Measuring the World is an excellent, underrated new novel. It is based on historical fact, but it's really about the subtleties of perception. Ironies abound.

The novel follows the 19th century lives of two German scientists: Alexander von Humboldt (you've heard of Humboldt County and the Humboldt Current) and Carl Friedrich Gauss, mathematician and astronomer.

Humboldt explored the world, described and mapped it, bringing home specimens and voluminous journals. Gauss discovered the curvature of space, invented the telegraph, and rarely left home.

Author Daniel Kehlmann's spare, literal prose comes through well in translation. His self-centered characters become almost lovable in their eccentricities and single-minded devotion to science.

Humboldt and his French associate Bonpland travel the Amazon and Orinoco rivers and map the channel between, climb the Andes, risk death and madness in dozens of ways.

"The snow was now up to their hips. Humboldt cried out and vanished into a drift. Bonpland dug with his hands until he got hold of his coat, and pulled him out. Humboldt thumped the snow off his clothes and satisfied himself that none of the instruments were damaged...

"Old friend, said Humboldt. He didn't want to turn sentimental, but after the long way they'd come, at a great moment like this, there was something he wanted to say.

"Bonpland listened. But nothing came out. Humboldt seemed to have forgotten already."

Carl Friedrich Gauss has his chapters, too. Gauss travels, with much distress, irritation, and back pain, to visit his hero, the aged philosopher Immanuel Kant. On the way, to kill time and ignore his fellow stagecoach passengers, he casually solves several great problems of science and astronomy.

Forcing his way past Kant's reluctant servant, Gauss spills out his theories

"(to) the man who had taught the world more about space and time than any other human being. He crouched down, so that his face was level with the little man's. He waited. The little eyes looked at him.

"Sausage, said Kant.

"Pardon?

"Buy sausage, said Kant to the servant. And stars. Buy stars, too."

It's the sadness of age and time. Late in Humboldt's life he is invited to tour Russia. Expecting one last scientific triumph, Humboldt instead is treated like a doll: accompanied by Cossacks and a train of wagons, feted endlessly while technicians collect rock samples for him. At one point Humboldt takes out his old sextant to carefully measure the width of the Volga river.

"The escort watched respectfully. It was, said Volodin to Rose, as if they were experiencing a journey in time, as if they'd been transported into a history book, it was sublime. It made him want to cry!

"Finally Humboldt announced that the river was five thousand two hundred and forty point seven feet wide.

"But of course it was, said Rose soothingly.

"Two hundred and forty point nine, to be exact, said Ehrenberg. But he had to admit it was a pretty good result given how old the method was."

It has been a long time since I've enjoyed any novel as much: Measuring the World by Daniel Kehlmann.

Aired Sunday January 21, 2007 at 10:55 am and Wednesday January 24, 2007 at 1:00 pm

Orders/Information:

Measuring the World by Daniel Kehlmann. Translated from the German by Carol Brown Janeway. Pantheon hardcover $23. ISBN 0375424466.

Early in the book there is a short, ambiguous passage touching on the writer's dilemma: Von Humboldt meets Professor Georg Christoph Lichtenberg,

"the most important experimental physicist in Germany. The latter, a hunchback, a clotted mass of flesh and intellect, with a flawlessly beautiful face, pressed his hand softly and stared up at him with a twinkle. Humboldt asked him if it was true he was working on a novel.

"Yes and no, said Lichtenberg, with a look that suggested he could see something beyond Humboldt's understanding. The work was called 'About Gunkel,' had no story, and was making no progress.

"Writing a novel, said Humboldt, seemed to him the perfect way to capture the most fleeting essence of the present for the future.

"Aha, said Lichtenberg.

"Humboldt blushed. It must be a foolish undertaking for an author, as was becoming the fashion these days, to choose some already distant past as his setting.

"Lichtenberg observed him with narrowed eyes. No, he said. And yes."

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