칼 세이건_딸과의 대화

http://newspeppermint.com/2014/04/20/carl-sagan/

내 아버지 칼 세이건과 나누었던 죽음에 관한 대화

2014년 4월 21일  |  By: veritaholic  |  과학  |  1 comment

(역자주: 아래는 칼 세이건의 딸 사샤 세이건(Sasha Sagan)이 뉴욕매거진에 기고한 에세이입니다.)

당시 내 아버지 칼 세이건은 코넬대학에서 천문학과 비판적 사고를 가르치고 있었습니다. 그는 텔레비전에 자주 등장했고, 자신의 우주에 대한 호기심을 수백만 명에게 성공적으로 전달하고 있었습니다. 그때 나의 부모님은 미신과 신비주의, 그리고 맹목적 믿음이 가득한 영역에 과학적 사고를 불어넣기 위한 책과 수필, 시나리오를 쓰고 있었습니다. 그들은 서로를 깊이 사랑했고, 지금 와서 생각해보면, 그들의 공동작업은 곧 이를 표현하는 또 다른 방식이었습니다. 그들의 작업 중 하나가 1980년대 텔레비전에 방영되었던 코스모스(Cosmos)입니다.

내가 초등학교를 다닐 무렵, 부모님은 저녁식사 시간마다 회의적 사고와 우주의 역사에 관련된 한 가지 주제를 잡아 나와 대화했습니다. 우리는 끈질기게 “왜 그럴까?”라는 질문을 주고 받았고, 절대 “내가 그렇게 말했으니까” 또는 “그건 원래 그런거야”라고 답하지 못하게 했습니다. 모든 질문에는 설사 그것이 답이 없는 질문이라 하더라도, 깊은 생각과 솔직한 의견이 따라왔습니다.

내가 아주 어렸을 때, 그때까지 친할아버지와 할머니를 한 번도 본적이 없었던 나는 아버지에게 그 분들이 어디 계신지 물었습니다.

“그분들은 세상을 떠났단다.” 그는 슬프게 말했습니다.

“그럼 아빠는 다시는 할아버지 할머니를 볼 수 없나요?” 나는 다시 물었습니다.

그는 깊은 생각에 잠겼습니다. 그리고 그는, 자신은 세상 그 무엇보다도 할아버지 할머니를 다시 보고 싶지만, 자신은 죽음 뒤에 다른 무엇이 있다고 생각하지 않고, 그래서 그들을 다시 볼 수 있을 거라고는 생각지 않는다고 말했습니다.

“왜요?”

그는 매우 부드럽게, 어떤 것이 사실이기를 바라기 때문에 그것을 믿는 다는 것은 매우 위험한 일이라고 이야기했습니다. “자신에게, 그리고 권위 있는 다른 이들의 생각에 의문을 가지지 않는다면, 우리는 스스로를 속이게 될 거야.” 그는 오직 진실만이 비판을 견딜 수 있다고 말했습니다.

이 때가 내가 처음으로 죽음에 대해 생각하게 되었던 순간입니다. 그 뒤로, 어린 내가 존재의 두려움에 빠지려 할 때마다, 부모님은 내게 그들의 과학적 세계관으로 나를 위로해 주었습니다.

“너는 지금 이 순간 살아있단다. 그건 정말 놀라운 일이야.” 그들은 한 사람이 태어나기까지 얼마나 많은 운명의 갈림길이 있는지를 이야기했고, 내가 지금 바로 나로 존재한다는 사실이 얼마나 감사한 일인지도 말했습니다. 그리고 지금 우리가 공기를 호흡하고, 물을 마시고, 가까운 별이 내는 따스한 온기를 즐길 수 있게 진화했다는 사실도 감사해야 할 일이라고 말했습니다. 나는 유전자를 통해 조상들과 연결되어 있으며, 그리고 더 멀리는 우주와, 곧 내 몸을 이루는 모든 원자들은 항성들의 핵에서 만들어졌다는 것을 알려주었습니다. 그는 그의 유명한 말인 ‘우리는 별들로 이루어져 있다(We are star stuff)’는 말을 내가 어린 시절부터 느끼게 해주었습니다.

그들은 또한, 우리가 영원한 존재가 아니라는 것이 바로 우리가 깊이 감사해야 할 이유이며, 이것이 우리에게 심오한 아름다움을 느끼게 해준다고 말했습니다. 우리가 영원히 살 수 있다면, 우리의 존재는 더 이상 놀라운 일이 아닐 것입니다.

몇 년이 지나지 않아, 아버지는 기력을 잃기 시작했습니다. 그는 희귀한 혈액질환을 앓고 있다는 것이 뉴스로 보도되었습니다. 우리 가족은 그가 최고의 의사로부터 진료받을 수 있도로 시애틀로 이사했습니다. 병은 호전되었고, 다시 재발했으며, 골수 이식을 받았고 또 재발하고, 두 번의 골수이식을 더 받은 후 내가 14살이던 1996년 겨울, 그는 세상을 떠났습니다.

