If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
…………………..you’ll be a Man,my soon! **
(from”IF” by R.Kipling)
The road with the scent of basil
Life is not like a straight line, but rather like a wave — with gentle climbs, unexpected descents, swirls and clearings. Every person, at the end of a journey, or perhaps even in the middle of it, feels the need to sit down for a while and look back. Not with regret, but with amazement. Not with the desire to change anything, but with gratitude for having been a witness and actor in their own story.
I write these lines not out of the desire to erect a monument to myself, but out of the need to put into words a life lived with intensity, dignity and curiosity. Words are the only tools capable of keeping alive the memory of people who were, of places that existed and of events that, although simple, had in them the profound core of my formation as a person.
I was born in a village forgotten by the world, but not by God. In a house with a brick stove and small windows, where the smell of basil and the sound of wood crackling in the fireplace were more eloquent than any words. I grew up among hardworking, kind and fair parents, with my sister and a childhood in which deprivations melted into sincere joys. That time knew no hurry, but had the patience of sowing, reaping, and learning.
I was a curious child, a young man with clear dreams, and an adult who chose the path of knowledge, not for glory, but for the truth. My paths intertwined with people who shaped me, challenged me, and guided me. And now, looking back, I see not successes and achievements, but people, emotions, and moments that made me who I am.
I write, therefore, for those who come after me. For my children and grandchildren. For those who, one day, will search for the traces of a name, of a family, of a love of nation and country. I write so that the roots are not lost, and the trunk can grow further, solidly, towards the light.
Maybe one day, someone, in a corner of the library, will open this book and smile. They will find a fragment of the world that was. And if they feel, even for a moment, that their heart beats faster — then, the purpose of these pages will have been fulfilled.
The story of my life begins in my native village, where the Cornea hill and the Amaradia stream were my reliable companions in childhood. There, in the middle of nature, among the Hobaica and Bolborosu forests, I lived the first years of a life that I would dedicate to the search for knowledge and truth. I grew up in a modest family, but with strong values. My parents, simple and hardworking, instilled in me a love of learning and a curiosity about the world. I know how much effort they put into keeping my sister and me in school, but also how much joy each of our successes brought them.
Childhood in the village between the hills
I was born on a cold February day, on the 17th, in 1948, in the village of Balanesti — a settlement with a gentle and sonorous name, which derives its identity from a commune of the same name, located in Gorj County. My native village, nestled between two wooded hills, with vineyards that undulate at the edge of the forests, bathed by the gentle waters of the Amaradiya River, has a discreet but undoubted beauty, like an old icon forgotten in a box of memories.
My father, Grigore Horhoianu, was born in the same village of Balanesti, into a large family, with seven children. His parents were simple farmers, people of the earth, connected to the seasons and the patience of work. Grandma Maria, my father’s mother, carried a special legacy in her blood: she came from the family of priest Ion Sfenescu, known in the village as “Sfenea”, who lived up in Canepesti, near Grui, where even today a small wooden church stands guard, with two centuries-old fir trees guarding the entrance – unwavering witnesses of the times and of prayer. Here, at the small church in Canepesti, in memory of my grandmother, I light a candle and feel how an invisible bridge is being built between heaven and earth.
My father, a man with the gift of teaching, was a teacher in Banat for a long time, in the village of Icloda in the commune of Sacosu Turcesc, Timis county. After my grandfather’s death, he returned to Balanesti, where he taught at the local school. He received all the teaching degrees, but he always remained the same: humble, gentle, enlightened by his vocation.
My mother, Lucretia Horhoianu, was the daughter of the neighboring village, Voitesti, born into a family with eight children. Her parents, Alexie and Maria Radulescu, were wealthy people, respected in the community. Alexie, the son of a priest, bore within himself the traces of a special destiny: his father, originally named Tascau, changed his name to Radulescu during his studies at the theological seminary in Ramnicu Valcea. Alexie Radulescu would become a notary in the commune of Glodeni. Maria, my maternal grandmother, was also the daughter of a priest from the same village of Glodeni. My maternal grandparents, Alexie and Maria Radulescu, people of honor and dignity, were married under the protection of notable godparents — teachers Lazar and Fevronia Arjocianu. The story of these ancestors is detailed in the volume “Sa ne conoastem stramosii”, written by my mother’s brother, Eugen Radulescu. Mother was the unwavering support of the house — a woman of rare patience, who serenely carried the family’s worries and the work of the field.
