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The Rule of Four Paperback – Box set, June 28, 2005
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It's Easter at Princeton. Seniors are scrambling to finish their theses. And two students, Tom Sullivan and Paul Harris, are a hair's breadth from solving the mysteries of the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili—a renowned text attributed to an Italian nobleman, a work that has baffled scholars since its publication in 1499. For Tom, their research has been a link to his family's past—and an obstacle to the woman he loves. For Paul, it has become an obsession, the very reason for living. But as their deadline looms, research has stalled—until a long-lost diary surfaces with a vital clue. And when a fellow researcher is murdered just hours later, Tom and Paul realize that they are not the first to glimpse the Hypnerotomachia 's secrets.
Suddenly the stakes are raised, and as the two friends sift through the codes and riddles at the heart of the text, they are beginnning to see the manuscript in a new light—not simply as a story of faith, eroticism and pedantry, but as a bizarre, coded mathematical maze. And as they come closer and closer to deciphering the final puzzle of a book that has shattered careers, friendships and families, they know that their own lives are in mortal danger. Because at least one person has been killed for knowing too much. And they know even more.
From the streets of fifteenth-century Rome to the rarified realm of the Ivy League, from a shocking 500 year-old murder scene to the drama of a young man's coming of age, The Rule of Four takes us on an entertaining, illuminating tour of history—as it builds to a pinnacle of nearly unbearable suspense.
From the Hardcover edition.
- Print length464 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherDell
- Publication dateJune 28, 2005
- Dimensions4.75 x 1.25 x 7 inches
- ISBN-100440241359
- ISBN-13978-0440241355
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“A marvelous book with a dark Renaissance secret in its coded heart … Profoundly erudite … the ultimate puzzle book.” —The New York Times Book Review
"Think Dan Brown by way of Donna Tartt and Umberto Eco ... There are murders, romances, dangers and detection, and by the end the heroes are in a race not only to solve the puzzle, but also to stay alive. Readers might be tempted to buy their own copy of the Hypnerotomachia and have a go at the puzzle." —Publishers Weekly, starred review
“As much a blazing good yarn as it is an exceptional piece of scholarship. A smart, swift, multi-textured tale that both entertains and informs.” —San Francisco Chronicle
"An astonishingly good debut ... Academic evil stalks the campus and no one is safe … Intricate, erudite, and intensely pleasurable."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
"The authors, best friends since childhood, have made an impressive debut, a coming-of-age novel in the guise of a thriller." —Booklist
“This debut packs all the esoteric information of The DaVinci Code but with lovely writing reminiscent of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History…a compulsively readable novel.” —People, Critic’s Choice/4 Stars
"In The Rule of Four, Caldwell and Thomason have written a truly satisfying literary thriller ... DO believe the hype. The intense college friendships and their inevitable decline are woven into the thriller's plot. The novel has a darkness that recalls Umberto Eco's monastery thriller, The Name of the Rose, and twinges of Donna Tartt's debut novel set in a boarding school, Secret History. —The New York Post
From the Hardcover edition.
About the Author
Dustin Thomason attended Harvard University, where he studied anthropology and medicine. He won the Hoopes Prize for undergraduate writing, and graduated in 1998. Thomason also received his M.D. and MBA from Columbia University in 2003.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Strange thing, time. It weighs most on those who have it least. Nothing is lighter than being young with the world on your shoulders; it gives you a feeling of possibility so seductive, you know there must be something more important you could be doing than studying for exams.
I can see myself now, the night it all began. I'm lying back on the old red sofa in our dorm room, wrestling with Pavlov and his dogs in my introductory psychology book, wondering why I never fulfilled my science requirement as a freshman like everyone else. A pair of letters sits on the coffee table in front of me, each containing a vision of what I could be doing next year. The night of Good Friday has fallen, cold April in Princeton, New Jersey, and with only a month of college left I'm no different from anyone else in the class of 1999: I'm having trouble getting my mind off the future.
