If G. H. Hardy is much thought about these days (and beyond fellow mathematicians, he probably isn’t), it is as much for his dazzling aphorisms as his dizzying flights in the upper reaches of number theory.

“There is no permament place in the world,” he declared, “for ugly mathematics”. This has led to Hardy being characterised as an aesthete in the Wildean mould, compounded by C. P. Snow‘s dark references to his sexuality (in the foreward to Hardy’s autobiographical A Mathematician’s Apology, Snow alludes to “intense affections” for young men, “absorbing … exalted” but – to Snow’s no doubt immense relief – “non-physical”).

But the equivocation is doubly misplaced.

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