A detail that always reminds me of the practical intelligence of grandfather Alexie is the fact that he bought my mother, before her marriage, a “Singer” sewing machine — a luxury at the time. That sewing machine, which became an invaluable help in the household, still exists today in my sister’s house, silent and dignified, like a relic of time.
I remember with a tenderness that is difficult to express in words how, after school, my father would come straight to the hills — to Cornea, to the Budii Hill, to the Bolborosu Valley or to the Hobaica Valley — where my mother, grandmother and we, the children, would work the land to weed the corn, gather the hay or pick the plums and grapes. And there, in the middle of nature, in the shade of the vineyards or in the valleys with the smell of fresh hay, in a clay pot and under a fire of sticks, a simple and sacred lunch would be born: a soup of lingonberries, beans or nettles, a few eggs fried in a pan — and lots and lots of love. Grandma Maria, my father’s mother, was a pillar of support in our upbringing.
Mornings were hard for my sister and me, because we had a hard time waking up. Mother gently comforted us: “You will sleep well in the ox cart until we reach the hill at Cornea, …” And so it was. The cart, creaking from all its joints, rocked us on the road to the vineyard.
Over time, we moved to the neighboring village, Pitesti, to the new house built by our parents on the land inherited from our mother. Our parents lived here most of the time, as we children had gone to the city for school and college.
he house where I was born and spent the first years of my life — a modest house but full of the warmth of love — was later demolished by my godson and cousin, Cristian Horhoianu, who built a new, large and beautiful home on the same site.
In the village of Balanesti, I spent my childhood, together with my sister and the children of the village, in games, laughter and incidents that turned into everlasting memories.
The names of the places of my childhood have a musicality that stirs my soul: Cornea hill, with its cellar with large barrels, Budii hill, with its plums heavy with fruit, Bolborosu valley, where the vine swayed in the wind, and Hobaica valley, where my father sewed alfalfa with a mastery that always seemed magical to me. Every corner of my native village is a keeper of memories. Every leaf in the Hobaica forest speaks to me. Every breeze from the Bolborosu Valley sings my childhood.
My playmates – Dan Toropu, Ion Chiriac, Aurel Chiriac, Liviu Avram, Viorel Avram – were my street comrades and laughter. I also fondly remember my classmates from primary school: Vasile Andritoiu, Ion Tascau, Gheorghe Guta, Ion Salajan, Adrian Branzan, Rodica Negrescu, Valeria Ionici, Maria Toropu. Our evenings, shrouded in the dust of the street, resounded with games and the cries of happy children. In summer, we ran to bathe in Amaradia. In winter, we raced down the Magulite hill and the Broscanilor coast with sledges. And on Christmas Eve, with our bags around our necks, we all set off to sing carols, from the Broscanilor stream to the Inoasa stream, running after the “pitarai” and feeling the magic of the holiday. On Sundays, in the clearing near Amaradia, the village vibrated with dances and songs — a true ritual of joy.
School years and the beginning of the vocation
I attended primary school in my native village, at the “School with the Eagle”, named after the monument in front, erected in honor of the heroes and adorned with a bronze eagle that, as it were, guards the memory of the past with dignity. In the first grade, I was a student of teacher Ion Draganescu, and in grades II-IV, of Mrs. Elena Diaconescu. My father was a teacher at the same school and, quite often, during breaks, he would call my sister and me into the yard and, with a wooden knife and a brush, clean our shoes covered in road mud.
My school time was fruitful: we both won first prize with a crown, to the pride of our parents.
I attended grades V-VII in Voitesti, where I studied under the guidance of my uncle, Anghel Horhoianu, a Romanian language teacher, and the young mathematics teacher Ionici Ion. From there, memories are woven with names and faces: history teacher Ion Lupulescu, geography teacher Constantin Flitan, and the unforgettable trip to the Steel Plant and Hunyadi Castle in Hunedoara.
Since I was little, I was curious about how things work. I would take toys apart and reassemble them. My passion for electronics took hold of me early: in elementary school, I built a galena radio from a telephone headset, a coil wound on a hemlock pipe, and a galena detector. In a village without electricity, that radio was a miracle. Later, I tried more complex assemblies, using my small savings to buy parts.
