A novel and its numbers: a novel as its numbers. And why not, if, as Pound puts it, “number is the source of all things.” It was the Pythagoreans who first started suggesting that an elaborate system of numerical resemblances exist between nature and the cosmos. The Pythagoreans believed that numbers not only possessed attributes (reason, opinion, harmony, and justice) but also, Aristotle writes, “since it seemed clear that all other things have their whole nature modeled upon numbers, and that numbers are the ultimate things in the whole physical universe, they assumed the elements of numbers to be the elements of everything, and the whole universe to be a proportion or number.” A lot happens to get numbers from the cosmos of the fifth century BCE to the computer of the mid-20th CE, but the basic idea that a number is something to be seen, heard, and read remains to this day. And that’s just one part of the equation.
Among the things I have not missed since entering middle age is the sensation of being an absolute beginner. It has been decades since I’ve sat in a classroom in a gathering cloud of incomprehension (Algebra 2, tenth grade) or sincerely tried, lesson after lesson, to acquire a skill that was clearly not destined to play a large role in my life (modern dance, twelfth grade). Learning to ride a bicycle in my early thirties was an exception—a little mortifying when my husband had to run alongside the bike, as you would with a child—but ultimately rewarding. Less so was the time when a group of Japanese schoolchildren tried to teach me origami at a public event where I was the guest of honor—I’ll never forget their sombre puzzlement as my clumsy fingers mutilated yet another paper crane.
For the first time in our 10 years together, we needed to be alone. I tried to manufacture this by going on walks on my own, but a short stroll in the local park wasn’t doing the job. I was keen to venture into the Dales but reluctant to go solo. I’ve hiked all over the world (Patagonia in Argentina, the Dolomites in Italy, the Semien mountains in Ethiopia), but always in a pair or group. The spectre of “stranger danger” means I’m not entirely comfortable alone in remote spaces. I considered my options and hit upon an idea: the semi-solo hike.
Pavel Lembersky lives between two languages. His short stories, originally written in Russian and brought into English through the deft work of translators such as Jane Miller, Sergey Levchin, Alex Cigale, Ross Ufberg, Kerry Philben, Lydia Bryans, and the author himself, appeared last year in a collection titled The Death of Samusis, and Other Stories. Like Lembersky himself, almost all of the characters in Samusis are Soviet immigrants, many of whom pepper their English with Russian words or their Russian with English. Theirs is a hybrid experience, double-sided, and, as a result, Samusis is rife with innuendo.
The Liar’s Dictionary may ultimately excite the intellect more than the heart. But as its characters struggle to free themselves from all artifice, even—or maybe especially—that of language, you may find yourself wanting to stand back to see the bigger picture, even as you lean in close to examine its dots.
From the blockbuster 2018 movie “Black Panther” to the new "Future State" series from DC Comics that's about a Batman who is Black, the comic book universe continues to make strides toward meaningful representation.
But exclusion used to be the norm, not just for fictional characters of color, but also for real-life artists during the golden age of comic books, an era that stretched from the late 1930s to the mid-1950s.