerals (e.g. VII=7), the ancient Indian scholar Bhaskara was the first around 630 CE to
write numbers in the Hindu decimal system with a new sign for zero. Although stimulated by studies
of the stars (like many societies) to define their calendar, the Indians were already investigating algebra,
geometry and trigonometry – the main areas of modern universal mathematical education. Indeed, one
of their greatest scholars, Aryabhata wrote his masterpiece (later called by his successors, the
Aryabhatiya) about 500 CE, which has survived to modern times (but was not studied by Ramanujan).
In addition to much useful astronomical work, this mathematics covered arithmetic, algebra, plane and
spherical trigonometry; it also included continued-fractions, quadratic equations, sums of power series
and a table of sine values. It was written in the form of tight poetry (to aid in its memorization) in 108
verses following 13 introductory verses. The explication of its meaning is due to later commentators.
Ironically, Ramanujan’s Indian style of mathematics was encouraged by his first encounter (when 16)
with a formal text book: A Synopsis of Elementary Results in Pure and Applied Mathematics by
Englishman, George Carr. That book was simply a compilation of over 5,000 equations that Carr used
as a professional tutor for the infamous mathematics Examination at Cambridge University known as
the Tripos. It was this style of mass memorization that has given mathematics a deservedly bad name;
however, a good memory is still vital to any success in mathematics: if not just equations, then for
remembering all the definitions, rules and methods. Ramanujan did not simply remember all Carr’s
formulas but worked out (or ‘proved’ each one to himself) as activity is also necessary to master the
extensive subject of mathematics.
This was when he first started writing his famous Notebooks, which (fortunately) he continued for the
rest of his life. At least, Ramanujan was not narrowed down to only learning ‘standard’ methods – his
own were totally original. It was Carr’s book that triggered Ramanujan’s total obsession only with
mathematics, seriously impacting his future life. In fact, he discovered how trigonometric functions
(sines, cosines) could be expressed, unrelated to Pythagoras’s right triangle (where they were invented),
into an infinite power series <p.88>. He did not realize for a while that one of the most famous (and
prolific) mathematicians in history, the Swiss-German Leonard Euler (1707-1783) had made this
discovery 150 years earlier. Even though Ramanujan had not shared this result with anyone, he was so
self-mortified (pride?) that he secreted the pages in the roof of his house. Although Ramanujan was
supremely self-assured about his mathematical capabilities, he was a social conformist, who usually
cared how others saw him and welcomed any later awards and public honors bestowed on him. It has
been remarked that the Indian character has no shortage of ‘passive virtues’, like patience, persistence
and gentleness. But, in this case, Ramanujan “was no cool steady intelligence solemnly applied to the
problem at hand; he was all energy, animation and force.” It is likely that he was a high-end Asperger, as
he was not well tuned to interpersonal nuance but the flip side was an innocence and charm, as well as
sincerity. In 1908, when Ramanujan was 21, his mother (Komalatammal) decided to apply “that time-
tested Indian psychotherapy – an arranged marriage.” She noticed a young girl (Janaki), 12 years younger
than Ramanujan and negotiated the future marriage in one year’s time with this daughter of a distant
relative and fellow Brahmin. This act was typical of this strong-minded lady, who ran her family and
powerfully influenced Ramanujan’s whole life.

As Hardy later recognized, for Ramanujan it was not what the equation (or formulae) ‘stood for’ or
mattered, but its pattern and its form – the ultimate awareness of abstract conceptualization. Even the
relationships between numbers themselves fascinated him, as illustrated in the film where he points out
that a private taxicab’s ID number had unique cubic properties. Like any genuine artist, Ramanujan
had his preferred medium – and his were the natural numbers {0, 1, 2, ... }. Unfortunately, much of his
private work was developed in his personal notation (without explanation), so they became difficult for
others to follow. Although Hardy probably believed, like Plato, in the real existence of numbers (and
even theorems), he was actually an atheist whereas Ramanujan was a deep believer, in his Hindu gods,
all his life. Indeed, Ramanujan once told a friend that: “An equation for me has no meaning unless it
expresses a thought of God.” This deep difference did not prevent these two men from working
productively together and even developing a true friendship that Hardy later admitted was the most
romantic in his own life.