Charlie is sitting on the floor by the cube refrigerator, playing with the Magnetic Shakespeare someone left in our room last week. The Fitzgerald novel he's supposed to be reading for his final paper in English 151w is spread open on the floor with its spine broken, like a butterfly somebody stepped on, and he's forming and re-forming sentences from magnets with Shakespearean words on them. If you ask him why he's not reading Fitzgerald, he'll grunt and say there's no
point. As far as he's concerned, literature is just an educated man's shell game, three-card monte for the college crowd: what you see is never what you get. For a science-minded guy like Charlie, that's the height of perversity. He's headed for medical school in the fall, but the rest of us are still hearing about the C-plus he found on his English midterm in March.
Gil glances over at us and smiles. He's been pretending to study for an economics exam, but Breakfast at Tiffany's is on, and Gil has a thing for old films, especially ones with Audrey Hepburn. His advice to Charlie was simple: if you don't want to read the book, then rent the movie. They'll never know. He's probably right, but Charlie sees something dishonest in that, and anyway it would prevent him from complaining about what a scam literature is, so instead of Daisy Buchanan we're watching Holly Golightly yet again.
I reach down and rearrange some of Charlie's words until the sentence at the top of the fridge says to fail or not to fail: that is the question. Charlie raises his head to give me a disapproving look. Sitting down, he's almost as tall as I am on the couch. When we stand next to each other he looks like Othello on steroids, a two-hundred-and-fifteen-pound black man who scrapes the ceilings at six-and-a-half feet. By contrast I'm five-foot-seven in shoes. Charlie likes to call us Red Giant and White Dwarf, because a red giant is a star that's unusually large and bright, while a white dwarf is small and dense and dull. I have to remind him that Napoleon was only five-foot-two, even if Paul is right that when you convert French feet to English, the emperor was actually taller.
Paul is the only one of us who isn't in the room now. He disappeared earlier in the day, and hasn't been seen since. Things between him and me have been rocky for the past month, and with all the academic pressure on him lately, he's chosen to do most of his studying at Ivy, the eating club where he and Gil are members. It's his senior thesis he's working on, the paper all Princeton undergrads must write in order to graduate. Charlie, Gil, and I would be doing the same ourselves, except that our departmental deadlines have already come and gone. Charlie identified a new protein interaction in certain neuronal signaling pathways; Gil managed something on the ramifications of a flat tax. I pasted mine together at the last minute between applications and interviews, and I'm sure Frankenstein scholarship will forever be the same.
The senior thesis is an institution that almost everyone despises. Alumni talk about their theses wistfully, as if they can't remember anything more enjoyable than writing one-hundred-page research papers while taking classes and choosing their professional futures. In reality, a senior thesis is a miserable, spine-breaking thing to write. It's an introduction to adult life, a sociology professor told Charlie and me once, in that annoying way professors have of lecturing after the lecture is over: it's about shouldering something so big, you can't get out from under it. It's called responsibility, he said. Try it on for size. Never mind that the only thing he was trying on for size was a pretty thesis advisee named Kim Silverman. It was all about responsibility. I'd have to agree with what Charlie said at the time. If Kim Silverman is the sort of thing adults can't get out from under, then sign me up. Otherwise, I'll take my chances being young.
Paul is the last of us to finish his thesis, and there's no question that his will be the best of the bunch. In fact, his may be the best of our entire graduating class, in the history department or any other. The magic of Paul's intelligence is that he has more patience than anyone I've ever met, and with it he simply wears problems down. To count a hundred million stars, he told me once, at the rate of one per second, sounds like a job that no one could possibly complete in a lifetime. In reality, it would only take three years. The key is focus, a willingness not to be distracted. And that is Paul's gift: an intuition of just how much a person can do slowly.
Maybe that's why everyone has such high expectations for his thesis--they know how many stars he could count in three years, but he's been working on his thesis for almost four. While the average student comes up with a research topic in the fall of senior year and finishes it by the next spring, Paul has been struggling with his since freshman year. Just a few months into our first fall semester, he decided to focus on a rare Renaissance text entitled Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, a labyrinthine name I can pronounce only because my father spent most of his career as a Renaissance historian studying it. Three and a half years later, and barely twenty-four hours from his deadline, Paul has enough material to make even the most discriminating graduate programs salivate.
