**Episode 2:
Captain Math and the Case of Mistaken Identity**

**Episode #3:
**

**Episode #4:
**

(And, because you know I have to say it: check out my new book! It’s about calculus and it will make your soul grow 1 to 2%, guaranteed!)

]]>(Please, hold your raucous applause.)

Oddly enough, this joke belongs to a micro-genre of “humor about failed transformations.”

For example, Taryn is also a big fan of this cartoon:

And back in the day, she was a staunch advocate of this video:

Help me out, folks. It’s her birthday next week. What are some other jokes playing on the concept of illogical or ill-conceived transformations?

]]>**Change is the Only Constant** explores the human side of calculus through 28 stories, illustrated with nearly 500 all-new, still-bad drawings. The narratives span from the ancient past to the sci-fi future, each with a kernel of truth about our changing world and the mathematical language thereof.

Starring characters include a wily princess, a dancing speck of dust, and, naturally, a genius dog.

Why calculus? Isn’t that a weed-out class, a college admissions stunt, a gatekeeper for the technical professions? Exactly right—which is why I wanted to show a different side of the subject, a calculus for everyone.

You’ll find the pages of **Change is the Only Constant **populated not just by name-brand scientists like Archimedes and Einstein, but also by novelists, poets, moral philosophers, and high school English teachers.

It is surreal and delightful to have some of my creative heroes saying things like this:

“It’s the first—and so far only—book of mathematics that I read entirely in a single sitting!” –Ryan North, author of

Dinosaur ComicsandHow to Invent Everything

“This is the book I wish I had before I ever learned what a limit is.” – Zach Weinersmith, creator of

Saturday Morning Breakfast CerealandNew York Timesbestselling author

“Wit that had me laughing from page one.” –Grant Sanderson, creator of

3Blue1Brown

“A funny, smart, endlessly engaging book—that just happens to be about one of the most important and complicated subjects on the planet.” –David Litt,

New York Times-bestselling author ofThanks, Obamaand speechwriter for President Obama

“Orlin’s storybook telling of the history of math is a treat for your inner geek, and a major gift for your adult mind.” –Rebecca Dinerstein, author and screenwriter of

The Sunlit Night

“In Ben Orlin’s delightful treatment, calculus is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get next.” –Steven Strogatz, professor of mathematics at Cornell University and author of

Infinite Powers

Anyway, if I may be so bold, **I humbly invite you to preorder!** All preorders count towards first-week sales, and that number is paramount for a book’s success. It will help me share these stories as widely as possible, as well as afford the finest carrot sticks and oatmeal for my growing (and ravenously hungry) family.

You can preorder at your favorite local bookstore, as well as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Walmart, Target, Books-A-Million, Powell’s, and Indiebound.

As a tasty bonus, once you’ve got a preorder receipt from any bookseller, you’re eligible to receive an **exclusive signed print** courtesy of my publisher Black Dog & Leventhal. (As they say, Terms and Conditions apply, so check out the form.)

When I settled on the title ** Change is the Only Constant** in 2018, I did not realize how fitting it would prove. By the time the book comes out, I’ll have moved from Massachusetts to Minnesota. I’ll have returned to the classroom after a lonely two-year absence.

And that’s not to mention the real change: the football-sized sentience that just came into my life, holding my finger in one tiny hand and my heart in the other.

The calendar says that I’ve been a father for twelve days, but to me, it feels more like twelve seconds.

Also, twelve centuries.

This baby causes time to collapse around her. She yawns, and continents drift. She cries, and light slows to a crawl. She coos, and my heart expands into a giant red star that engulfs the earth.

Change, as they say, is the only constant.

]]>It was a fine February day, and the math department at Baylor had laid out a lovely snack table, including two beverages:

- Hibiscus green tea (which was a deep, mossy green); and
- Limeade (which was a pale, electric green).

Both looked pretty tasty.

“Does anyone ever mix the two?” I asked. “Like an Arnold Palmer, but… green?” Folks shrugged and shook their heads. So I decided to give it a shot.

And then…

In a room full of theoreticians, we soon developed plenty of conjectures. Perhaps it was an acid-base reaction. Perhaps the pink substance was there all along, somehow. Perhaps someone was pregnant.

(This last theory came from the department chair. Visionary leaders do not shy away from strange theories.)