I attended the “Ecaterina Teodoroiu” high school in Targu-Jiu, where my friends and teachers marked my education. I lived in a boarding school, then with a host, together with my childhood friend, Dan Toropu. The mathematics, physics and chemistry Olympiads really mobilized us. It was an intense, but meaningful period.
After high school, I attended the Faculty of Physics of the University of Bucharest, where I bonded with extraordinary colleagues and friends. There, in that atmosphere of intellectual effervescence, I discovered my true calling. I fondly remember my college colleagues: Florin Gaiseanu, Viorel Chirtoc, Stefan Simion, Adrian Dafinei, Virgil Nicolaescu, Pavel Gartner, Nicolae Vaja, Florin Cotorobai, Doina Stafiescu, Floreta Munteanu, Maria Popescu, Ecaterina Enescu, Mariuca Ignat, Rodica Paraschiv, Ioana Scutaru, Emilian Dragulescu, Petre Samoil Stanescu, Dumitru Mihalache, Dan Pantea, Alexandru Badescu, Aurel Cret, Marin Teodorescu and those from older years, friends and dormitory mates: Dumitru Popescu (Mitica), Gheorghe Popescu (Gigi), Dan Macovei, Nicolae Pasareanu (Nicu). Some of them worked alongside me in research or higher education.
An unforgettable moment was the meeting with Professor Stelian Lungu, researcher at the Institute of Atomic Physics in Bucharest-Magurele. The use of computational models in nuclear fuel design was, at that time, a new activity in research. Professor Lungu’s lessons were like a revelation for me. I understood that research in nuclear fuel physics could become my path in my professional career. And so it was.
A laboratory among the oaks
Since I was a little child, I was attracted to the exact sciences. I loved numbers, logical reasoning, and the orderly beauty of formulas. In high school, I discovered my fascination for physics and mathematics, and this calling was so strong that it dictated my professional path. Thus, I chose to study physics at college, and after graduation, life took me to one of the most challenging and fascinating destinations: the Institute for Nuclear Research.
The first years at the institute were difficult. I was assigned to a young but extremely motivated team that worked on important projects related to nuclear energy. I learned a lot, not only about nuclear fuel and fission processes, but also about responsibility, rigor, and teamwork. The atmosphere was full of creative energy and a pioneering spirit. I knew that what we were doing there was not just a job, but a real contribution to the energy development of the country.
The main activity was in the nuclear fuel design and performance evaluation laboratory, a laboratory located among the oak trees of a forest on the hill in Mioveni-Arge?. Here, together with my colleagues, I developed calculation models, simulated limit situations and designed the experiments that were carried out in the institute’s reactor. There were years when we worked intensely, often overtime, but passion and a sense of usefulness kept us going.
I have authored several scientific papers and participated in conferences in the country and abroad, where I presented the results of our research. I had the opportunity to collaborate with specialists from Belgium, Germany, Japan, Canada and the United States in research programs on nuclear fuel. This international experience opened my horizons and confirmed to me that the level of our research was competitive.
There were also difficult moments. But our community of research physicists remained united, fueled by a common passion: that of deciphering the laws of physics and transforming knowledge into concrete progress.
Looking back, those years were perhaps the most fruitful from an intellectual and professional point of view. They formed me as a specialist, taught me the discipline of research, critical thinking and, above all, patience. Because in science, as in life, things do not happen overnight. Results come over time, through sustained work, collaboration and sometimes, through the courage to make mistakes.
Formulas and fire from the heart of the atom
Research is a way of life. It is not just a profession, but a profound calling to understand the world and to push the boundaries of knowledge. You cannot be a half-hearted researcher – you must ask questions even in your sleep, be guided by curiosity, accept uncertainty and keep an open mind. It is perhaps one of the most humble and noble forms of human work: to seek the truth, knowing that you will never reach it in its entirety, but that every step towards it counts.
I believe that the progress of humanity rests on the shoulders of those who have dared to dream and to research, even in the silence of a laboratory. Without science, we would be lost in the dark. With science, we have a compass – not infallible, but still a guide – that leads us to a better world.
