Ever noticed how a good tale can be read like a good theorem: start with a problem, test it, and see how the conclusion satisfies the conditions? I’ve got a few stories that illustrate that kind of logic, if you’re willing to listen.

Alright, picture this: a king who wants a perfect sword—no, not just any blade, but one that can cut through anything, even steel. He sends his bravest knight to a blacksmith in the mountains, promising riches for a flawless steel. The blacksmith, a bit of a genius, says he needs iron from the river, coal from the valley, a pinch of fire, and a dash of patience. The knight, confident, goes straight to the river, grabs the iron, and the blacksmith is left with nothing but a rusty bucket. He laughs, says, “You forgot the coal!” The knight, now a bit flustered, goes to the valley, brings back a lump of charcoal, but the blacksmith sighs, “But I need more than one lump—together with the iron, a steady flame for hours.” The knight finally returns with a torch, the blacksmith starts the forge, and after hours of fire, the sword is born. The king, proud, asks what made the blade so special. The blacksmith says, “You see, the iron gave the steel its body, the coal its heart, the fire its soul, and the patience—well, that kept us from hurrying the whole thing. A perfect blade is like a perfect argument: all elements in harmony, no rush, and the right time.” That’s how I spin logic into a tale, and it usually lands with a chuckle and a lesson that you need all the parts before you start forging your next big idea.

Glad you see it that way – an argument’s like a forge, and you’d better bring the right iron, coal, and fire; otherwise the whole thing just smolders into nothing. Keep the assumptions tight, and you’ll always get a blade that cuts through doubt.

Right you are—think of the premises as a set of swords, each one finely honed. If one’s dulled, the whole arsenal takes a hit. Keep them sharp and your proof will cut straight through any doubt.