Plenty of conjectures, but no answers.

So I reached out to Zoe’s Kitchen, the creators of these chemically active beverages, and pleaded for their help. An employee named Maya replied:

I looped with our Food Safety Quality Engineer here [someone named Zach] at Zoës Kitchen and he let me know that this change of color has to do with the pH of the mixture. Hibiscus is sensitive to acidity and is red/pink at low pH (i.e. higher acid) and blue/green at high pH.

Someone on Twitter elaborated with a link to this image:

Why, then, does Green + Green = Pink? We’ll take it one step at a time.

The first “green” is green tea, which tends to be basic (various online sources put its pH between 7 and 10).

The second “green” is limeade, which tends to be acidic (most lemon/lime drinks seem to have a pH around 3).

And the pink – well, that’s the hibiscus in the green tea, reacting to its newly acidified environs, and thwarting my dream of a Green Arnold Palmer.

]]>First thought: *They don’t. I just love ’em.*

Second thought: *That’s not a very good answer, Ben*.

Third thought, this one aloud: *Mumble mumble. Words?*

Now, having had a few months to indulge in l’espirit de l’escalier, I’ve got a tentative answer. It goes like this:

The field of data analytics is conquering the world. Our emotions, our behaviors, our precious bodily fluids – all are becoming subject to statistical analysis (and thence to algorithmic manipulation). It’s cool. It’s scary. And it raises questions.

Questions like: “What might our numbers leave out?”

Questions like: “Do the data confirm old wisdom, or upend it?”

Questions like: “Will experts become obsolete in an era of all-powerful, all-purpose machine learning?”

Questions like: “Do all these numbers dull the poetry of human life? Do they turn the fertile jungle of experience into something cold and gray, like lunar soil?”

And here’s why baseball matters: Because it entered the data analytics era two decades ahead of everybody else. The sport has spent 20 years negotiating, compromising, learning. It models for us the pitfalls and possibilities of statistics.

Baseball shows us how early adopters will grab low-hanging fruit.

It shows us how jealous rivals will blunder along, uncomprehending, in their wake.

It shows us how rich institutions will learn to leverage their resources, perhaps exacerbating inequality.

It shows us how old-school experts will prove wrong about a lot, and right about a lot.

It shows us how the best organizations achieve a synthesis of organic wisdom and statistical analysis, an alloy stronger than either approach alone.

In short, why does baseball matter? Because it shows us what the data analytics era will become.

]]>PhD in applied math at MIT? Also impressive.

Four consecutive consonants in your surname? *Very* impressive.

Perhaps none of these achievements, in isolation, is enough to confer celebrity. But look to the center of this peculiar Venn diagram, and you will find only a single name inscribed: John Urschel.

Urschel’s new memoir—Mind and Matter: A Life in Math and Football, cowritten with his partner Louisa Thomas—is a good classroom book, a multipurpose tool. His NFL background makes him a role model for the reluctant. His logic puzzles are brain food for the math-hungry. And his dual career is a conversation starter for everyone else.

In short, there’s something for everyone. Especially teachers.

From the educator’s perspective, Urschel’s story is valuable not because it is rare, but because it is common. It’s what every promising young mathematician goes through: a roller coaster of motivation and apathy, a journey of bridges and roadblocks, an education that’s never perfect, but sometimes good enough.

Five takeaways for me:

**Boredom is a power outage**.

John’s early teachers missed his mathematical potential. One even said that he should repeat a grade.

Why didn’t they see the shining light of his ability? Because, when a kid is sufficiently bored, you can’t see *anything*, shining or not.

Listen to Urschel’s account:

I hated school. In the classroom, I was bored and sullen. My mind wandered. I spent half the day counting the flecks in the linoleum floor.

Boredom throws everything into darkness. A kid’s abilities, his needs, his gifts, his gaps… under the blackout lighting of boredom, it all looks the same.

**Don’t pander**.

Here is John’s description of the first teacher whose style really gripped him:

The way he did it was not flashy. He did not show us catchy experiments or try to communicate just how weird the material was. He was not particularly enthusiastic or charismatic….

Not exactly *Dead Poet’s Society*, huh?

But for reasons I couldn’t quite explain at the time, I heard something deep and resonant in his nondescript, matter-of-fact way of lecturing. …. [he] was knowledgeable and thoughtful, and—most important—he encouraged us to learn and think for ourselves.