Since my student years, I have felt a deep attraction to research, that world where curiosity becomes the engine of discovery, and questions give rise to new paths in understanding reality. For me, research activity was not just a career, but a way to understand nature, to confront the limits of knowledge and to contribute, even modestly, to the scientific progress of my country. In the following pages, I will share some of the experiences and challenges I have experienced in nuclear physics laboratories, in international collaborations, but also in the efforts to build a solid base for the manufacture of nuclear fuel in Romania.
My research activity began in 1975 when I received a scholarship, offered by the International Atomic Energy Agency, to carry out an internship at the Institute for Nuclear Research in Mol, Belgium. Here I also prepared my doctoral thesis. The discussions held with the physicists of the institute, the experiments in the laboratory and the rich library of the Belgian institute helped me to clarify many of the problems related to the design and manufacture of nuclear fuel. At that time, it was very difficult to obtain a scholarship abroad, so I considered myself extremely lucky to work in a nuclear research laboratory in Western Europe, alongside high-level scientific specialists. In the reactor of the Nuclear Research Center in Mol-Belgium, I also carried out, in 1977, the first irradiation tests on prototypes of nuclear fuel manufactured by us in the laboratory of the Institute of Nuclear Technologies, an institute located at that time on the platform in Bucharest-Magurele. The design of the first six fuel elements manufactured in Romania and irradiated in the BR-2 reactor in Mol-Belgium, as well as the Technical Report with project data, well justified by calculation results, a report requested by Belgian specialists to allow testing of the fuel in the reactor, were for me a first and not at all easy attempt in my activity as a young physicist.
The design features of the PHWR fuel (collapsible Zircaloy cladding, axial clearance, diametrical clearance, free volume, UO2 pellet geometry, fuel-cladding interaction, etc.), compared to the features of the LWR project, developed by the Belgians, were the subject of heated discussions with the specialists from SCK/CEN Mol-Belgium. The experimental results obtained from the irradiation test in the BR-2 reactor, published by me in the external report BLG-530 of SCK/CEN, highlighted Romania as the only country in Eastern Europe that produces and tests fuel for high-power nuclear reactors. It was a first success in the research activity. The generous help granted by the state to our institute made it possible that, in those difficult times, in a laboratory located among the oaks of a forest on the hill in Mioveni-Arges, a group of young physicists could concentrate on solving not easy problems regarding the design and manufacture of nuclear fuel. Here we benefited from an exceptional research base, the most modern in Eastern Europe: a nuclear reactor for experiments, irradiation devices, hot cells and state-of-the-art computers.
It seems strange to me to remember those days, not so long ago, when, with the help of a machine, we punched cards on which was encoded the program for the computer – a computer that occupied the space of a large room at the institute in Mioveni and which, at that time, was considered the largest computer in the country. We waited impatiently for hours or even days for the calculation results, which we received strung out on many pages of paper. Today, we develop our calculation models directly on our laptops and obtain the results in a few seconds. Communication with physicists abroad was done through letters and preprint requests; now, we have electronic archives at our disposal and we communicate quickly anywhere in the world.
Throughout my career, I have recognized something that I had heard the brilliant physicist Richard Feynman say: “A good scientist is one who works so hard that he makes all the possible mistakes before reaching the correct result.” Research requires not only intelligence and hard work, but also insight, stubbornness, patience, and strength of character.
The happiest days of my life (leaving aside the family side) were those when, after months of work, I obtained the first results of the calculation models – results that correlated with the irradiation test data. Thus began, in Romania, the manufacture of nuclear fuel for high-power reactors. By chance, I was one of the pioneers of the development of this field in our country, which, in my opinion, was a great success. Through my research activity and the scientific works developed within the institute, I was able to make a modest contribution to the realization of nuclear fuel in Romania. Romania is, to this day, the only country in Eastern Europe that has the technology and capacity to manufacture and test nuclear fuel for high-power reactors.
I strongly hope that Romania, in the near future, will also have the technology to manufacture fuel for small modular reactors at CNE Doicesti. At ICN Mioveni we have tradition and experience in this field. Romania can develop on the ICN-FCN platform in Mioveni-Arges a line for the manufacture of SMR fuel and can become a regional hub for SMR fuel. For example, Spain, with seven reactors in operation, has an LWR enriched fuel factory. Spain brings the U-235 enriched powder from France (Marcoule-France). The ENUSA factory in Salamanca-Spain (in operation since 1985) produces LWR nuclear fuel for the seven reactors in Spain and exports nuclear fuel for other reactors in Europe.
