The Collector

The little black notebook was at the end of the display. Safe inside a glass box from prying hands, it hid behind bigger splashier leather- bound gold lettered books. I was at an estate sale. Death and decay was being turned into profit as we all moved forward.

I beckoned to the woman running the show. “May I see that little diary?” I pointed to the little black notebook. She nodded proudly. “You noticed it? Most people walk right by it.” She opened the glass case, and gently pulled out the notebook. The black cover was a little frayed and the pages inside were covered in mathematical formulas. As I turned the pages over, she leaned in and whispered confidentially, “my father believed that this was Richard Feynman’s personal diary. He kept it when he was at Princeton”. In my leafy suburb off the Princeton campus this was a common occurance. The personal effects of famous writers and scientists often show up at garage sales. But I had to make sure before I shell out fifty bucks.

I looked inside the notebook. My physics was rudimentary, to put it politely. I racked my brain to remember what made Feynman famous and won him his Nobel Prize. Maybe this was where it started? If so, this could be very valuable. But I needed time to look this up. Make a correct valuation.

I walked over to the owner. “I am interested in this little diary. May I sit and read it for a bit, before I decide?” She didn’t seem too pleased that I wanted to verify her claim but she nodded. “He worked here you know, in the forties, before he went to Cornell. For fifty bucks his early work can be yours”, she said with a wink. I found a table in a corner and sat down.

The diary was old, no doubt about it. The paper was crinkly, like those with a high fiber content. I love the smell of old books. That musty lingering aroma that comes from being shut away for a long time and suddenly brought to light. Like a magic genie released from the bottle, the old paper and ink had me ensnared in its mystery. I read the first few pages and understood nothing. Partly because I don’t know physics. But partly because the sentences were strange. Like this one. “I wrote in my day book”. My physics may be rusty but my German is pretty decent. My brain translated it to Tagebuch without much effort. But then I retraced my brain movement. Why am I reminded of German? Some of his colleagues probably spoke German, and French and Italian. But surely not to the extent that it would influence his writing? Feynman was a Jewish kid from Brooklyn. His first language is presumably English. Why am I hearing German in these pages?

The chase was on. This diary was more mysterious than it appeared. As I touched the page to turn it, I noticed the edge. It was softer. I thought it was age but maybe there was something else? In my business I knew what paper in different ages felt like. Pre nineteenth century was textured and rough because it was fully handmade. Early twentieth century was soft and even. The forests of India and Burma provided all the pulp that Europe needed to churn out paper in their high speed Fourdrinier machines. Treated with water, filters and color, these paper machines created hundreds of thousands of diaries, notebooks and books that shaped the early twentieth century.

I know Richard Feynman was working on the atom bomb project in the forties when he was at Princeton. I’m not a physicist so I don’t know if what I’m reading is related to the atom bomb. Maybe that’s why he never published this research? But the atom bomb project is public knowledge. Why suppress something that is public? Was there a secret follow up bomb?

Scraps of sentences stood out. “perhaps reactions occur in which multiple electrons simultaneously transfer energy to one proton”. I read it a few times. As far as I could remember, nuclear fission was about splitting the atom. An implosion. So what is this theory of collaborating electrons? Is this something that was never published? If so, the value is incalculable! But who is writing this?? I furiously flipped through the pages to get a clue. Any clue. And then just like that, the clouds parted. In all it’s glory stood one little sentence fragment. “God does not play dice”. I was so excited I could barely sit still.

My mind was racing so much I never noticed the couple looking over my shoulder, then walking away. A minute later there was a tap on my shoulder. The owner lady was speaking to me. “I’m sorry, I need that diary. That nice couple over there would like to buy it”, she pointed towards the other customers and smiled at me.

I wasn’t really listening to her. The German flavor of the writing, the complicated physics, the paper from the 40’s, the closely written text as if the writer was living during a severe paper shortage, all of this definitely pointed to a physicist but it was not Richard Feynman. Feynman was many things but a bad writer of English he was not. In the 1940’s there was another physicist working at Princeton alongside Feynman. Someone who was recently forced to flee his German home. Someone who is known for his comment “God does not play dice with the universe”.

As my mind connected these dots I decided on a wild gamble. I took the couple aside. “I know you like this notebook but I got here first, you know”, I said, trying my bully tactic. The man answered “You might have got here first, but I knew Richard Feynman personally. He was my Ph.D advisor and a personal hero. That diary has his life in it. I must have it.”

I could see that bully bluster wasn’t going to work. So I tried the soft touch. “I completely understand. But this is a piece of Princeton history. Don’t you agree that it should remain here?” If this guy was a student of Feynman’s there was a fair chance he lived in California where Feynman ended up. I was right. “I agree this is a part of Feynman history. Which is why we’ll happily pay to take it back to CalTech”.

I decided to play my last card. I walked back to the old lady and said “Instead of fifty bucks, I’ll pay you double of whatever they are offering”. The lady sensing a bidding war, smiled and walked over to the other couple. I waited with bated breath. Soon she returned. “They are willing to pay ten thousand dollars”. “I’ll pay twenty”. I could not believe the words coming out of my mouth. But I also could not imagine I was holding a diary that once belonged to Albert Einstein. Correction. A diary that contains an unpublished Einstein hypothesis. If there is a jackpot in estate sales, this is it.

She walked over with my offer. I could see the couple talking amongst themselves. After what seemed like an eternity, they shook their heads and walked away. It was done! I had won!

I wrote a check with trembling hands. I had never spent so much money so quickly. Diary wrapped in bubble wrap, I walked out into the sunshine. I called my friend at the Physics department. She was intrigued and eager to read the diary. This beautiful little black book was going to tell us what Einstein wanted to keep hidden. And perhaps we’ll find out whether God ever played dice with the universe.