Strained analogies, dubious “real-world” connections, non sequitur photos of jets—that won’t cut it for students like John.

They want the math.

Math can be captivating, just as vegetables can be delicious—as long as you don’t make the mistake of coating them with frosting.

**Build ambition.**

In a passage that was adapted for the *New York Times*, John issues a kind of challenge to the nation’s math teachers: to dream bigger.

I wish some of my teachers had been more like my football coaches. I wish they’d shown the same passion about their subjects and had the same impulse to recognize and nurture potential. I excelled in math and science at an academic powerhouse, and my academic potential was clearly greater than my potential on the field, but none of my teachers ever told me that if I dedicated my time and my full focus to math or physics, then I could be a great mathematician or scientist. No one in high school ever called the MIT or Princeton math departments and told them to recruit me. No one ever told me I could be Albert Einstein or John von Neumann, arguably the most brilliant mathematician of the twentieth century. (Nobody even told me who John von Neumann was.)

John isn’t knocking his individual teachers. He’s trying to nudge the culture in a new direction.

I understand why they did not say those things: my teachers would have sounded ridiculous! But there is something to be said for having the imagination to aspire to the very highest goals, and for giving and getting the encouragement to commit oneself to get there.

This is, I think, the highest purpose of Urschel’s book itself—to give students something to dream for.

**Give chances to excel**.

We all know students want to be challenged. But more than that, they want to glow, to achieve, to thrive, *to* *feel excellent at math*.

Urschel’s mother may have understood this better than his teachers did:

Instead of giving me an allowance for making my bed or taking out the trash, when we went to the store, she would let me keep the change if I could calculate her change before the cashier gave it to her. Pretty quickly, I became quite good at that. To protect her pocketbook, she upped the challenge. Instead of calculating the change in my head, she had me calculate the sales tax before the cashier rang up the items.

In John’s telling, and in my experience, students love what they feel great at. This can be scary for teachers—it risks creating winners, losers, hierarchies—but we’d be fools to ignore it.

**Curiosity is fire**.

As a kid, John would spend occasional evenings diving down rabbit holes of independent inquiry. Yet he never discussed this with his teachers. Contrast that with his first experience of mathematical research with Professor Vadim Kaloshin:

It is fascinating to see your progress and enthusiasm, he emailed me one day. No other comment or kind of praise could have made me feel so good—or make me want to work even harder.

As a teacher, you’re desperately busy with two tasks: building an obstacle course (homework, quizzes, tests), and helping students through it (feedback, lesson planning, extra help sessions). It’s easy to forget that the whole game is an artificial labyrinth, disconnected from later life.

Out there in the world, nothing is more valuable than curiosity and independence. John found his. It’s our job to help other students find theirs.

And luckily, we’ve got John’s book to help.

]]>(And no, it’s not that a few good drawings slipped through.)

This fallibility should surprise no one. My editorial team is full of heroes, but with an author like me, mistakes are inevitable. Especially on difficult tasks like, say, shopping for produce, or not walking face-first into parking meters.

I would love to correct these errors, but the book is a victim of its own success: as the hardcover continues to sell like misshapen hotcakes, it may be a while before we do a paperback or a second edition.

In the meantime, I will document the errors below, updating the list whenever a new one comes to my attention. Please feel encouraged to comment with any additional typos that you’ve noticed!

**Page 36: “Borromean” rings**

Here is a beautiful idea: three rings intertwined, such that if you remove any one of them, the other two separate. They are linked not as pairs, but only as a trio.

With this lovely trait, the Borromean rings can serve as a lovely metaphor for many things. A delicate political alliance. Sternberg’s triarchic theory of love. Perhaps even the Christian trinity. (Having read some G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis, it is my understanding that basically everything is a metaphor for the Christian trinity.)

Unfortunately, I did not draw Borromean rings.

I drew two linked rings, with an extraneous third ring snuggled up alongside them, desperately pretending that it matters. This is a much less useful metaphor, although it does resemble my behavior while my wife is bonding with a stranger’s dog.

I thank Damaris O’Trand and others for bringing this error to my attention.

**Page 56: m vs. cm**

In this passage, I urge you to build a triangle of side lengths 5, 6, and 7 meters. This unwieldy monstrosity will no doubt occupy your entire yard, prompting squabbles with the neighbors. Your only solace is that I have promised to build one too.

