12 March 1928
Dear Mrs. Morcom,
I am writing to tell you that you ought to come immediately. Your son is very ill. I feel it is important to consider the possibility that this is the end. I know that Mrs. Harrison at the sanatorium has already written to tell you Chris is not well, but I do not feel certain that she has properly emphasized the importance of your immediate return. Chris has also perhaps underemphasized the extent of his illness. I might venture to say that he is sometimes a little too brave. For this reason, Dr. Stevenson does not seem to believe that the issue is extreme. But I am telling you now that Chris does not look well to me at all. He is coughing terribly and he has in several instances coughed blood. I am sure that is a distressing thing to hear, but I only want to be honest.
In short, Chris is much more ill than Dr. Stevenson believes.
Also, I have had a premonition that he will die. Just before he took ill, we had a concert at school. There were some visiting singers. Chris sat just down the row from my seat, and I watched him throughout the whole concert, full of foreboding. I said to myself, “Well, this isn’t the last time you’ll see Morcom.” Later that night, I woke up at a quarter to three and saw the moon setting over Chris’s house. I couldn’t help but think it was some kind of sign. It was at exactly that time that Chris became ill, and was taken to the sanatorium.
I realize this sounds quite extreme. I only tell you this because Mrs. Harrison reports that you will wait for your husband to finish his business in India and I think you should not.
Possibly you are wondering what right I have to interfere in your family affairs, alarming you with nonsensical talk about premonitions. Even I am surprised to be writing you so familiarly, as if I’d known you forever. But I’ve heard so much about you — the Gatehouse, the goats, Rupert, the lab, etc. I feel you’ll understand why I needed to write.
My name is Turing. I am a friend of your son’s. I might venture to say that I am his best friend, although he has a great number of friends, so it’s difficult to say so for certain. Certainly he is my best friend. I am very fond of him. He is the most stand-up person in school. He has been completely straight with me ever since I met him in biology. On his end, it wasn’t at all necessary to befriend me, since I am not a popular boy. In fact, I am quite short and have never been good at sports. But from the moment I met him, he made me feel as if I had finally arrived at the place I was meant to have found all along. Before meeting Chris, I thought it was my lot to wander about, moving amongst various schools, learning as much as possible but never quite feeling what people refer to as “comfortable.”
Now I expect you are thinking, who is this short, troublesome boy, who has wandered about amongst various schools? And why is he writing directly to me, in contradiction of the school nurse’s instructions, to tell me my son is not well? You probably want to know why you should trust me enough to change your plans and come home early from India, especially because what I have told you so far must make me sound rather odd.
In case it helps, I have not switched schools because I am stupid. The problem lay more in the fact that it was difficult for me to pay proper attention in class when I was distracted by my own little projects. I never quite fit in as well as I ought. During my first year at Sherborne, I was often teased for my slackness in gym or for having ink on my collar. To be perfectly honest with you, my best months that year were spent in the sanatorium, with mumps, because I was permitted to read my books and pursue my own projects. But all of that was what I had come to expect. Only the next year, when I met Chris in my first biology class, did I realize how unhappy I’d been.
Now, as I mentioned earlier, I live each day with the surprising and terrific sensation of having found my way back from a very far country. I owe this to my friendship with Chris.
I realize this letter has become rather long. I only intended to write a short, urgent missive, warning you to come home. Now I have written 811 words, or 3,435 characters. I hope you haven’t thrown this letter across your parlor already. Only your son has meant so much to me, and I couldn’t bear it if I had not expressed to you the full extent of his illness and also the full extent of my gratitude for his friendship.
As a result of knowing Chris, I hope to stay at Sherborne until graduation. To this end, I have even reformed my behavior a bit. I’ve earned top marks in history. We have been studying the Civil War, and the Puritan flight to New England. While I once might have found this all a bit boring, Chris has helped me understand that the primary sources our teacher gives us are actually quite fantastic. He says that diaries are time capsules, which preserve the minds of their creators in the sequences of words on the page. This, of course, appeals to me immensely.
But all of this is unimportant, and you are probably not very interested in the details of my personal development. I expect, however, that you will be interested to hear that your son and I are embarking on an important examination of sequences in the natural universe. We intended to tackle Einstein this spring. In particular, we have been planning to apply the theory of relativity to the patterns of human growth, especially the cells of the brain. How are brains built? That is what we’d like to know. You will be happy to hear that no one has yet attempted that kind of study, and I believe there is potential for real contribution, which would set us both on promising paths. Chris’s illness has, of course, slowed down our progress. When he recovers, I hope we will return to the previous pace of our studies.
I will now attempt to draw this letter to a close. My only intention has been to convey to you the importance of your son to me and my studies and my entire life, so that you will know why I have been so bold as to write you and tell you to come immediately home.
Sincerely yours,
Alan Turing
P.S.: Please do not tell Chris that I have written you this letter. He wants very much not to bother you or his father, so I have had to act with some degree of secrecy.
P.P.S.: I am not usually a dishonest person, although I have not been straightforward with Chris in this case.
P.P.P.S.: I am not sure this kind of thing is permitted. I have never seen one myself. But I do want to say that, although I am usually a very honorable person, in this specific case it seemed better to break a general rule in order to be sure that you would come home and comfort Chris, for he is not at all well and I know it would do him good if you were here by his side. I will force myself to close now, although I have already thought of another postscript that seems very urgent to say. I simply won’t say it. I’ve gone on quite enough as it is, and I’m sure that you’ve understood the point of my letter. Your son is my best friend. We are to discover the source of human growth together, and we cannot do this if he remains ill. Please come home.
(5) The Diary of Mary Bradford
1663
ed. Ruth Dettman
April 3rd. Tuesday, my birthday, now thirteen years. Very fair weather, and a pleasant sensation of new beginnings. Up, and a stroll through our meadows with Ralph, then greeted by father, who gave me this book as a present. Have decided to write in style of Sir William Leslie, favorite adventurer. As Leslie does, shall dispense with weak words, jump instead into action. Book shall serve as mind’s record, to last through generations. Or not, no matter. Humility of utmost importance.
Shall call this book Tales of a Young Adventurer. Mother, father, and I set sail for colonies in just over a week. Ocean is approaching! Shall attempt to procure large bamboo joint and seal it with wax, to store this and other papers in case we be forced to swim at some point. Anticipate great adventure. God’s blessing to leave our country at this unhappy junction, father’s heart being broken by failure of protectorate and Restoration accomplished. Tyrant returned to the throne, and there to spend crown’s money on maintaining his mistress. Also, there being prelates, hierarchy, popish repression of learning, etc. Father’s great cause, ruined. Father much lessened by events of the war. Gift of this journal a gesture of respect for daughter’s learning, and serious nature of mind. Shall pray to God prevent me from becoming proud or too much lifted up hereby.