How could anyone enjoy Cédric Villani’s ‘Birth of a Theorem’? I think I’ve worked it out

I’ve got a mathematical problem. Birth of a Theorem is by one of the great geniuses of today, a cosmopolitan, liberal-minded man who helps his wife look after their children, likes big-hearted folk songs, welcomes diversity and wears the same jewellery as I do. But as a contribution to the genre of popular maths, the book stinks.

To give the problem extra calculus, my favourite maths writer is a sour-faced white supremacist with a mouth the shape of staple, who thinks women in America should be deprived of the vote and apparently calls himself ‘Derb’. An honest reviewer should obey his prejudices, so I’ve tried to find a way to cover up my dislike of Cédric Villani’s book, just as I tried to find a way I could slag off John Derbyshire’s excellent Prime Obsession (about the Riemann Hypothesis) when it came out. It’s not possible. There’s hardly a chapter in Birth of a Theorem that I could enjoy. But I’ve had a breakthrough. I have realised that I’ve had been looking at Villani’s Theorem in the wrong light.

There are three ways to write a popular maths book. The first is to ignore mathematics. G.H Hardy’s 1940 classic, A Mathematician’s Apology, is the best example of this approach. Another tactic is to get down your old university textbooks, take a deep breath and train the reader up through the mathematical basics of your chosen subject, using a combination of technical exercises and metaphors. (This is John Derbyshire’s style: his Unknown Quantity is one of the best histories of algebra there is.)

The third, and most common, method is to toy with the subject using a combination of anecdotes and interviews. This is to mathematics what a Smarties McFlurry is to haute cuisine. Often such books blow up two-thirds of the way through, when the author tries to bring the subject up to date in a explosion of impenetrable jargon that leaves the reader feeling panic-stricken and utterly stupid.