The problem is, he thinks I ought to be enjoying the fanfare too. We worked on the book together for a few months during the winter, and made good progress as a team. Only then did I understand something my mother used to say: that men in our family had a tendency to fall for certain books about as hard as they fell for certain women. The Hypnerotomachia may never have had much outward charm, but it has an ugly woman's wiles, the slow addictive tug of inner mystery. When I caught myself slipping into it the same way my father had, I managed to pull myself out and throw in the towel before it could ruin my relationship with a girlfriend who deserved better. Since then, things between Paul and me haven't been the same. A graduate student he knows, Bill Stein, has helped with his research since I begged off. Now, as his thesis deadline approaches, Paul has become strangely guarded. He's usually much more forthcoming about his work, but over the past week he's withdrawn not only from me but from Charlie and Gil too, refusing to speak a word of his research to anyone.
"So, which way are you leaning, Tom?" Gil asks.
Charlie glances up from the fridge. "Yeah," he says, "we're all on tenterhooks."
Gil and I groan. Tenterhooks is one of the words Charlie missed on his midterm. He attributed it to Moby-Dick instead of Tobias Smollett's Adventures of Roderick Random on the grounds that it sounded more like a kind of fishing lure than a word for suspense. Now he won't let it go.
"Get over it," Gil says.
"Name me one doctor who knows what a tenterhook is," Charlie says.
Before either of us can answer, a rustling sound comes from inside the bedroom I share with Paul. Suddenly, standing before us at the door, wearing only boxers and a T-shirt, is Paul himself.
"Just one?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. "Tobias Smollett. He was a surgeon."
Charlie glances back at the magnets. "Figures."
Gil chuckles, but says nothing.
"We thought you went to Ivy," Charlie says, when the pause becomes noticeable.
Paul shakes his head, backtracking into his room to pick up his notebook. His straw-colored hair is pressed flat on one side, and there are pillow creases on his face. "Not enough privacy," he says. "I've been working in my bunk again. Fell asleep."
He's hardly gotten a wink in two nights, maybe more. Paul's advisor, Dr. Vincent Taft, has pressed him to produce more and more documentation every week--and unlike most advisors, who are happy to let seniors hang by the rope of their own expectations, Taft has kept a hand at Paul's back from the start.
"So, what about it, Tom?" Gil asks, filling the silence. "What's your decision?"
I glance up at the table. He's talking about the letters in front of me, which I've been eyeing between each sentence in my book. The first letter is from the University of Chicago, offering me admission to a doctoral program in English. Books are in my blood, the same way medical school is in Charlie's, and a Ph.D. from Chicago would suit me just fine. I did have to scrap for the acceptance letter a little more than I wanted to, partly because my grades at Princeton have been middling, but mainly because I don't know exactly what I want to do with myself, and a good graduate program can smell indecision like a dog can smell fear.
"Take the money," Gil says, never taking his eyes off Audrey Hepburn.
Gil is a banker's son from Manhattan. Princeton has never been a destination for him, just a window seat with a view, a stopover on the way to Wall Street. He is a caricature of himself in that respect, and he manages a smile whenever we give him a hard time...
Product details
- Publisher : Dell; Reprint edition (June 28, 2005)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 464 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0440241359
- ISBN-13 : 978-0440241355
- Item Weight : 8 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.75 x 1.25 x 7 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,972,054 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #15,752 in Historical Thrillers (Books)
- #31,886 in Thriller & Suspense Action Fiction
- #90,188 in Suspense Thrillers
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About the authors

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Ian Caldwell is an American novelist known for co-authoring the 2004 novel The Rule of Four. His second book, The Fifth Gospel, was published in 2015.
