As an ordinary mathematics student at university, I found myself deeply fascinated by the proof methods of theorems presented in every class. Each proof felt like a testament to human ingenuity, unraveling complex problems with elegance and simplicity. Though I was often unable to perform the proofs myself, there was something profoundly satisfying about witnessing the clarity with which someone else could steer through these mathematical labyrinths. Their logical flow and the inevitable ‘aha!’ moment brought a sense of fulfillment, akin to a spectator witnessing an artist turn a blank canvas into a masterpiece.
One day, our math professor invited us to his house for dinner, an invitation that piqued the curiosity in each of us about the personal life of someone we deeply admired. This was the man who often seemed lost among the thousands of books lining the walls of his room at the university — a room that felt like a sanctuary of knowledge and scholarship.
As a student who had only ever witnessed the academic facet of his life, the prospect of stepping into the home of a real mathematician was both thrilling and intimidating. Would his place reflect the exact order of his mind or reveal an unexpected side of our esteemed professor? The anticipation was as palpable as it was mixed with respectful awe.