Eventually, using his Notebooks to sell himself, Ramanujan built a network of introductions to gain
interviews with numerous prospects in his search for a job, while he survived on the patronage of the
secretary of the Indian Mathematical Society. Fortunately, he eventually met S. Narayana Iyer, who
was the Chief Accountant of the British-run Madras Port Trust (and ex-lecturer in mathematics). At
that time, Madras was the third-largest city in India and the fifth-largest city in the British Empire. In
1912, Ramanujan was hired to work as Class 3/Grade 4 clerk in the accounts section; allowing the
married couple to finally live together, while Janaki could escape from being a virtual slave to her
mother-in-law. The work was easy enough for Ramanujan, who was always seeking “leisure” (actually
the ‘opportunity to follow one’s own pursuits’ <81>). Narayana was more than a tolerant boss; he also
acted as a sounding board, mentor and friend, trying to understand Ramanujan’s developing
mathematics. Under his encouragement, Ramanujan submitted and got his first paper (17 pages)
published in the Journal of the Indian Mathematical Society in 1911 on Bernoulli Numbers <89>.
These were invented in 1712 by the great Swiss mathematician Jakob Bernoulli (1654-1705); they are
related to the infamous Euler number ‘e’ and have fascinated mathematician since.
This, like so much of Ramanujan’s mathematics, featured open-ended sequences, called infinite series;
it was in this abstract sense that Ramanujan ‘knew infinity’ – a deep concept much loved by ‘pure’
mathematicians but not what most readers had anticipated and few can appreciate.

So, in frustration, Ramanujan in 1913 started writing to eminent English mathematicians at Cambridge
University. His first two letters, to H.F. Baker and E.W. Hobson; who declined to offer help or advice.
Fortunately, his third letter was received positively by Godfrey Harold Hardy, who at 35 (but appeared
younger) was a full generation behind the other men and was developing a reputation for independent
thinking. Kanigel’s book is not only a biography of Ramanujan but includes a whole 48 page chapter
<IV> detailing Hardy’s very eccentric, yet private life, only hinted at in the film (including rumors of
homosexuality). But, in contrast to Ramanujan, who came from the top Hindu caste of Brahmins,
Hardy came from solid schoolteacher stock. His father, Isaac first taught geography at a grammar
school in Lincolnshire, his mother Sophia had been senior mistress teaching arithmetic at a religious
training college. In 1890 (aged 12) Hardy won the top scholarship to Winchester, the most academic of
England’s residential ‘public’ (really elite, single sex) schools. It was the brutal prefects (older boys,
who were encouraged to lord it over everyone else) that probably led to Hardy’s independent streak.
Hardy was fortunate to get personalized tuition from one of Winchester’s top mathematics teachers but
he was also interested in physics and history. His lifetime path was fixed at 15 by reading A Fellow of
Trinity by an ‘Alan St. Aubyn’; Hardy was fascinated and saw mathematics as his ticket to the future.
In 1896, he won a Major Scholarship to Cambridge’s leading (and largest) college, Trinity. Kanigel
does a fine job briefly summarizing the life at Cambridge and its influence in British society, especially
in Edwardian times. Success in the mathematics tripos exams determined one’s future, especially in
academia, even though top-10 success (known as ‘Wranglers’) predicted no research abilities. None-
the-less, Hardy (as a “natural competitor”) knuckled down to two-years of intense memorization with a
top coach to win this exam but came fourth in Part-1, to great acclaim. Next year, he sat the Part-2 of
the Tripos, which was more provocative and more challenging; he came first and promptly named a
Trinity Fellow, with guaranteed salary. The author gives a good feel for the social attitudes at
Cambridge in the early 1900s, as a “curious blend of the old Victorianism and the new, freer
Edwardianism” <140>. As summarized: “In the avant-garde world of which he was a part, Hardy was tolerated,
respected, appreciated for his personal charm; but the core of his life lay elsewhere. In mathematics? Certainly. In a
homosexual underworld? Only perhaps.” In Hardy’s academic and intellectual circles, a large fraction of elite
males never married; such a monastic life represented one pole of a common practice.

