The Life of the Fly 



always thinking of them. This method I 

 practised more sedulously than my comrade; 

 and hence, no doubt, arose the interchange of 

 positions, the disciple turned into the master. 

 It was not, however, an overwhelming in- 

 fatuation, a painful obsession; it was rather 

 a recreation, almost a poetic feast. As our 

 great lyric writer put it in the preface to his 

 volume, Les Rayons et les ombres:^ 



'Mathematics play their part in art as well 

 as in science. There is algebra in astronomy : 

 astronomy is akin to poetry; there is algebra 

 in music : music is akin to poetry.' 



Is this poetic exaggeration? Surely not: 

 Victor Hugo spoke truly. Algebra, the poem 

 of order, has magnificent flights. I look upon 

 its formulae, its strophes as superb, without 

 feeling at all astonished when others do not 

 agree. My colleague's satirical look came 

 back when I was imprudent enough to con- 

 fide my extrageometrical raptures to his ears: 



'Nonsense,' said he, 'pure stuff and non- 

 sense! Let's get on with our tangents.' 



The quartermaster was right: the strict 

 severity of our approaching examination al- 

 lowed of no such dreamer's outbursts. Was 

 I, on my side, very wrong? To warm chill 



^Published in 1840. — Translator's Note. 

 302 



