Amor além da razão

Feliciano iria odiar, onde já se viu amar tanto assim?Coisa de anormal!!Há séculos eu não fico com os olhos cheios d'água lendo um texto. Fiquei, estou!! Desculpem-me se eu não traduzo, mas são as regras da casa. Aproveitem para um Readers Digest, enriqueçam seu vocabulário, googlem-se aí. Beijos molhados, involuntariamente!!

Em junho de 1945, o físico  Richard Feynman perdeu sua esposa,  Arline Feynman,  para a tuberculose. Com apenas vinte e cinco anos, ela era a namoradinha dele desde a escola, e ainda era mais, como diz Lawrence Krauss , na biografia de Feynman, escrita em 2012:

Richard and Arline were soul mates. They were not clones of each other, but symbiotic opposites – each completed the other. Arline admired Richard’s obvious scientific brilliance, and Richard clearly adored the fact that she loved and understood things he could barely appreciate at the time. But what they shared, most of all, was a love of life and a spirit of adventure.

Nos anos em que ficaram juntos, Richard e Arline trocaram muitas cartas, muitas delas  constantes da coletânea, Perfectly Reasonable Deviations from the Beaten Track.  Mas nenhuma delas é mais enternecedora, emocionante, do que a carta que ele escreveu dezesseis meses após a morte dela. Ainda desesperado, ainda perdido, Feinman escreveu uma carta catártica, que ficou fechada e selada até a sua morte, em 1988. Tocante ao extremo, a carta diz:

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.

do sítio  Letters of Note, reproduzido no portal Open Culture. Só me resta agradecer!!..e pensar que gostaria de saber amar assim.