Louisa Hall - Speak

10th . Later. This morning to breakfast, and decided then to write these pages in recollection of Ralph, to ensure I cannot forget him. His body, that remained here for me when all else was lost. The comfort of leaning my head on his belly, and it being warm, and moving up and down with his breath. His bark, or his ruff when running over the meadow.

But all this is self-pity. Pray to God to remember my sorrow is unimportant. Only Ralph’s absence remains important. His loss of a loved world: rabbits, sheep, meadows, and myself, being his companion.

11th . On deck, have found a place that is my own, amongst old coils of rope. From there, spend hours gazing from whence we have come. Hope, sometimes, to see nose of Ralph, proceeding towards ship. Know that this is thinking in error, but cannot stop staring. My fault that Ralph was aboard. Now, what? Write to his spirit? Keep vigil over the sea? All hopeless, naive. But cannot force myself to stop looking.

12th . Have been delivered sermon by father, in general speaking that it be impious to cherish mortal coil too much. All creatures pass. Distraction (he says) from human duties, for me to mourn so much for a dog. Thought to quote to him from Proverbs, for “a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.” And yet, according to father, though decent enough not to say so directly: Ralph soulless. Not permitted entrance to Heaven. And then what, for Ralph? Is there anything we can hope for? Have not spoken to father since sermon.

13th . Morning. Remained abed until entrance of mother, who came bearing lectures. Showed her my teeth, as Ralph might have done to a snake. Mother left in huff of impatience. Alone, attempted to make myself decent, but that seeming very little important. Cannot remember last combing my hair, and now it is become very bad. Then resumed solitude on deck, in seat amongst cases. Towards late afternoon, and the water being lacquered and the sun sinking, the sea became dark, and then the color of fire. Ship cut through an ocean of flames, and our wake streaming always behind us. Sails full. Full on ahead, as if leaving nothing behind. Endless water, unbroken. Think sometimes of diving in, swimming as far as I could back towards home.

Before going below to my cabin, and walking with my head down through violet evening, did find amongst tangled rigging a seaman’s misplaced pocketknife. Slipped it into my pocket. Carried it with me to bed.

14th . Night. Woke from a terrible nightmare, Ralph being hung from a tree. Was waiting for me to save him. But he was hung too far up; I could not release him. Started awake with relief. Reached to foot of the bed, feeling for Ralph and hoping to have a handful of fur. The knob of his skull, the round of his stomach. Then, the recollection again: Ralph gone, and no dream worse than this waking.

Lit candle and went to my mirror, and there saw my face. Still present, floating in darkness. Passing over the sea, leaving Ralph’s bones behind. Was overtaken by pain. Impossible to bear anymore. Want only to join Ralph under the sea, settled at last. Reached for knife stolen from deck. Unsheathed blade, held it to my throat. Felt metal press into skin. Gently, pulled it across.

Somewhere else, I am with Ralph. In this world, unscathed, my body went back to bed.

I am caught here, unable to depart. Have been gripped by an illusion of life. Slept a few hours more. Woke in gray light of day. Dressed in usual clothes, combed hair at mirror. Everything as usual, as though morning was like all previous mornings.

Alan Turing

Officers’ Mess

Hanslope Park

Hanslope, MK19 7BH

22 May 1945

Dear Mrs. Morcom,

This letter must come as a bit of a shock. I haven’t heard from you since my last Easter visit, more than ten years ago now. But I’m also guilty of silence. Perhaps we were both disappointed with one another, although on my end it was only a little hurt pride.

And then I set sail for Princeton, and I feel as if I’ve been sailing ever since, alone on my own little boat, too far out for sightings of land. Even after I came back and took up at Bletchley, I still had the feeling of surveying the shore from a few miles out. I watched myself talking with friends and wondered at the strained act that odd little fellow was putting on, then watched with relief when I cycled off to be by myself, alone once again with my experiments and my games. I often thought to write you, but at times it felt as if I’d wandered so far out to sea that you might not understand the signals I sent. I fear I’ve become a “confirmed solitary” after all, despite everyone’s best attempts at getting me more socialized. One becomes accustomed to one’s solitude, and it begins to seem rather phony to try to reach out.

The whole world, of course, has been out to sea. I suppose my case isn’t so bad, for I can only imagine that all the refugees must feel much more than I as if they’ve landed in their own little boat. Much more than I, they are now stranded far off from shore. But then I’ve lived with a sense of wandering that I think sometimes must be unique to myself. All those years in public school I raged against the pettiness of that system, and yet I wonder whether my time there has rendered me unfit for any other kind of existence. The world outside seems rather lawless and disorganized. Of course, I won’t go back to King’s — I’ve become mixed up with the world’s affairs, and I can’t well imagine a return to the classroom — and yet I fear that outside school grounds I’ll always live with a sense of exile from home.

Still, I wanted to write you again, because I’m all too aware that last time I wrote I made promises that I haven’t yet kept about getting Chris’s mind-set in the form of a thinking machine. Now, ten years later, the total assurance of that letter seems a bit ridiculous. It is true that the war intervened. I’m not sorry to have joined up in the effort, although perhaps it was a distraction from my ultimate goal. Still, through those Bletchley years, the thought of the mechanical brain was never absent from my mind, and now that the war no longer demands our full attention, I hope to return to that project with renewed commitment. I wanted you to know where we stood on the project, and that I haven’t by a long shot given up.

Sadly — to me at least, though not to anyone else — this time round I’m a little late to the game. Others have been at it in America, mostly in service of weapons development. In Philadelphia, they’ve come up with a rather brainless hulk called ENIAC, which can compute large numbers rapidly. They’ve put it to use testing new bombs. The thing itself is a bit of a beast, all cable and hardwire, containing some 17,468 vacuum tubes, 70,000 resistors, 10,000 capacitors, and 5 million soldered joints. But its memory is ant-like, and it requires constant interference by a small army of watchful human assistants.

At Princeton, von Neumann is working on another computer, making claims that his machine will be less dependent than ENIAC on physical engineering, with greater powers of memory. He says also that the machine’s functions will be internal to itself, and thus independent from all those human worker bees.

I have to admit that my feelings are bruised, for the whole concept borrows quite a bit from my universal machine without giving me any credit. Von Neumann must have read my papers whilst I was at Princeton; it might have been nice to be included. But now I’ve become petty. It’s only that I feel a little behind in the field I hoped to initiate. The whole concept was like a child to me. Now he’s been taken up by more suitable parents and I’m left peering in windows to catch a glimpse where I can.