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From the pen of Dr. Micheal Jones Moriarty, Welsh mathematician, 26.


DEAREST SAMANTHA
One of the more clever things I ever said was that being born is the leading cause of death. This is clever because it treats so ominous a subject as our own demise with levity, while also capturing a small and important truth, which is dreadful. We are told, repeatedly, that eating hamburgers will do us in. That drinking too much, or living promiscuously, or driving recklessly, will kill us. But none of this is true. It is being born that will kill us. From the time we enter this world—no, further back—from the point of our conception, the clock is set. Our time is limited. It is only a matter of years before Death, whose march is unremitting and who stops for no one, will meet us in the road. His memory is total; he does not forget. If we are breathing he is ready for us. If we are alive he is waiting for us. Feel your wrists, Samantha—if you have a pulse, you will see him soon. The leading cause of death is being born.

Which is to say, that we are given so little time on this planet. Our sixty or eighty years are as nothing. They are small in number to begin with and they pass far too quickly. Our years are short and fleeting; they are irrecoverable. We make small personal changes, daily, in light of advice we’ve been given and mistakes we’ve made. Meanwhile our past, which drives us to change, is itself inaccessible and therefore impervious to change. For every tear shed, for every hug held, for every victory celebrated; for every act performed in response to history, there is a corresponding act, in history, which is gone from us forever. We do not change the past; we only respond to it. And in so responding, we draw nearer to the moment where we respond to the past no more. What cruel irony this is! At a birthday party, we celebrate life, while drawing ever further away from it. The previous year, which only yesterday was under our control, becomes instantly unavailable to us. Our time runs out even as we celebrate its passing. Blink, Samantha! Your youth is behind you. It is never to return. This is the vapor of human life.

One would think, then, that to avoid the obsession of watching the clock, and to escape a corresponding descent into hopelessness, that we ought to ignore death, or better yet, forget about death altogether, and do nothing else, day after day, but live. This is indeed the popular advice. “You are alive!we’re told. “You’re alive, fool, so live! We ought not to reflect on the fragility of our bodies, on the shortness of life, on the impermanence of human existence. We know, irrefutably, that we are dying; we ought not to think about it. We’re told, again: “Stop watching the clock. You have plenty of time! Don’t obsess over something as unchangeable as your own destruction! Death is the one visitor we must at all costs ignore! So forget this deatha million times, forget it! Forget death and live! And what marvelous consolation this is, Samantha. We lay prone upon the guillotine, staring, baldly, at planks of wood, blind to the blade of the axe of time, whose sharpness is unparalleled, whose lethality is unmatched, who hangs silently overhead, waiting; but to us, time has become non-time. This axe is as menacing to us as strawberry cheesecake. We are alive (can’t you see?) and so we wink at one another and call this courage. Death is nothing. It is the albatross around our necks that we say isn’t there, in spite of the pain it delivers, while at every moment our bones grow weaker and weaker. Someday these bones will snap; and off with our heads, as we plummet into the abyss in escort of this noble bird. We sneer at the face of every clock. We are deceived.

We are doubly-deceived. Even as we set our minds on life, God is ever pleased to remind us of the great futility in doing so, through an endless parade of local death. Just when we forget—or think we’ve forgotten—about our impending demise, we lose a business associate to circumstances outside our control, or a best friend over a simple misunderstanding; a girlfriend to jealously, or a colleague to strife; a dog to old age, an uncle to cancer. What is the significance of this? Each passing entrance and exit of the people of our lives is a conspicuous opportunity to face our own mortality afresh. That this goes so against received wisdom is bizarre, I admit. These exits occur far, far more often than most of us would ever acknowledge. To wit, we think of death only at funerals, in church, as we stand over the casket, eyes clenched shut, until they well up with tears that force themselves out and we begin to cry. If our eyes were open, however, we wouldn’t need to be in church to have this experience. Life is itself a funeral, a perpetual funeral, where services are held repeatedly, intermittently, without announcement or fanfare. You are fired from your job for taking too much time to plan your wedding. It happens. No one shows up to your engagement party. Ouch. Your mother threatens to disown you over the man you’ve chosen. Ooh, that stings. Your fianccalls you a whore and abruptly disappears. Or perhaps it’s as simple as a young lover moving away. The truth is pedestrian. It’s been pointed out innumerable times before. Death surrounds us.




Oh, help me Samantha! Help me. Answer me please. Why am I, a man of only 26 years, so fascinated—no, so tormented by the subject of death? And of all places, here! Now! Why must I trouble you with this nonsense, here and now? I do not know. Please allow me to apologize that my writing, in this, my goodbye letter to you, is not particularly romantic. I had plans for this letter—big, romantic plans! Plans which are not turning out well. Because this is clearly not a love letter, at least in the conventional sense. There are no red roses here, or violets or tulips. Or blue skies or oceans or cozy sunsets overlooking the New York skyline. I’m just not in the headspace to write about such things. Is this confusing for you? Perhaps, though, you can see where I am headed? Based on all that doom and gloom I just spouted, I mean. Can you see the point I’m not quite making? Of course I want to tell you how I feel! I want to say that I’m grateful for having met you. For having spent time with you. Grateful for kissing you, for embracing you, for holding hands with you. I’m grateful for so much, you don’t even know. Yet overshadowing all of this is the spectre of finitude, of mortality. While I'm happy for what I have, I know I cannot keep it. I’m charged with being sweet to you in the face of inescapable loss. Of saying words to melt your heart, though my departure is imminent, and it is my heart that has melted. Here is where hopefully my point emerges. Samantha, you are lovely. More than lovely. I care for you a lot. I miss you already, and I will miss you even more when I return to the United States. I will miss what life does not allow me keep. I will experience a small death when you are gone.

