X-Message-Number: 1849.1
From: John W. Perry
Subject: A.Lightman / NY Times Article

Dear Mr. Brown,

I included with this message a copy of the Op-Ed by Alan Lightman
which appeared in The New York Times on the 8th of this month.
I think we life extensionists should write letters to the editor
of The Times denouncing this piece.  I have already written a
letter and sent it in.  Please e-mail this file on to the
Cryonet with instructions that letters should be written to the
editor.  Heck, we might even consider writing an op-ed  piece of
our own, starting with "Suppose people live forever..."  We could
show the optimistic perspective.
	
The address for letters to the editor is:
				
		To the Editor
		The New York Times
		229 West 43rd Street
		New York, New York   10036

		     John W. Perry


Here is the offending op-ed piece as I downloaded it from Nexis:
 
		  Copyright 1993 The New York Times Company   
			       The New York Times 
 
		 February 8, 1993, Monday, Late Edition - Final 
 
SECTION: Section A; Page 17; Column 1; Editorial Desk 
LENGTH: 682 words                                       
NAME:  LIGHTMAN, ALAN                             
HEADLINE: A Brief Version of Time 
BYLINE: By  Alan Lightman  
TYPE: Op-Ed; Text 
SUBJECT: DEATH 
NAME:  LIGHTMAN, ALAN                80 LINES     

BODY:
 
Suppose that people live forever.
*
Strangely, the population of each city splits in two:
the Laters and the Nows.
 
The Laters reason that there is no hurry to begin their classes
at the university, to learn a second language, to read Voltaire
or Newton, to seek promotion in their jobs, to fall in love, to
raise a family. In endless time, all things can be accomplished.
Thus all things can wait. Indeed, hasty actions breed mistakes.
And who can argue with their logic? The Laters can be recognized
in any shop or promenade. They walk an easy gait and wear
loose-fitting clothes.
   
They take pleasure in reading whatever magazines are open or rearranging 
furniture in their homes, or slipping into conversation the way a leaf 
falls from a tree. The Laters sit in cafes sipping coffee and discussing 
the possibilities of life. 
 
The Nows note that with infinite lives, they can do all they can
imagine. They will have an infinite number of careers, they will
marry an infinite number of times, they will change their politics
infinitely. Each person will be a lawyer, a bricklayer, a writer,
an accountant, a painter, a physician, a farmer.
    
The Nows are constantly reading new books, studying new trades, new 
languages. In order to taste the infinities of life, they begin early 
and never go slowly. And who can question their logic? The Nows are 
easily spotted. They are the owners of the cafes, the college professors, 
the doctors and nurses, the politicians, the people who rock their legs 
constantly whenever they sit down. 

They move through a succession of lives, eager to miss nothing. When two 
Nows chance to meet at the hexagonal pilaster of the Zahringer Fountain, 
they compare the lives they have mastered, exchange information, and 
glance at their watches.  When two Laters meet at the same location, 
they ponder the future and follow the parabola of the water with their 
eyes. 
 
The Nows and Laters have one thing in common. With infinite life
comes an infinite list of relatives. Grandparents never die, nor
do great-grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, great-great-aunts,
and so on, back through the generations, all alive and offering
advice. Sons never escape from the shadows of their father. Nor do
daughters of their mothers. No one ever comes into his own.
 
When a man starts a business, he feels compelled to talk it over
with his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum,
to learn from their errors. For no new enterprise is new. All things
have been attempted by some antecedent in the family tree. Indeed,
all things have been accomplished. But at a price. For in such a world,
the multiplication of achievements is partly divided by the diminishment
of ambition.
 
And when a daughter wants guidance from her mother, she cannot get
it undiluted. Her mother must ask her mother, who must ask her mother,
and so on forever. Just as sons and daughters cannot make decisions
themselves, they cannot turn to parents for confident advice. Parents
are not the source of certainty. There are one million sources.
 
Where every action must be verified one million times, life is
tentative.  Bridges thrust halfway over rivers and then abruptly
stop. Buildings rise nine stories high but have no roofs. The
grocer's stocks of ginger, salt, cod, and beef change with every
change of mind, every consultation. Sentences go unfinished.
Engagements end just days before weddings. And on the avenues and
streets, people turn their heads and peer behind their backs, to
see who might be watching.

Such is the cost of immortality. No person is whole. No person
is free. Over time, some have determined that the only way to live
is to die. In death, a man or a woman is free of the weight of the
past. These few souls, with their dear relatives looking on, dive
into Lake Constance or hurl themselves from Monte Lema, ending their
infinite lives. In this way, the finite has conquered the infinite,
millions of autumns have yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls
have yielded to no snowfalls, millions of admonitions have yielded
to none.

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