In 1906, forgoing becoming a tutor, so as to pursue research, Hardy became a Trinity lecturer, giving
only six hours of lectures each week on ‘elementary analysis’ and the ‘theory of functions’. Up to 1910,
Hardy also cranked out, up to 12 papers a year (but much later viewed these as “not important” <145>)
so that by 1910 he became a Fellow of the Royal Society (FRS). Several intellectuals at that time felt
there was a disdain in the English character for mere necessity; the amateur did what he did for love,
truth or beauty, not because necessity compelled it. This was certainly Hardy’s creed, as he proudly
wrote much later in his Apologia. Indeed, he pitied people, like myself, trained as mathematical
physicists, whose imaginations were constrained by reality. Real (or ‘pure’) mathematics, according to
Hardy) must be justified as an Art. This view resulted in Hardy building a ‘school’ of followers, who
were also attracted (like Hardy) to the Continental rigor exemplified by Camille Jordan, in his
influential text “Cours d’Analyse de l’Ecole Polytechnique”. This was a reaction to Newton’s intuitive
physics/mathematics (calculus) that by 1900 was being called by some academic mathematicians: “the
greatest disaster that befell not merely Cambridge mathematics in particular but British mathematics as a whole.” <148>;
they were motivated to insist on refining intuitively ‘obvious’ mathematics but often littered with
intellectual pitfalls.
This intuitive (Newtonian) approach is still used in teaching calculus to British students, in contrast to
‘Analysis’ that is associated with the famous names of Gauss, Abel, Cauchy and Riemann and
Anglicized by Hardy, in his 1908 influential text: A Course in Pure Mathematics. This was the state of
play (using one of Hardy’s beloved cricket metaphors) when he received the famous letter (from an
anonymous Indian accounting clerk in 1913), making astounding claims about prime numbers and
challenging one of Hardy’s well known mathematical tracts. This one-page letter was accompanied
with copies of nine pages from Ramanujan’s notebooks and a copy of his own published paper. Hardy
was deeply troubled by this Madras post-marked correspondence, as he often got letters from ‘cranks’
and was afraid of being hoaxed by the practical jokes that were popular at that time. So, later at dinner,
he raised the letter with his best friend and colleague, John Edensor Littlewood, a ‘senior Wrangler’
with a similar yeoman background but with a prodigious exposure to formal maths. In contrast to
Hardy, Littlewood was large, strong and liked women (but also remained a bachelor); they authored
over 100 mathematics research papers together. After three hours of jointly studying the letter, they
both concluded it was neither a hoax nor a fraud but the work of a mathematical genius. It is surprising
to read that this technique for uncovering a mathematical genius has had several historical precedents,
including the discovery of Jacobi by Legendre and then of Hermite by Jacobi but the great Karl Gauss
(1777-1855) failed with the unread letter from Niels Abel. But remember: Ramanujan’s letter had also
failed to impress either the conservatives, Baker or Hobson. Even Hardy later admitted: “I had never seen
anything in the least like them [these theorems] before.” And: “I have never met his equal, and I can only compare him
with Euler or Jacobi.” (No higher praise, as these two are considered to be at the heights of European
mathematics.) All his life, Hardy was sympathetic to the underdog, <171> as realized by Mary
Cartwright (a rare female mathematician). Hardy was opposed to those he called the “large-bottomed”
– the confident, imperialist bourgeois Englishmen, who included many of England’s bishops, judges,
generals and politicians.

Immediately, Hardy shared this dramatic letter all around Cambridge mathematicians; many were not
impressed. He also informed Ramanujan and the India Office (in Whitehall) that he wished to support
Ramanujan’s trip to Cambridge. But Brahmins were religiously forbidden “to cross the seas”. Hardy’s
reply had a dramatic impact in Madras, where Ramanujan was soon awarded a research scholarship at
the University of Madras that effectively doubled his pay. Soon, Hardy’s young colleague Eric Neville,
who had been asked to give lecture series at the University of Madras, was secretly tasked by Hardy to
persuade Ramanujan to come to England. He was successful and later became a new good friend at
Cambridge. The film also follows the book in showing the impact of the Great War on Cambridge. In
1916 Ramanujan was delighted to be awarded his BA “for research” – his large paper on ‘composite
numbers’ published in the previous year in the prestigious “Proceedings of the London Mathematical
Society”.