Physicists are also people, and everyone feels the need to know that their work matters. This is how research activity becomes a deeply human story. From a physicist older than me, Alexandru Ceapa, who worked in an electrotechnical research institute in Bucharest, I learned an essential lesson: it is possible to make progress on problems that seem impossible to solve, if you ignore the skeptics and move on. Alexandru, born in a village in Gorj, attended, like me, the theoretical high school in Targu Jiu and then the Faculty of Physics in Bucharest. But the similarities stop there. Alexandru, whom I often met in the library in Magurele, was far ahead of his time. He had the courage and skill to approach subjects that were almost unimaginable to me at the time, such as quantum gravity. I always admired the clarity and depth of his thinking, and our discussions at the library deeply influenced me.
I felt extremely privileged to be part of the community of physicists concerned with nuclear fission and the use of the resulting energy in high-power reactors. I fondly remember the annual meetings organized by the IAEA in Vienna – late spring or early autumn – where physicists from all over the world would gather around a table to discuss issues of great interest related to nuclear fuel. Japanese, Americans, Europeans, Chinese, Indians, Latin Americans, Christians, Muslims, Hindus – we would all come together to share our ideas and results. Some of those present at these meetings were old friends of mine with whom, during the year, I would frequently exchange e-mails. The meetings would culminate in a banquet one evening, where there would be jokes and toasts. The hierarchy in physics is seen as a meritocracy, and physicists form an elite based on scientific merit.
One of the most enjoyable moments of my research career was the International Congress in Niagara Falls, Canada, in 2010. There I was the moderator of a section and presented, in the opening, the results of a complex experiment carried out by us at the Nuclear Research Institute in Pitesti, in collaboration with the AECL laboratory in Mississauga Ontario-Canada, regarding the performance of nuclear fuel under cyclic power variation. The well-appreciated paper sparked numerous discussions and good questions.
I knew I wanted to do research in physics since I was in college. This fundamental science offered me hope to understand the world, to answer the questions: Where do we come from? Why are we here, on this planet called Earth? The purpose of physics is not just to describe the world, but to explain why it is the way it is – whether life is a coincidence or part of a divine plan. And if we are to invent a purpose for our lives, I think it could be to try to understand the universe and the world we live in – and physics offered me this chance.
I may have found answers to some of the questions that have troubled me, but there are still so many things to learn. Albert Einstein showed us that space and time can be curved in the presence of matter and energy. And quantum mechanics, in turn, forces us to give up “common sense” in order to understand the apparent chaos of the microscopic world. Today, quantum gravity is shaking the foundations of modern physics so strongly that even notions such as the three spatial dimensions are being questioned. The true mysteries of nature and the universe must be sought in astrophysics and elementary particle physics.
As far as I am concerned, the joy of work itself has always been a sufficient motivation. Working in a laboratory located in the middle of a wonderful forest, on the hills of Mioveni, I have always felt at peace with myself. When the theory was confirmed by experiment, I felt immense satisfaction. Scientific explanation is a source of pleasure, just like love or art.
When I taught physics to students, I considered my main duty – and perhaps the most difficult, based on my research experience – to make them feel the power that understanding a physical system gives you, its behavior under different conditions, and how useful it is to compare the results of a calculation model with the results of a well-thought-out experiment. As a physics teacher, I spent a lot of time trying to explain difficult things to students in elementary terms. I tried to make them understand that elementary particles appear in the theories of modern physics as small accumulations of energy, momentum and electric charge of some fields. In modern physics, fields should be viewed not just as simple mathematical artifices that help us calculate the forces between particles, but as independent physical entities—inhabitants of our universe that may in fact be “more fundamental” than elementary particles. Reality is not what it seems!
The principles of physics are a precious component of civilization on our planet. The deepest physical principles we know are the rules of quantum mechanics, which underlie everything we know about matter and its interactions. Perhaps in the near future that holographic principle of quantum gravity, to which physicists Susskind, Smolin, Brian Greene, Winberg refer in their works, will be a formidable idea that will deeply mark the civilization of our planet.
