Wat
na de dood is, weten we niet.
Net
zomin als we weten wat er voor onze geboorte was.
Of waar we toen waren.
Dat
het gevoel voor iemand na de dood niet ophoudt, is een onontkoombaar, even mooi als pijnlijk feit.
Richard
Feynman, later een zeer invloedrijk natuurkundige, verloor in de lente van 1945 zijn 25-jarige vrouw Arline aan tuberculose.
Anderhalf
jaar later schreef Feynman een prachtige brief aan haar.
De brief verzegelde
hij in een envelop.
Die tot na zijn dood in 1988 ongeopend bleef.
Dit
is wat Feymnam schreef:
October
17, 1946
D’Arline,
I adore you, sweetheart.
I know how much you like to
hear that — but I don't only write it because you like it — I write it because
it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you.
It is such a terribly long
time since I last wrote to you — almost two years but I know you'll excuse me
because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; and I thought there
was no sense to writing.
But now I know my darling
wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done
so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I
always will love you.
I find it hard to
understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead — but I
still want to comfort and take care of you — and I want you to love me and care
for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you — I want to do little
projects with you. I never thought until just now that we can do that. What
should we do. We started to learn to make clothes together — or learn Chinese —
or getting a movie projector. Can't I do something now? No. I am alone without
you and you were the "idea-woman" and general instigator of all our
wild adventures.
When you were sick you
worried because you could not give me something that you wanted to and thought
I needed. You needn’t have worried. Just as I told you then there was no real
need because I loved you in so many ways so much. And now it is clearly even
more true — you can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my
way of loving anyone else — but I want you to stand there. You, dead, are so
much better than anyone else alive.
I know you will assure me
that I am foolish and that you want me to have full happiness and don't want to
be in my way. I'll bet you are surprised that I don't even have a girlfriend
(except you, sweetheart) after two years. But you can't help it, darling, nor
can I — I don't understand it, for I have met many girls and very nice ones and
I don't want to remain alone — but in two or three meetings they all seem
ashes. You only are left to me. You are real.
My darling wife, I do adore
you.
I love my wife. My wife is
dead.
Rich.
PS Please excuse my not
mailing this — but I don't know your new address.
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