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Tom stands alone in the shadow cast by his late father, a scholar whose obsession with hidden 500 year old messages supposedly buried within the text of the Hypnerotomachia, may or may not have cost him his life and reputation. His friend and roommate, Paul, sponsored by two of Tom's father's colleagues(2 of an earlier group of four), thinks he has discovered the key to the book's cipher and enlists Tom's aid in the Herculean task that ironically becomes as important to Tom as it once was to his father. As Tom fights his losing battle, succumbing to the power of the unsolved mystery, he simultaneously attempts to escape its grasp while still validating his father's life and discovering his own.
As the book yields its secrets, old rivalries and jealousies surface and complex relationships form between all those whom the Hypnerotomachia has touched. The reader will not be surprised when murder taints the lives of these undergraduates in their last months of senior year. Suspicions rise proportionately to the lengths friends and lovers, apprentices and mentors go to safeguard their own private agendas with regard to the treasures, real and imagined, awarded by the book.
A pristine snow-swept campus struggling to move forward into spring's time of renewal, provides an apt backdrop suggesting the angst of the characters as they move from the stage of college life into the real world. Caldwell and Thomason do a fine job of depicting the sheltered Princetonian world replete with tony traditions that students embrace rather than revolt against. Main character Tom, waxes philosophical in pretty metaphors that capture his confusion and fatalism, while Paul, the novel's rudder, steers strongly and firmly with never flailing beliefs that eventually carry through to all four of the roommates as they leave the safety of academic life. The Rule of Four, the coded directions supplied by the book to uncover its earthly treasure, acts as a larger metaphor that ironically points out that in the long run, your final destination is not all that far away from your original point.
If you are looking for a few days respite on a snow-covered campus awash with centuries old conundrums and want to meet some dedicated young men and women looking for glimpses of themselves in the past to shed new light on the future, give this book a shot. Not a beach read, by any means, it will satisfy your puzzle-solving needs, but don't look for page after page of "Wow, I should have thought of that" satisfactions. There are only 4 big riddles uncovered by Paul and Tom in the Hypnerotaomachia--only one of which I could vaguely guess at. The heart of the novel is one of self definition---the past and present meld together for hope in the future.
The Rule of Four has been praised in some quarters as the next DaVinci Code, but while Dan Brown's bestseller offers nail-biting suspense and characters one can root for, The Rule of Four is a dull slog in the company of uninteresting characters. Its principal problem is one of credibility. We are to believe that a freshman arrived in Princeton preoccupied already with an obscure Renaissance text to the extent that he was able to recite in chronological order the publications of a Renaissance historian who had worked on that text. And we are to believe that during his senior year Paul's friend Tom worked on the Hypnerotomachia himself for ten hours a day, neglecting his own thesis and his girlfriend and any other responsibilities he may have had. Clearly Tom must have been besotted by the book, and indeed we are told throughout The Rule of Four that the Hypnerotomachia is beguiling: "...the Hypnerotomachia is a siren, a fetching song on a distant shore, all claws and clutches in person," Tom's father had once told him. "You court her at your risk." But apart from such melodramatic assertions there is nothing in The Rule of Four to make us very interested in the Hypnerotomachia, or to make us understand why Tom's father and other scholars were so passionate about it.
There are other problems with The Rule of Four as well, colorless descriptions of characters (Paul "was driven by a curiosity that made him a pleasure to meet and converse with") and unrealistic dialogue (are college kids really saying things like "nip it in the bud" these days?). There is a ridiculous passage in which Paul recounts his thesis advisor's parable about a certain Rodge Epp Lang's beating of a dog: Paul recognized at once that the name is an anagram of "doppelganger." (Had the thesis advisor in fact beaten a dog? It doesn't matter.) In short, The Rule of Four is a great disappointment, lacking in suspense, its premise impossible to credit. Readers looking for their next clever literary mystery are advised to bypass this one.
Reviewed by Debra Hamel, author of Trying Neaira: The True Story of a Courtesan's Scandalous Life in Ancient Greece









