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August 1, 2005, 2:00 AM


By Daniel Tammet

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I don't "do" math. When I start calculating a sum, I start to picture two shapes. The image is fuzzy at first, gradually becoming clearer and clearer, until a third shape emerges: the answer. I just sort of "see" it.

Growing up, I was confused by the arithmetic worksheets at school because the numbers were all printed the same size and color. To me, the sheet seemed covered in errors. Nines are always big and blue for me, and it's a strange sensation when I see them printed small or in black in the newspaper. Same with 6's, which I experience as tiny black holes. And 89 is a soft, falling movement in my mind's eye, like a drifting snow shower, while 351 is much lumpier, like a spoonful of porridge.

Scientists think it was the series of severe epileptic seizures I had as a child that changed the way my brain worked, bringing me into this interior landscape filled with color, shape, motion, and texture. I have what's called savant syndrome, the condition portrayed by Dustin Hoffman in the film Rain Man. I'm one of fewer than fifty living savants worldwide. Which means that while I find everyday stuff like riding a bike or simple electrical wiring tough--really tough--I can also mentally calculate 82 to the fourth power or recite the number pi to 22,514 decimal places from memory. So it isn't all bad.

My visual experiences are just as strong in language as in math. For example, the word Wednesday is a solid blue. I'm currently creating my own language called MÃƒÂ¤nti, based on how I see the world around me. The word complex, for example, is patsine, based on a Baltic word for braid. I also speak French, German, Spanish, Lithuanian, and Esperanto.

Despite my syndrome, my friends don't treat me differently, except they won't let me play cards with them.


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