You were correct to say, early on in our short relationship, that I am confident in myself, and charming. Yes, I am—this is all true. It may not mean what you think it means. You say I’m confident. Well, what could be better for a man’s confidence than to have a woman like you on his arm? Right? You say that I’m charming. Ok, and when we sit together in the Italian restaurant, face-to-face, grinning and smiling back at one another, why wouldn’t I be? Shouldn’t I be? How could I not be? I am confident and charming inasmuch as you draw these qualities out of me, to the extent that you make them natural, easy, and well-suited to my personality. I am not this way by default. You think me strong; you think me charming. Now think me desperate. If I must be confident, then I must also be lonely. For I am, in truth, a lonely man. You can appreciate this, no? Surely you can. The entire human race can appreciate these words. What more do we want than to be loved by the people who understand us? To be cherished, by those who care, and loved for who we really are? What do we want from this life? We want to be loved, as we are, really, by others—others who are themselves interesting people, good and beautiful people, lovable people. Lonely people. Every human life is a Rube Goldberg machine converted into a cemetary. I’m sorry. Death is both the objective and the vehicle for getting there. It’s the goal and the playing field. The conclusion and the story line. The curtain call and the daily rehearsal. Death is auxiliary and it is prime. And it’s, again, the height of pedantry to spin out this many words over a simple truth we know instinctively anyway. This is our collective plight, so what am I doing here? We feel misunderstood. We feel lonely. We cry out for empathy. We know we are dying; we want to be loved.

So you’re in my living room—I’m sneering at the clock, now—you and I are in the living room, my hotel living room, and we’re watching movie cinema, some DVD or something. I have my arm around you. I’m squeezing you. I kiss you on the shoulder, or on the forehead, somewhere. This is nice. The movie’s good. I guess. Can’t say I’m paying close attention. You know what, Samantha? You’re an easy person to talk to. I think you understand me. I like that about you. It’s late evening. The lights are out, except for one soft, unobtrusive light overhead, plus the movie’s flickering all haywire and it casts weird shadows on your face. You have to work in the morning. You’re sweet. You’re intelligent and you’re a beautiful woman. Did you know that? You’re feminine. You dress well. Ok, we’re back to watching this movie. This one’s pretty decent for a family film. A memorable cast of characters, good art direction, good jokes—it’s an animated love interest thing. I rest my hand on the small of your back. I push against it, kind of gently. My fingers move about deliberately. I want you to feel what I’m doing to your back. You look over at me. Here I am. I like you Samantha. You take my head in your hands, you hold me for a second, and then you kiss me something fierce. You must be distracted too. We’re kissing now. Kissing. I broke your concentration. We’re kissing. What gets me so excited is the way you respond to the touch of my hands on your body. Like a woman should. I grab you. Clothes are coming off. I love being with you. You are a wonderful kisser.


As our introduction at Toronto Calcu*Con was inevitable: that we would be at the same differential calculus convention, together, on the same night; that you would be seated directly in front of the podium, and in front of me; that you would have more than a passing interest in the lecture I delivered; that the straps on your dress caught my attention, long before we said our first words to one another—you were dressed well, is what I mean; that you'd been to Wales before, and that you had heard the name of the university where I teach; that we talked for hours, that conversation came easy; that you’re an economist, which is not mathematics, but it's sorta close; that you looked really pretty that night (even my colleague saw you sitting with me and told me so); that you introduced yourself, and that I asked for your name, and that you smiled at me... As our introduction was inevitable, so this departure is inevitable. I lament once more. It's a sad and incontrovertible fact of human existence that we lose the things we most care for in life, including eventually life itself. The intervening years, on our journey toward death, are themselves filled with death and every kind of loss. Life is a sick, twisted parade. It’s bloated, unwieldy, and ultimately cruel. Wherever we find something worthwhile, there’s an invisible arm, hairy, greedy, hungry, ready to snatch that thing away, until each act of caring looks instead like an exhibition of the sadistic and deprived. We collect friendships, stamps, old coins, memories. We die and lose everything. Such is our lot in life. It’s (pathetically) beyond our capacity to change. So as I prepare to go, to witness another small death; as I brace myself for robbery, when someone precious is taken from me, and I lose you; may I perform the smallest, most inconsequential of favors, and wish you the very best in everything. This is hardly the response of the century, I know. It’s capitulation and resignation and not nearly as defiant as the Romantics would have hoped. But I’m spent. I’ve laid out my case already. There’s nothing more for me to say. Therefore, in your career and finances, in health, in relationships, in romance, may you be happy and richly blessed. May you be recognized for the work you do. May you remain in good health, and may your friendships give you lasting joy. May you not suffer excessive hardship. May you be appreciated for who you are. You are special, Samantha; may your life be every bit as special. I love you, all of you. Remember me.

Michael Jones Moriarty
October 2008
Toronto, Canada
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