I Am a Strange Loop

And thus it wasn’t long before savvy audiences were reinterpreting the droll remarks by the oddball numerologist Qéé Dzhii (a character in Prince Hyppia: Math Dramatica who had gained notoriety for her nearly nonstop jabbering about why she preferred saucy numbers to prim numbers) as revealing, via allusions that now seemed hilariously obvious, why she preferred dramatic lines that were unpennable (using the dramaturgical conventions of the day) to lines that were pennable. Drama lovers considered this new way of understanding the play too delicious for words, for it revealed Prince Hyppia to be a play-about-a-play (with a vengeance!), although most of the credit for this insight was given to the brash young foreign critic rather than to the venerable elder playwright.

Y. Ted Enrustle, poor fellow, was simply gobsmacked — there’s no other word for it. How could anyone in their right mind take Qéé Dzhii’s lines in this preposterous fashion? They were only about numbers! After all, to write a drama that was about numbers and only about numbers had been his sole ambition, and he had slaved away for years to accomplish that noble goal!

Y. Ted Enrustle lashed out vehemently in print, maintaining that his play was decidedly not about a play, let alone about itself! Indeed, he went so far as to insist that Gerd Külot’s review could not conceivably be about Prince Hyppia: Math Dramatica but had to be about another play, possibly a related play, perhaps an analogous play, perchance even a perfectly parallel play, peradventure a play with a similar-sounding title penned by a pair of paranoiac paradoxophobes, but in any case it was not about his play.

And yet, protest though he might, there was nothing at all that Y. Ted Enrustle could do about how audiences were now interpreting his beloved play’s lines, because the two notions — the sauciness of certain integers and the unpennability of certain lines of theatrical dialogue — were now seen by enlightened playgoers as precisely isomorphic phenomena (every bit as isomorphic as the parallel escapades of Aurélie and Pomponnette). The subtle mapping discovered by the impish Külot and gleefully revealed in his review made both meanings apply equally well (at least to anyone who had read and understood the review). The height of the irony was that, in the case of a few choice arithmetical remarks such as Prince Hyppia’s famous outburst, it was easier and more natural to hear them as referring to unpennable lines in plays than to hear them as referring to non-prim numbers! But Y. Ted Enrustle, despite reading Külot’s review many times, apparently never quite caught on to what it was really saying.

Analogy, Once Again, Does its Cagey Thing

Okay, okay, enough’s enough. The jig’s up! Let me confess. For the last several pages, I’ve been playing a game, talking about strangely named plays by strangely named playwrights as well as a strangely titled review by a strangely named reviewer, but the truth is (and you knew it all along, dear reader), I’ve really been talking about something totally different — to wit, the strange loop that Austrian logician Kurt Gödel (Gerd Külot) discovered and revealed inside Russell and Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica.

“Now, now,” I hear some voice protesting (but of course it’s not your voice), “how on earth could you have really been talking about Whitehead and Russell and Principia Mathematica if the lines you wrote were not about them but about Y. Ted Enrustle and Prince Hyppia: Math Dramatica and such things?” Well, once again, it’s all thanks to the power of analogy; it’s the same game as in a roman à clef, where a novelist speaks, not so secretly, about people in real life by ostensibly speaking solely about fictional characters, but where savvy readers know precisely who stands for whom, thanks to analogies so compelling and so glaring that, taken in their cultural context, they cannot be missed by anyone sufficiently sophisticated.