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The 85 Ways to Tie a Tie

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The 85 Ways To Tie A Tie
By Thomas Fink, Yong Mao
Broad­way, 2000

Long cloth ties are today found through­out the world around men’s necks (and some­times those of women as well). Other types of neck­wear are of course worn for cer­tain occa­sions (bow ties with tuxe­dos) or in cer­tain regions (string or bolo ties in the Amer­i­can South­west), but none matches the long tie in its ubiquity.

But, if you ask most any tie-wearing man (includ­ing me) how many dif­fer­ent tie knots they use, the answer will be “one.” Usu­ally that one knot is the four-in-hand, and a fair num­ber of peo­ple are aware of the exis­tence of another knot or two: the Wind­sor or half-Windsor, although these are­ich less com­monly used.

Surely, though, there are more than three ways to tie a tie. Thomas Fink and Yong Mao, two Cam­bridge the­o­ret­i­cal physi­cists, decided, appar­ently on a whim, to devote their con­sid­er­able tal­ents to dis­cov­er­ing all the pos­si­ble (an prac­ti­cal) tie knots. Once they real­ized that tie knots are “equiv­a­lent to per­sis­tant ran­dom walks on a tri­an­gu­lar lat­tice” (an obser­va­tion that Is evi­dently a rather sim­ple leap for a pair of physi­cists), it was a sim­ple mat­ter to math­e­mat­i­cally derive 85 dif­fer­ent ways to tie a tie.

Fink and Mao begin their book with a short his­tory of men’s neck­wear. The ear­li­est exam­ples of knot­ted neck cloths they cite are those adorn­ing the 7500 ter­ra­cotta sol­diers found in the tomb of China’s first emperor. Other early exam­ples come from Rome in the sec­ond cen­tury A.D., but dec­o­ra­tive men’s neck cloths seem not to have really caught on until the sev­en­teenth cen­tury. From that point until the early twen­ti­eth cen­tury (when long ties became de rigeur) a suc­ces­sion of neck cloth styles devel­oped in Europe: cra­vats, stocks, bow ties, Ascots, etc.

A sec­ond intro­duc­tory chap­ter is devoted to knots and knot the­ory. The authors pro­vide a basic overview of the tech­ni­cal aspects of knots and knot tying and of his­tor­i­cal attempts to ennu­mer­ate and cat­e­go­rize knots. They then explain in detail their own the­ory of tie knots. They lay out both the tech­ni­cal lim­i­ta­tions of tie knots (the tie must pass around the neck, and all knots must be ter­mi­nated such that the two ends hang down­wards) as well as the aes­thetic con­sid­er­a­tions (size, shape, sym­me­try, and balance).

The third chap­ter forms the meat of the book. In it, Fink and Mao ennu­mer­ate their 85 knots, orga­nized by the num­ber of moves it takes to com­plete each one. Each knot is accom­pa­nied by a step-by-step tying dia­gram and notes about how it relates to other knots, when appro­pri­ate. The thir­teen knits that the authors deem most aes­thet­i­cally pleas­ing are dis­cussed at greater length, and are illus­trated with pho­tographs of well-known men sport­ing them. Among this sub­set of knots are, of course, the famil­iar four-in-hand, Wind­sor, and half-Windsor.

The 85 Ways to Tie a Tie is a delight­fully whim­si­cal lit­tle book, quin­tes­sen­tially British in it’s sub­ject mat­ter, tone, and humor. The authors man­age to explain what turns out to be a sur­pris­ingly com­plex prob­lem in a way that’s pretty easy to under­stand. For those read­ers who desire a more pre­cise expla­na­tion, Fink and Mao sup­ply am appen­dix chock full of for­mu­las and deriv­a­tives. The book con­tains plenty of pho­tographs, illus­tra­tions, and dia­grams, which are quite help­ful in under­stand­ing the his­tory, knot the­ory, and all the knot variations.

This book is less than ten years old, but it us already out of print and used copies go for fifty dol­lars or more. I got my hands on a copy via Inter­li­brary Loan. But, if you’d just like a quick overview and a list of all 85 knots with direc­tions, Thomas Fink pro­vides them on his web site.

The Broken Window

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The Broken Window
By Jef­fery Deaver
Simon & Schus­ter, 2008

The Bro­ken Win­dow pits Lin­coln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs against a mys­te­ri­ous and devi­ous crim­i­nal whose M.O. is to care­fully frame inno­cent peo­ple for his thefts and mur­ders. His frame jobs are so per­fect that he has gone com­pletely unde­tected for years. His exis­tence only comes to light when Rhyme real­izes that the evi­dence in a mur­der inves­ti­ga­tion is too per­fect. Soon, the police find a num­ber of past cases that bear the same signs, in which inno­cent peo­ple may very well have been convicted.

