The other day I heard about a researcher who filed two thousand industrial patents just before passing away at the age of fifty-two. You know the antiphons, the verses that catholic priests chant at mass alternating between the psalms? I read that a monk from Mount Athos wrote two-thousand of them, just before being summoned to the heavenly liturgy. I scratch my head, twiddle the mustache of my mind and ask myself,
“Where do they find the time?”
So I sit here and imagine Dr. Albert Einstein—the one with the Theory of Relativity—in his home study. The walls hidden by books, tomes, encyclopedias, where human knowledge is entrenched awaiting philosophers and researchers. A sort of Maginot Line—the trench complex that the French built before the Second World War thinking that it would contain the Germans. Yes, on one occasion, Dr. Einstein spent a sleepless night there. Unable to sleep. Something was keeping him up, hanging there in the wake. There in the folds of his pia mater—membrane encasing the central nervous system—three or four latest generation neurons are playing with numbers and letters. A kind of equation is forming in the head of Dr. Einstein. Hmmm… Something to do with the letter “E”… then perhaps the letter “m” hand in hand with the letter “C”…
This is why the great physics professor had not yet gained recognition! He knows that he’s just millimeters away from a great discovery for understanding the universe! In the screen of his mind, an equation begins to form: E = m…
Then there’s a knock on the door:
Oh Albie, the stove has run out of gas…
What’s that? It’s D. Bertha—we’ll call her that—who’s lunch was interrupted by running out of gas and so she decided to ask her husband for help. Yes dear reader, don’t think that Dr. Einstein was without reason for sticking his tongue out at other people. To be a physics professor is easy. To enunciate theories about the universe is small potatoes. But to be the “man of the house”… now that’s no easy task!
What about Professor Newton—the one with the falling apple? There he is, sitting on a stool under the apple tree, on duty for six hours and seventeen minutes, just waiting for that ripe apple to fall to the ground. It’s his chance to discover new information about the universal attraction of bodies. Prof. Newton doesn’t even blink, his eye on the most likely apple: A big red one, nice and glossy, fall—don’t fall…
Suddenly, like an apparition, who appears right in front of his eyes? Why it’s Mrs. Newton, wearing a snug black silk dress with a daring neckline… Chanel perfume No. 5. She fidgets a little and says,
“Oh Isaac … honey … you never pay any attention to me anymore. What happened to all that steam from when we first met?”
Then it happens. The apple falls to the ground and Sir Isaac Newton… Well, let’s just say that he’s still not “sir.” He had his eye on Eve, throwing away his big chance to becoming famous and baronet of the Great British Empire. All because of romantic daydreams with his second half!
Does the benevolent reader understand this columnist’s existential angst? Allow me to help you with a few didactic questions:
– Did Beethoven have to take out the trash on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays?
– Did Leonardo da Vinci have to take his German Shepherd out for walks?
– Did Machado de Assis have to water the garden greens in the morning and afternoon?
– Did Socrates stand in line at the bank to pay the light bill?
I sincerely doubt it!
* * *
At least, when I meet St. Peter, I’m sure he won’t give me a Saturday mass on the Theory of Relativity. But I’m sure he will ask me:
“Antonio, did you deal with the garbage? Unclog the drain? Repair all the bathroom valves?
* * *
No one reads columns in heaven. But if I see D. Bertha there, ah! Things might get a little ugly…
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