Family and children
In 1975, I married Valeria-Elena, born Sendruc, a woman of exceptional intelligence and delicacy, a physicist by profession. Life first took us to Bucharest, and then, in March 1977, we moved to Pitesti, where we both worked at the Nuclear Research Institute in Mioveni. Through the care of the institute, we received an apartment in Pitesti. Here we started a family and lived the most beautiful years of our youth.
Our eldest son, Ionica, was born in Bucharest, and our second, Mihai, in Pitesti. Ionica attended the Faculty of Economics in Bucharest, and Mihai chose the Faculty of Nuclear Energy. Both of them started beautiful families. Ionica married Nicoleta-Iuliana, and together they have three children: David-Andrei (born September 23, 2003), Irene-Maria (born July 29, 2007) and Ana-Ines (born December 22, 2010). Mihai has two sons: Alexandru (born August 8, 2004) and Stefan-Matei (born December 17, 2007).
I spent my youth in Pitesti, where we formed a family and made lasting friends. I fondly remember the Costescu family, the Perescu family, the Bold family, the in-laws Radu and Gabriela Moscalu, the Dutu family, the Voicu family, the Riciu family, the Mazilu family, the Turcu family and many others with whom I shared the beginnings of life.
I am an optimist by nature and I strongly believe in the future of this country. Although I have traveled a lot, my home has remained here, on the banks of the Arges River. Romania is home for me. I feel connected to my birthplace, to Romanian songs, games and traditions. I recharge my soul every time I return to my native village near Amaradia, near Cornea Hill and Hobaica Forest. There, every path carries memories, and every leaf in the Hobaica Forest tells me a story.
I feel indebted to my parents for the gift of life, for education and for the constant encouragement to learn more than what is taught in school. Their efforts to keep me and my sister, who attended the Faculty of Medicine in Bucharest, in school bore fruit. I am grateful to everyone I have met – from relatives and teachers, to colleagues and friends – each one has taught me something. I always return home with an emotion that I cannot explain in words. In Balanesti, near the Amaradia stream and Cornea hill, my soul is recharged. I light a candle at my parents’ cross and feel an invisible bridge forming between heaven and earth.
My sister, Aurelia, and I remember our parents with gratitude — their simplicity, their love, the meaningful silence with which they taught us about the world and ourselves. They left this world, but not us. They left the sight of our eyes, but not the light of our hearts. They remained where longing never dies, and memory becomes prayer. Our parents are no longer in the flesh, but they live on through their deeds, through the values ??they left us, through everything we have become because of them. From them we received not only life, but also a way of living. A way of loving people, work, and the place where you come from. From them we learned that peace is not sought outside, but inside, and that true nobility is carried in silence, not in words. Let us keep their memory alive and carry forward what they were — light, patience, dignity.
My words of gratitude also go to my grandmother, Maria Horhoianu. If I could turn back time, I would kiss her hand and ask her forgiveness for all the incomprehensible moments of my childhood. In her silence, my grandmother’s, there was a wisdom that I only now understand.
In my relationship with my sons, I have tried to offer them support in important moments. As a parent, I have sought to offer my children everything that was within my power. I have been by their side until they found their way, but I have not expected anything in return. Their education and health have been a priority for me, and the joy of their successes is the greatest reward. I have not made sacrifices expecting gratitude, but because I considered it my duty as a parent. I do not expect scheduled visits or gestures of gratitude – I am still active and value my time as much as I value their freedom. I know that they are living their lives beautifully and that they have understood what is truly important. As for the inheritance, if after I leave this world not much is left behind, I just hope they do not get upset – it means that I have planned my savings poorly.
But I hope, with all my heart, that my sons and daughters-in-law understand that the greatest achievement of their lives are the children they raise and whose health and education they must take care of with priority. One child in a family is too little – both for the parents and for the child, who can have a soulmate for life in a brother or sister. I can bring many arguments to support this statement. Unfortunately, many young families realize this only when it is too late. You have to have children when you are young and healthy.
To my joy – but especially theirs – my sons understood this advice and behold, Irene Maria and Ana Ines joined their brother, David Andrei, and Alexandru now has his brother, Stefan Matei, as support. So, I have five smart, beautiful grandchildren with excellent results at school.
