Alan Lightman: From “Einstein’s dreams”

At no. 27 Viktoriastrasse, in Berne, a young woman lies on her bed. The sounds of her parents’ fighting drift up to her room. […]
At the foot of her bed, a suitcase is open, half-filled with clothes. She stares at the photograph, then out into time. The future is beckoning.

She makes up her mind. Without finishing her packing, she rushes out of her house, out of this point in her life, rushes straight to the future.
She rushes past one year ahead, five years, ten years, twenty years, finally puts on the brakes. But she is moving so fast that she cannot slow down until she is fifty years old.

Events have raced by her vision and barely been seen. A balding solicitor who got her pregnant and then left. A blur of a year at the university. A small apartment in Lausanne for some period of time.
A girlfriend in Fribourg. Scattered visits to her parents, gone gray. The hospital room where her mother died.
The damp apartment in Zürich, smelling of garlic, where her father died. A letter from her daughter, living somewhere in England.

The woman catches her breath. She is fifty years old. She lies on her bed, tries to remember her life, stares at a photograph of herself as a child, squatting  at the beach with her mother and father.

Alan Lightman: In [Einstein’s dreams]-2004. First Vintage Contemporary Edition, a division of Random House, Inc., New York


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