Peddie is known as a figure of utter tragedie. His fall from academic roots into utter despair works as a warning to all those who think they are beyond the reach of un-logik.
Peddie was born into a stable family, his mother and father both of academic professions. He was raised well and found love in the spring of his life. But the flames of his fiery relationship soon dwindled, and He was left all alone.
In adulthood he found some comfort and satisfaction in spirit, yet his lost love kept tormenting him. Why did she reject him then? Why did she reject him now?
His sorrow kept him from keeping employment. He sold his possessions, and took to acting and jesting to finance his ever increasing needs for the only comfort to be found, those only-soothing spirits from far Moravia.
In the end he became neallocate, an unallocated, a jester at the Nerichina Court, thus completing his tragic journey to madness.
From humble birth, Georg soon found fascination in the world and its many people of oh-so-many letters. His father told him stories of distant lands and great men, and the local libraries overflowed with quality reading. But the stories closest to young Georg’s heart were those of obscurity, especially those that told of the great Krim Jacob. From young of age Georg knew his destiny was to travel the world, to follow that great Krim, and perhaps, like Krim, find a land of eternal bliss.
From Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still. Even in fertile Mures his feet landed once or twice (or thrice, or even seven times). Yet he did not seem to find a land, a town, a field or forest without the ever-present un-logik. Was his Evropa already damned? Had the keys to the Krimean creation been stolen out of its ancient cradle?
Roma old, Rusia vast, România relevant! Georg saw them all!
Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever see that great jungle flood?
Did you experience that most immense Energie
form that most terrific branching factor?
Did you, my old friend Georg?
And when did you grow those wings?
Georg believed he was traveling to the cursed city of El Fahir, that home to exiles and wayward Ladds, but his destination was Death. Only in spirit could he ever fly on to the dark stream of the Congo, and only in these words is his memory intact and true. Perhaps he soars still amongst clouds and mist, watching over Belgrad, Bruxelles and El Fahir, and all the Krimean creation …
Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?
Did you ever cross the black desert gates?
Did you ever experience that most immense Energie
and traverse the deathly mountain passes?
Did you, my old friend Georg?
And how you soar the sky!
In 1804, the European summer lasted for almost 200 days.
Waldemar von Broten sprang from his mother’s womb already a learned teacher. Yes, this was in wooden Bavaria; dense Bavaria; Bavaria dark. As a child he lectured the village-people in Krimean thought, so greatly inspired by divine secrets, and such a divine secret himself. Soon our Professor von Broten ranked among the great academic minds of the time: A welcome guest at any University or place of teaching, his perspective from pure, Krimean truth always a joy to his peers. This was the Life of Waldemar von Broten.
“I know the Krim, for he saw me. I saw the Krim, yes, he knows me!”
As the last days of 1849 passed with slow snows and crackling hearths, a darkness came over Waldemar von Broten. Wandering the familiar road of unspoiled wonder and discovery, von Broten found his way blocked by a wicked creature void of soul: it said its name was Doubt. Every word of Doubt pierced von Broten to his bones:
“You know me, von Broten, though we have not yet met. I am that legend unnamed, but feared. I am the Tragedy of Creation.”
Yes! It was Livare, the soulless, that had come upon von Broten from the holy teachings. (For no writing, no matter how wise, no matter how true, is free from inherent un-logik). Von Broten rejected now these teachings, spoke violently against the Krimean ways, and with every day his mind grew weaker. That once so potent beacon of Krimean light was dulled: a parody, a tragedy. This was the Unlife of Waldemar von Broten.
Oh, Stigaie! Ayem, ayem, ohm! Take me away now, take me into slumber. Translate me, rotate me and translate me again, for I am already gone …
Delegations bearing the Banner of the Bear came to Bavaria from the far forests of Romania. They were soulless men, too, as pale and bleak as the Carpathian sky of their homeland. When they at last returned to their unholy keep, von Broten traveled with them.
In the damp, southern spring of 1859, Waldemar von Broten passed on to the Black Sea and night eternal.
In the street of Krymská, in the town of Bömische Karlsbad two boys were once born. Given traditional names Josef and Jacob, most knew them just as Ice and Fire. The brothers were close during their childhood years, but the life would soon pull them towards different paths.
Ice, man of spirit.
Josef Becher is the most known of the two, being a famous man of spirit. His spirit and factory lives to this day, and an alcoholic liqueur has been made to tribute the two brothers.
Fire, wanderer and seeker.
Jacob, however, is a mystery to most. He spent his adult life wandering the long winters of the world, seeking answers, singing songs, conversing with crows. His interpretation of “Folanés Folly” is known by many, but fewer know of his own Follies.
A man who spent the majority of his life walking in circles in the worlds mysteries, Jacob was both confused and wise. On the Asian steppes, he followed the trail laid down by the great Khans, he sung from his throat with the Tuvan masters and he visited Jurii far north. His presence warmed those around him, just as it did in his fiery youth.
Towards the end, Jacob turned to song and poetic poetry. He sang the songs of his homeland, lands he had traveled and lands of myth and legend. He sang of life and death, hope and happiness, despair and suicide. Yet the love for his brother and his spirit was always central, in those songs of brothers two, of Ice and of Fire…
Franz Kafka’s Der Prozess might be more widely known, but for the topic of Jacobian research, one might argue that another student of Prague’s Charles University have created a more important work (even in terms of pure literary value). Niels Frederique Manné’s diary from his time in Leopold’s Congo, Der parallele Prozess, offers an insight in the process of Jacobian research that scholars see as unparalleled in the western canon.
Niels, a devout Christian, born as the only son in a Belgian-Danish family, studied theology in Prague in the 1880’s. However, he never finished his studies: when he met the post-Hegelian philosopher Jean DeWire, his interest in such affairs diminished. DeWire persuaded him to travel to the remote jungles of the Congo, to explore and research the culture of the natives. Upon his arrival, Manné soon discovered an interest for what he felt was clear signs of the Jacobian Algorithm in many aspects of the native culture. He stayed in the Congo until his death: he passed from sleeping sickness in Leopoldville in November 1912.
Ensuing his death, DeWire posited that the diary was named from the fact that he in parallel explored many themes and topics; the jungles of the Congo, the Jacobian myths and his own personal faith. From his diary, we here present some passages of special interest.
Jacobian and Hessian matrices are indeed needed in many algorithms in scientific research, including algorithms for nonlinear optimization, differential equations. Moreover, these are needed to achieve the goal of theological running time.
A missionary vertex is indeed needed for these heathens. No edge binds them to the knowledge of our modern world.
1906 – 7, unknown (Pygmy territory)
The river is like a vein, giving life to this green ocean. The branching factor is tremendous, no mortal could prune it. Both my faith in God and my belief that a Jacobian Algorithm was conceived here, are getting stronger – as in parallell.
1911, on a riverboat, heading towards Leopoldville
I am very ill. Death, that gold-draped, bearded creature, is coming for me. But I lived not in vain, for I have found proof of the Jacobian conjecture, that Krimean hypothesis. I have but one bottle of Josef’s spirit left, who should be empty first, it or me?
October 1912, Leopoldville, only weeks before his death.
Adryan Nerich – Historian – Targu Mures Historical Society