What was
he saying? Who was he? What had happened to him? Was he
reciting some grievance, bemoaning some loss, or threatening
vengeance? What was he nagging me about? Questions such as
these would keep pecking at my heart, and this pain, this
excruciating curiosity, I would call keen enjoyment
In like manner every difficult mathematical problem seemed to
shelter some unknown fellow who took pleasure in teasing me
and daring me to find him. It was the same mischievous fellow, in
fact, who used to laugh in my face when I had a difficult bit of
Talmud to unravel
"Why, geometry is even deeper than Talmud," I once exclaimed to
Jake
"Do you think so?" he answered, indifferently
"I think an interesting geometrical problem is more delicious than
the best piece of meat."
"Why don't you live on problems, then? Why spend money on
dinners?"
"Smart boy, aren't you?"
"Is doing problems as sweet as being in love?" he demanded, with
sheepish earnestness
"You are in love with Madame Klesmer. You ought to know."
He made no answer
On the day when I began these studies I had thirty-six dollars
besides the hundred which I kept in the savings-bank.
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