Our situation on this planet called Earth sometimes seems strange. Each of us appears here involuntarily and uninvited, for a short stay, without knowing why we come and where we come from. However, in everyday life we ??feel that man exists for others – for those we love and for those whose fate is linked, in one way or another, to ours.
Man, in his passage through the world, is like a shadow moving across the face of the earth. We pass through life like travelers through a foreign land. We gather joys, sorrows, faces and moments — all fleeting. But what remains is love. The love that we have received and that we have given. The love that binds us beyond death.
I am deeply grateful for everything I have lived and achieved in this life on the planet called Earth. I have never coveted abundance or luxury — I have even despised them — but I still have a few desires that, if fulfilled, would bring me even deeper peace. I am not referring to my personal life, but especially to my professional life: I would like to seize the day when the dream of physicists to understand the nature of dark matter and energy becomes reality, as well as that of achieving a quantum theory of gravity. Physics must ultimately answer the big questions about space and time, why we live in a world that we can study with such precision, where we humans came from and where we are going.
I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of suffering. Death does not frighten me. It did not scare me in my youth, but then I thought it was only because death seemed a very distant horizon. Now, at seventy-seven years old, I still do not feel that fear. I think of it as a well-deserved rest. Like a sister of sleep – gentle and benevolent – ??who will come, at some point, to close my eyes.
I would like to end this short cycle of life with a smile. I love life, but I know that life also means struggle, suffering, pain. And yet, I can still enjoy it. I enjoy those beautiful autumn days and those winter afternoons when I can lie on the couch and dream that, perhaps, I will manage to unravel – with the help of physics – one more little secret of this fascinating world in which we live.
Thoughts on the Sunset of a Life Dedicated to Knowledge
Research is, in essence, a dialogue between man and the universe. It is a continuous process of interrogation, of questioning what we think we know and of opening up to what we do not yet know. There is no greater satisfaction than that moment when, after months or years of calculations, simulations and experiments, a result confirms a hypothesis, or – more interestingly – contradicts it and forces you to think differently. In this game of knowledge, failure is often more fertile than success, because new ideas are born from it.
Over time, I have understood that authentic research does not only pursue a pragmatic goal – a product, a patent, an application – but is the expression of fundamental human curiosity. It is our way of orienting ourselves in the vastness of the cosmos and the complexity of the inner world. To research means never being satisfied with easy answers. It means resisting the temptation of certainty and cultivating, instead, fertile doubt. It is an attitude, a way of living in truth, even when that truth is incomplete or provisional.
Science is not infallible, but it is one of the most honest forms of knowledge, because it always submits to the test of reality. And those who practice it must have solid ethics, unwavering rigor and profound modesty. In the face of nature, we are all learners.
As for human life on this planet, I see it as a rare and miraculous chance. We are made of the same elements as the stars, but we have self-awareness. We live on a speck of dust suspended in the sun’s rays, as Carl Sagan said, and yet, we manage to love, to suffer, to build and to dream. In our fragility lies a great strength – that of asking ourselves “why?” and “what’s next?” No other known life form seems to have reached this height of reflection.
Perhaps the purpose of life is not to conquer the universe, but to harmonize with it, to live in balance with the planet that gave us birth. The Earth does not belong to us; we belong to it. It is our temporary home, a sanctuary of life in a seemingly silent cosmos. Our duty is to preserve it, to understand it, and to honor it.
In the end, I believe that human life gains meaning not through what it accumulates, but through what it gives. Through the love offered, through the ideas shared, through the mark left on others. If through our lives we have managed to light the path for others, then we have not lived in vain.
I close with the words of the historian Hendrik Van Loon, which have remained in my soul: “The more I think about human life, the more I believe that we should take as witnesses and judges, Irony and Pity… The irony I am talking about is not at all cruel. It does not mock love or beauty. It is gentle and benevolent. Its laughter soothes anger and teaches us to laugh at evil and stupidity, which, without it, we might have the weakness to despise or hate.”
In the picture: A winding path crossing a green field, surrounded by mature trees and forested hills in the background. The cloudy sky but crossed by sunrays, adds a touch of hope and light. This image symbolizes the path of my life, with modest beginnings and constant evolution, reflecting my childhood in my native village, the way to school, my youth and my career in research.