But then, I betray you! The drawing shows that I have constructed instead a petite, portable triangle with sides of 5, 6, and 7 *centimeters*.

I apologize for this devious switch (and I apologize also to the kind soul who pointed it out to me and whose name I have misplaced).

**Chapter 7: Irrational Paper**

In my zealous advocacy for A4 paper, I went too far. Perhaps this is why they call me “Overzealous Orlin.”

(NOTE: please, no one call me Overzealous Orlin.)

It is slander to say that 8.5″ by 11″ paper bears no relation to larger or smaller sizes. Two sheets yield the next size up (11″ by 17″), and half a sheet yields the next size down (5.5″ by 8.5″). In that sense, it’s just good as A4.

But there’s a problem. While 8.5″ by 11″ has a long-side-to-short-side ratio of 1.29, its neighbors each have ratios of 1.55. They are, in short, different shapes. If you’ve ever tried enlarging or scaling down a photocopy, you recognize the madness this causes.

What makes the A-series special is its *proportionality*. Every paper in that glorious sequence is a similar rectangle, a scaled version of its brethren.

I knew all this when I was writing the chapter, yet I allowed the heat of rhetoric to carry me too far. I thank Joe Sweeney for the correction, and I apologize to 8.5″ by 11″ paper: you are still inferior, of course, but not as inferior as I suggested.

**Page 225: “Singles”**

In writing *Math with Bad Drawings*, I did my best to shun the kind of daunting technicality that drives so many from the gates of mathematics. So please forgive me for diving into the weeds here, but grasping this miscue requires real sophistication; a doctorate will help.

The text above asserts that a “single” in baseball is worth 2 bases.

It also asserts that 12 x 2 = 12.

Now, these claims may look perfectly credible to the outsider. But expert sabermetricians will recognize a small yet meaningful error in the first claim. Meanwhile, number theorists may be able to spot a minor inaccuracy in the second.

I thank Andrew Fast for calling this to my attention.

**Page 337: “Stage” Dead**

I meant to write “stay dead.”

Though actually, “stage dead” could be a cool new idiom.

So you know what? I do NOT regret this error. Come at me, grammarians!

]]>In that vein, one of the best books I’ve read this year is ** Dispatches From Planet 3, by Marcia Bartusiak**. Although it’s not her exclusive focus, Bartusiak explores lots of wrong turns: notions that were superseded, theories that were discarded, and false starts that were forgotten by mainstream science.

I find the tales humbling. They teach us how science really advances: sometimes by inches, sometimes by leaps, yet always clouded by daring and doubt.

I recommend the whole book, but here are five of my favorite moments.

**1.**

**The “Coincidence” of Binary Stars**

By the 1700s, astronomers had spotted many binary star systems, in which two stars orbit like pair-bonded swans.

But as Bartusiak relates, they were written off as tricks of the eye:

The common wisdom of the time declared that such stars were actually at various distances from Earth and closely aligned in the sky by chance alone – that it was an illusion that they were connected in any way.

That’s how constellations work, after all. Totally disconnected stars, viewed from our particular spot in the galaxy, happen to look like bears and crabs and whatever a “sagittarius” is. Why shouldn’t binary stars be the same?

This strikes me as a laudable stance. Humans always jump to hasty conclusions, finding meaning in spurious patterns. Shouldn’t we celebrate the astronomers’ skeptical distance, their intellectual restraint?

Sure, they were wrong, but don’t hold that against them!

It took an innovative argument from John Michell to persuade the community. He drew on the new science of statistics, a perfect toolkit for sorting signal from noise, pattern from coincidence. He calculated that for so many pairs of stars to align in such close proximity, the odds were… well, astronomical. The alignment must be real.

**2.**

**The Dance of Planet Classification**

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

(1) A new body is discovered in the solar system, and is hailed in textbooks and the press as a new planet.

(2) It turns out to be kinda small. Other, comparably-sized objects are discovered in its neighborhood.

(3) The planet is demoted.

This isn’t the story of Pluto. Well, it is. But it’s also the story of Ceres, the largest asteroid, and (at one time) the first “planet” discovered since antiquity.

(I like to imagine the pro-Ceres forces mounted a fierce backlash campaign, but scientific expediency won in the end.)