Ultimately, Ramanujan succumbed to TB (tuberculosis), which one English expert wrote was brought
on, or made worse, by “faulty modes of life”, such stressors as “overwork, over worry, poor or bad
nourishment, lack of sunshine and fresh air and overplay.” Poor Ramanujan was guilty of all of these
in Cambridge, except the last. In early 1917 he became seriously ill and had to go into a small, private
hospital but was a ‘bad patient’. Luckily, after 6 months he re-encountered an Indian specialist in TB,
who he had met on the ship to England 4 years earlier. This infectious disease, made worse by the War,
was yet to be treated with antibiotics and was responsible for one in eight deaths in British cities at that
time and found to be 30 times worse for dark-skinned immigrants with vitamin D deficiency, who were
often vegetarian. Ramanujan’s stress was increased by getting no letters from his wife, as his mother
was intercepting them (clearly shown in the film). Hardy was quite oblivious to all this until the illness;
perhaps because of Hardy’s extreme English reticence but mostly because these two men were not
intimate friends and did not share such personal experiences.
Hardy was successful in promoting Ramanujan’s acceptance in England – his biggest coup (occurred in
May 1918) was to have him awarded a Fellowship in the Royal Society (the UK’s leading scientific
society), so now, Ramanujan could officially add the prestigious letters FRS behind his name. This
good news was well received in India. It also helped mightily to lift Ramanujan’s spirits because only a
few weeks earlier, he had failed trying to commit suicide by throwing himself in front of a London
Underground train (police charges were soon dropped). The final accolade was Littlewood’s successful
sponsoring of a Trinity Fellowship for Ramanujan in October 1918, in spite of racist opposition by
some of Trinity’s more conservative fellows. One month later the Great War ended with an armistice,
so Ramanujan’s long delayed return to India was raised, particularly as his heath seemed improved. On
his glorious return to India, Ramanujan still had to hospitalized but his expenses, along with access to
their homes, were generously provided by rich Madrasi. He also accepted an offer of a professorship
at Madras University, which he said he would take up when well enough. At last, he could begin a real
relationship with Janaki, who was now 18. Old friends were shocked by his appearance and attitudes;
they found him “bitter, impatient, sour and quarrelsome” and his faith appeared tarnished. A Madras
TB specialist finally delivered the definitive diagnosis, which was death sentence. Ramanujan seemed
to fulfill an old observation of TB victims: that their creativity increased dramatically as their death
approached. He worked frantically (even on his death bed) and died on April 26, 1920 – aged 32. He
joined Gandhi and Tagore as heroes for many in India. Hardy finally got a letter from India informing
him of the death of Ramanujan (he later confessed that this was “one of the worst blows in his life”). The
letter also appealed for his financial help with Ramanujan’s now destitute wife and mother; Hardy
unfortunately failed to respond to this final pragmatic appeal, so the 20-year old widow (banned from
any remarriage) eked out the rest of her life as a tailor. But Hardy was successful in getting the
Cambridge University Press to publish a 355 page book of Ramanujan’s Collected Papers. This
opened the floodgates and dozens of academic papers were written inspired directly by Ramanujan’s
ideas; these were expanded when Ramanujan’s final Notebooks were published, edited by Hardy and
G. N. Watson: by 1940 he had been cited in other academic papers over 105 times. It is a pity that by
the 1950s his work was being increasingly ignored, especially in the USA, where newness was the
fashion.

Even people who gave up on mathematics long ago will gain some interesting insights into several
areas of mathematics (such as pi and e <208>, continued fractions <215>, primes and the Riemann zeta
function< 216 >) through the informative descriptions provided by Kanigel, an award winning author, a
former professor of science writing at MIT. I highly recommend this well-written, fascinating book.

Sadly, the rigidities of Ramanujan’s youth seems to have got worse in India as J. B. S. Haldane noted
that even rural Indian colleges still insisted on formal degrees for entry-level lectureships. Kanigel
ruefully admits that even Ramanujan’s genius may have not been enough if he had not been so lucky at
critical times in his life.

In summarizing the ‘War’ between Intuition and Systematic Proof, that is most easily demonstrated in
higher mathematics, we can allow England’s leading professional mathematician to have the last word.
Finally, Hardy agreed with the eminent German mathematician Felix Klein that it was fine to know all
the mathematical tools needed to prove a theorem – but you have to intuit a new theorem first. A new
theorem itself was apt to emerge (like other creative products) usually after countless hours of work.
Many mathematical ‘technicians’ can follow a step-by-step proof but not many could invent anything
new, as history has shown.
As many realize: the deck is stacked against any original mind, especially by conservative academics;
this is especially true in academic mathematics (as Ramanujan discovered), where few study their own
history as they believe they are discovering the Truth. This book concentrated on the story of a rare
genius but the issues raised go far beyond pure mathematics. At the end of the day, Hardy’s greatest
achievement was to bring Ramanujan ‘mathematically up to speed’ (professionally) without muzzling
his creativity (intuition) or damping the fires of his enthusiasm. However, even Hardy admitted that his
greatest discovery in mathematics was Ramanujan.

This book caused me to think more about the rigidities of our society. Professionals are identified today
because they can pass the qualifying exams: they have demonstrated good (declarative) memories and
are more than willing to follow orders and traditions. This means that our education system works to
exclude the most original and creative individuals from higher posts in our increasingly bureaucratic
world – whether governments, corporations or other large institutions (like universities). While this
may have worked well enough in the last 300 years, our accelerating technologies and globalizing
world has meant we are rapidly facing Earth-threatening crises and need highly innovative solutions.
Unfortunately, senior decision-makers have invested their lives in protecting old ideas, so even if rare
creative individuals come up with revolutionary ideas, it is unlikely these risky strategies will be taken.

Finally, I hope this extensive review helps the expanding army of ‘Skimmers’, who fail even to open
larger texts whenever they can retreat from their omnipresent electronic devices, to become more aware
of this little known genius. Perhaps, some people here will be brave enough to read this excellent book.