Leaping the Abyss

By Gregory Benford

Stephen Hawking seemed slightly worse, as always. It is a miracle that he has clung to life for over twenty years with Lou Gerhig’s disease. Each time I visit him I feel that it will be the last. His shrunken form lolled in his motorized chair, staring out, rendered somewhat goggle-eyed by his thick glasses — but a strong spirit animates all he says, and you can sense the inner fire.

I was in Cambridge to film conversations with three astronomers for a Japanese National Television program. We’d had a good morning with Martin Rees, talking on the green outside the Institute for Astronomy, and after that a less successful interlude with Donald Lynden-Bell. After lunch at Kings’ College with Martin I wandered through the atmospheric turns of the colleges and then met the Japanese camera crew for our final, longest shooting.

The Japanese had done exterior shots of him the day before, but Stephen had become leery of coverage of his personal life, and permitted no shots of his family. The enormous success of A Brief History of Time has made him a curious kind of cultural icon, and he himself wonders how many people, including starlets and rock singers, bought it as a gesture toward the infinite, and left it unread. He presented us with a short essay which answered in serial order the questions I had sent. Entering his office, I was struck that this man who had suffered such an agonizing decline in his physical abilities had posted several

large posters on his walls of a person very nearly his opposite: Marilyn Monroe. I mentioned her and he responded instantly, tapping one-handed on his keyboard, so that his American-accented, transduced voice replied, ‘yes, she’s wonderful.’

For the first time in years I was nervous. I almost savored the experience; decades of university lecturing had leached away any self-consciousness in me, and this was nearly a fresh experience. I think Hawking’s obvious preparation and his great politeness paradoxically put me ill at ease; I felt that I had somehow taken up more of his time than I thought justified. When he remarked that this was the last television interview he would do, and only because I was asking the questions, which he liked, I felt a humble, strangely thrilled sensation.

It went well. He likes the tug of the philosophical that runs through his work, and was willing to answer more questions than I’d sent. I watched him rapidly flit through the menu of often-used words on the liquid crystal display riding before him in his wheelchair. (only a few are names; ‘Coleman’ in the C’s suggested how often he refers to Sidney’s work.)

His secretary quietly asked if I would join Stephen for dinner at Caius College, so after the TV shooting was over we made our way through misty twilight, student shouts echoing, his wheelchair bouncing over cobbled

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streets. He insists on steering it himself, though his nurse hovers, as he must have round-the-clock care. He kept up a flow of conversation as well as anyone could through a keyboard. The dinner was noisy, with the year’s new undergraduates staring at the famous Hawking. His nurse must chop up his food and spoon feed it to him, not a pleasant sight, since he has only slight control of his lips. But Stephen carries on in a matter-of-fact way. His only concession was to let himself be seated with his back to the students, so they could not see him being fed.

High table afterward was the traditional walnuts and port, Cuban cigars and somewhat arch conversation, occasionally skewered by an interjection from Stephen. When we left, Stephen guided his wheelchair through the shadowy reaches of the college, indulging my curiosity about a time-honored undergraduate sport: climbing Cambridge. At night young men scramble among the upper reaches of the steeply steepled old buildings, scaling the most difficult points for the glory of it. There is even a booklet describing the triumphs and centuries-long history. Stephen took me to a passageway I had been through many times, between high buildings. It looked to be about ten feet across. I couldn’t imagine leaping that abyss from the slate-dark roofs. ‘All that distance?’ I

asked. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Any miss?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Injured?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Killed?’ His eyes twinkled and he gave us a broad smile. ‘Yes.’ These Cambridge sorts had the real stuff all right.

Passing through London, I spent a morning with Arthur Clarke. He had recovered nicely from his bout the year before with post-polio syndrome and was positively bouncy. He had fled his home in Sri Lanka, but was determined to go back after receiving the Commander of the British Empire from the queen. We were going to go out to a show together, but he proved a bit too tired in the evening. We spent most of our time discussing Beyond the Fall of Night, in which I attempted to follow his grand perspectives of Against the Fall of Night, written over forty years before. Throughout Arthur was quick, spontaneous, brimming with news.

Both of these men had faced physical constrictions with a renewed attack on the large issues, on great sweeps of space and time, struggling without much fuss against the narrowing that is perhaps the worst element of infirmity. Stephan rapt with Marilyn, Arthur showing off his latest laptop computer — both seemed still deeply engaged with life, holding against the tides of entropy. I had learned a good deal from these few days, I realized, and most of it not at all about astronomy.

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Our Enemy, ‘The State’

William Godwin: ‘With what delight must every well-informed friend of mankind look forward to the auspicious period, the dissolution of political government, of that brute engine, which has been the only perennial cause of the vices of men.’ (Enquiry Concerning Political Justice)

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