With very lit­tle to go on, Rhyme et. al. set about learn­ing more about their quarry. But, he always seems to be a cou­ple of steps ahead of them; the closer they get, the more he seems to know about them and their plans. It quickly becomes appar­ent that this crim­i­nal can some­how find out any­thing about any­one — and in his hands, knowl­edge is cer­tainly power.

As is his wont, Deaver packs plenty of twists and red her­rings into his tale. In his last Rhyme/Sachs novel, The Cold Moon, the detec­tives were too good at antic­i­pat­ing the twists, which sucked some of the sus­pense out of the book. I think that Deaver han­dles his sur­prises bet­ter in The Bro­ken Win­dow; he keeps both the reader and the pro­tag­o­nists guess­ing. I also like that Deaver basi­cally sticks to a sin­gle plot in this book, rather than the inter­weav­ing of numer­ous sub­plots that he uses in some ear­lier books.

The only annoy­ance this novel holds for me has to do with Deaver’s dis­cus­sions of com­put­ers (which play a cen­tral role). His use of tech­no­log­i­cal terms and jar­gon feels slightly off in places, although he has improved a great deal sine The Blue Nowhere, his hacker mys­tery. This is a minor fault, though, and prob­a­bly wouldn’t bother any­one who isn’t some­what of a com­puter nerd.

Codex

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Codex
By Lev Gross­man
Arrow, 2005

Edward Wozny is a hot­shot New York invest­ment banker who is about to assume a pres­ti­gious posi­tion at his firm’s Lon­don branch. At the begin­ning of what is sup­posed to be two weeks off to pre­pare for his move, Edward is sum­moned to an apart­ment owned by impor­tant clients of his com­pany — a British duke and duchess. He is charged with cat­a­loging their library, which had been sent to the United States for safe keep­ing dur­ing World War II and then promptly for­got­ten about. Edward is told to keep a sharp eye out among the old tomes for a cer­tain book by Ger­vase of Langford.

Lack­ing any train­ing in librar­i­an­ship or par­tic­u­lar inter­est in old books, Edward is ini­tially annoyed, but finds him­self strangely drawn in fol­low­ing an after­noon with the dusty vol­umes. He vis­its the Chenoweth Rare Book and Man­u­script Repos­i­tory, where he serendip­i­tously encoun­ters Mar­garet Napier, a Ger­vase of Lang­ford scholar. Although she (and most every­one else) con­sid­ers the book Edward is look­ing for to be a myth, she agrees to help with the cataloging.

Mean­while, a pro­gram­mer friend gives Edward a copy of a com­puter game called MOMUS. The game is hyper-real and some­what enig­matic; no one knows exactly who cre­ated it. Edward quickly becomes immersed in MOMUS, spend­ing more and more of his free time in the vir­tual world.

While exam­in­ing the con­tents of the library, Mar­garet becomes increas­ingly con­vinced that the mys­te­ri­ous book does exist, and was once a part of the col­lec­tion. She and Edward embark on a hunt to find the book. They dig up infor­ma­tion about the library’s his­tory, sneak into the Chenoweth’s mas­sive archival facil­ity, and unwit­tingly become embroiled in the schemes of British nobles. As they pro­ceed, Edward begins to notice eerie sim­i­lar­i­ties between MOMUS and their real-life quest.

The premise of Codex, with its for­got­ten library, myth­i­cal man­u­script, and eerily rel­e­vant com­puter game has poten­tial. But, the book itself turns out to be some­what lack­lus­ter and dis­ap­point­ing. MOMUS is set up to have impor­tant par­al­lels to the search for the Ger­vase book, but there are only ever a few of these. The whole com­puter game suplot seems under­de­vel­oped and out of place. Also, the book’s end­ing isn’t very sat­is­fy­ing. The plot gets increas­ingly com­plex, then just seems to peter out.

A cou­ple of errors (that should have been caught by an edi­tor) early in the book soured my opin­ion some­what, as well. One is a ref­er­ence to tree sap turn­ing into amber over a few thou­sand years (amber is formed from tree resin over mil­lions of years). The other is a men­tion of illus­tra­tions of “vivi­sected corpses” (“vivi-” mean­ing “liv­ing”; a corpse can be dis­sected, but not vivisected).

Codex is okay, not great. If you find it (as I did) at a used book sale for a buck and want a quick, largely mind­less read, go for it. Oth­er­wise, don’t bother.