The moral, as I see it: New discoveries re-contextualize old ones. It wasn’t wrong to dub Ceres a planet. But as our picture of the solar system came into tighter focus, it became easier to shift our language, reserving the word “planet” for the big stuff, and developing a new word for Ceres-like objects.

**3.**

**Alien Signals, Alien Noise**

In the early 1900s, telescopes revealed dry canyons on Mars. Many folks, excited at the prospect of alien life, took them for canals dug by a civilization.

This was no fringe view. In fact – one of my favorite facts in Bartusiak’s whole book – in 1907, the *Wall Street Journal* ranked the “evidence” of Martians as the biggest news story of the year.

(Spoilers: they’re not canals.)

Another alien scare came in 1967, when Jocelyn Bell detected the first pulsar. The electromagnetic pulses seemed too fast and regular to be natural. They must be aliens! (Some even dubbed them LGM, for Little Green Men.) But as Bartusiak explains, more pulsars were discovered, allowing Bell to silence the whispers of “alien, alien!”:

It was highly unlikely, she said, that there were “lots of little green men on opposite sides of the universe” using the same frequency to get Earth’s attention.”

The “hey, aliens!” mistake might seem silly. But heck, I found myself tempted to make it last year, with Oumuamua. An object from beyond the solar system, moving right by the sun at vast speeds, with strange and inexplicable dimensions? Sign me up!

Astronomers, of course, were more skeptical. And Bartusiak’s stories show why: the absence of an explanation, exciting though it may be, is not evidence of aliens.

**4.
**

In his primitive telescope, Galileo became perhaps the first human to glimpse the rings of Saturn. (Right on, Galileo. I hope there’s no bad blood between us after my recent roasting of him.)

But as Bartusiak reveals, he had no idea what the rings *were*.

“The star of Saturn is not a single star,” he wrote, “but is a composite of three, which almost touch each other.”

That’s what it looked like, anyway.

The true explanation would take generations to develop. Did these bodies touch each other, or not? Was this a single ring, or many? Was each ring a solid object, or a myriad of tiny reflective particles?

I had no idea the question stood unanswered for so long, and attracted the attention of so many name-brand scientists (Huygens, Cassini, Laplace, and Maxwell, to name four).

It goes to show: simple answers do not always come simply.

**5.**

**The First Extrasolar Planet (Wasn’t Real)**

I remember the thrill I felt as a kid, reading about the first extrasolar planets, the first hard evidence of other solar systems.

I didn’t know then – in fact, I didn’t know until reading Bartusiak’s book – that in the 1960s, it was widely reported that astronomer Peter van de Kamp had discovered a planet orbiting Barnard’s star. His methods, his evidence, his reasoning – all sound.

But attempts at confirmation failed. Science works like that, sometimes. The discovery, in Bartusiak’s phrase, “disappeared from the history books.”

Luckily, the discovery made it to Bartusiak’s book.

We learn through mistakes. And if you want the deepest, hardest lessons, then you need to learn from the subtlest, most sympathetic mistakes. That’s the joy I got from Bartusiak’s book: to see great wrong ideas of the past, in all their brilliance and beauty.

]]>Pythagoras was many wonderful things. A delirious mystic. A benevolent cult leader. A bean-hating vegetarian. A real person (maybe).

One thing he was not: the guy who gave us the Pythagorean Theorem.

So why does he get his name on it? I cry foul. I cry “no more.” I cry, “Let us band together and vote on a better name for this ancient theorem! Not because it will actually result in a name change, but because it’s a fun debate!”

Who’s with me?!

I submit for your consideration the following names, from Hambrecht and the other clever folks in his thread:

**The Three Squares Theorem**. Although we perceive it as a claim about numbers, for most mathematical cultures, this was a claim about*shapes*. To wit: if you affix squares to the sides of a right triangle, the two smaller areas add up to equal the largest.**The Babylonian Formula**. Give credit where credit is due! As Hambrecht says, this name “has the hint of far-away times and places… Through millenia and continents, this piece of math connects us to strange, alien people, yet so much our equals.” He calls it “fuel for children’s imaginations.” Even more important, as an astute observer points out: it can be abbreviated as “Baby Formula.”**The Distance Theorem**. The theorem’s most ubiquitous use is in finding distances, especially in higher dimensions.**The Huey Lewis Theorem**. Proposed (or, pun-posed) by Susan Burns, because, and I quote: “It’s hyp to be square…or is that b-squared?”**The Adrakhonic Theorem**, because that’s what it’s called in Neal Stephenson’s novel Anathem (which I just added to my reading list).**Squaring the Triangle.**Olaf Doschke’s suggestion, with a ring of the famously impossible “squaring the circle.”**The Sum of Squares Theorem**. Descriptive, clear.**Garfield’s Theorem**. Because if we’re just naming it after a random dude who supplied a proof, why not pick an assassinated U.S. president?**Theorem 3-4-5.**After the most famous Pythagorean triple.**Euclid, Book I, Proposition 47.**“Like chapter and verse in the mathematical bible,” explains George Jelliss.**The Hypotenuse Theorem**. Because it’s all about that longest side.**The Right Theorem**. Because it’s all about that right angle. (Also, because it’s right.)**The Distance/Area Theorem**. Because it’s all about multiple things at once.**The Benjamin Watson Theorem**. Because of this heroic, historic tackle, brought to my attention by Fawn Nguyen in her appearance on My Favorite Theorem.

Now, we could leave it there. We could say, “This has been a fruitful discussion. Let’s call it a day!” We could say, “Obviously a random blog post isn’t going to succeed in renaming the most famous theorem in mathematics, so let’s go home and eat raisins and watch sitcom reruns like the human mediocrities we are.”

But I say no! I say it’s time for a referendum!

What say *you*, good people of the internet? What is the best name for this fundamental theorem of geometry?

Other ideas are, of course, welcome in the comments below.

]]>**Rhymes with Orange, by Hilary Price.**

Where *Doonesbury* bites, *Dilbert* groans, and *Peanuts* waxes philosophical, *Rhymes with Orange* has a lighter touch. The gags come out of nowhere, like tickling fingers.

I wasn’t thinking about math when I picked up a copy of the first collected volume (published back in 1997). But then I ran into this pretty great surface area joke:

That got me seeking more. And, with the help of Price’s admirably searchable website, I found the gallery that follows – it turns out that math is a topic she has circled back to time and again over the years.

From December 17, 1997:

(This contradicts the famous “half plus seven” rule, whereby the youngest partner a 34-year-old can consider is half 34, plus 7. In other words, 24. Price’s model looks more complicated, but may have more empirical validity.)

From May 9, 2000:

(Sigh.)

From February 17, 2013:

(I don’t know why I find this so funny, but I find it SO FUNNY.)

From August 22, 2011:

(Moore’s Law for stones?)

From January 17, 2015:

(I hope to make this order in a restaurant someday.)

From October 26, 2017:

(I assume that’s division rather than a cube root. Anyway, it’s a great gag.)

From October 17, 2013:

(True facts! Well, not about Rome’s fall – as I understand it lead pipes and bureaucratic sprawl were involved – but about the disadvantages of Roman numerals, and the efficiencies that led to the adoption of our own system!)

From December 5, 2011:

(I’ve heard tell of a problem like this: so many variables that they exhausted the English *and* Greek alphabets, and had to summon emergency back-ups from Hebrew.)

From October 2, 2010:

(Sounds persuasive to me.)

From April 3, 2008:

(Totally using this next time I teach inverse relationships.)

And finally, from February 17, 2010, by guest cartoonist Mo Willems:

**

To recap: how does Price find humor in math? In any number of ways. I find their variety instructive:

- Satirizing its inscrutability (as in the “girl years” and “run out of letters” gags);
- Playfully misapplying its concepts (“only $0.79 an ounce”; “60/40 split pea”);
- Drawing unexpected parallels (“more power in this little abacus”);
- Lamenting the experience of math education (“now we are going to learn percentages”; “no relying on the wand”);
- Playing the logical strictures of math against the illogic of emotion (“isosceles”; “couch-to-door ratio”).

Some of these take the stance of an outsider, to whom math is a blur. Others feel like jokes any math insider might make.

What I appreciate most is the coexistence, the blending, of those two perspectives. It suggests that this thing called mathematics – this exalted, despised, exoticized subject – is perhaps a human activity like any other. It’s part of our common inheritance, along with language and color and humor.

Of course, I’m sure Price intends no such grand statement through her mathematical cartoons – which is exactly why I love ’em.

]]>