우리가 살던 옛 집에는 아버지가 남긴 수천 종류의 노트와 자료들이 가득했습니다. 어머니는 이들을 보존하고 정리하고 싶어했지만, 어떤 학교나 기관도 우리를 도와주지 않았습니다. 수 년간 홀로 이를 정리하던 어머니는 코스모스의 새로운 버전을 만들 계획을 세웠습니다. 그리고 4년 동안 여러 후원회와 관련 기관들을 찾아다녔습니다. 어느 날, 그녀는 패밀리 가이를 만들었고, 아버지의 열렬한 팬인 세스 맥팔렌(Seth McFarlane)을 만났습니다. 세스의 도움에 의해, 그리고 어머니와 닐 디그라스 타이슨의 노력으로, 이제 수천만 명이 다시 과학의 경이로움과 비판적 사고의 즐거움을 느낄 수 있게 되었습니다.

이미 세상을 떠난 아버지가 이렇게 어떤 형태로 살아나는 것을 보는 것은 놀라운 경험입니다. 특히 나는 다음 세기의 학생들도 어쩌면 아버지의 글을 읽고 그의 삶을 생각할 지 모른다는 것을 가끔 상상하며, 이는 죽음보다 더 강력한 무엇이 있다는 느낌을 받습니다. 하지만 또 다시, 나는 어린 시절 부모님께 배웠던, 영원한 것은 없다는 사실을 떠올립니다. 몇 십억 년 뒤 태양은 수명을 다할 것이며, 아마 그보다 훨씬 전에 인간의 문명은 사라질 것입니다. 그리고 이 불멸과 필멸의 수수께끼를 떠올리는 순간, 나는 아버지와 나눴던 그 때의 대화를 떠올리며, 그 어느 때보다도 더 내 마음속에서 살아있는 아버지를 느낍니다. (NYmag)

원문 보기

We lived in a sandy-colored stone house with an engraved winged serpent and solar disc above the door. It seemed like something straight out of ancient Sumeria, or Indiana Jones — but it was not, in either case, something you’d expect to find in upstate New York. It overlooked a deep gorge, and beyond that the city of Ithaca. At the turn of the last century it had been the headquarters for a secret society at Cornell called the Sphinx Head Tomb, but in the second half of the century some bedrooms and a kitchen were added and, by the 1980s, it had been converted into a private home where I lived with my wonderful mother and father.

My father, the astronomer Carl Sagan, taught space sciences and critical thinking at Cornell. By that time, he had become well known and frequently appeared on television, where he inspired millions with his contagious curiosity about the universe. But inside the Sphinx Head Tomb, he and my mother, Ann Druyan, wrote books, essays, and screenplays together, working to popularize a philosophy of the scientific method in place of the superstition, mysticism, and blind faith that they felt was threatening to dominate the culture. They were deeply in love — and now, as an adult, I can see that their professional collaborations were another expression of their union, another kind of lovemaking. One such project was the 13-part PBS series Cosmos, which my parents co-wrote and my dad hosted in 1980 — a new incarnation of which my mother has just reintroduced on Sunday nights on Fox. 

After days at elementary school, I came home to immersive tutorials on skeptical thought and secular history lessons of the universe, one dinner table conversation at a time. My parents would patiently entertain an endless series of "why?" questions, never meeting a single one with a “because I said so” or “that’s just how it is.” Each query was met with a thoughtful, and honest, response — even the ones for which there are no answers.

One day when I was still very young, I asked my father about his parents. I knew my maternal grandparents intimately, but I wanted to know why I had never met his parents.

“Because they died,” he said wistfully.

“Will you ever see them again?” I asked.

He considered his answer carefully. Finally, he said that there was nothing he would like more in the world than to see his mother and father again, but that he had no reason — and no evidence — to support the idea of an afterlife, so he couldn’t give in to the temptation.

“Why?”

Then he told me, very tenderly, that it can be dangerous to believe things just because you want them to be true. You can get tricked if you don’t question yourself and others, especially people in a position of authority. He told me that anything that’s truly real can stand up to scrutiny.

As far as I can remember, this is the first time I began to understand the permanence of death. As I veered into a kind of mini existential crisis, my parents comforted me without deviating from their scientific worldview.

“You are alive right this second. That is an amazing thing,” they told me. When you consider the nearly infinite number of forks in the road that lead to any single person being born, they said, you must be grateful that you’re you at this very second. Think of the enormous number of potential alternate universes where, for example, your great-great-grandparents never meet and you never come to be. Moreover, you have the pleasure of living on a planet where you have evolved to breathe the air, drink the water, and love the warmth of the closest star. You’re connected to the generations through DNA — and, even farther back, to the universe, because every cell in your body was cooked in the hearts of stars. We are star stuff, my dad famously said, and he made me feel that way.

Sasha and her father in his office, 1988.

My parents taught me that even though it’s not forever — because it’s not forever — being alive is a profoundly beautiful thing for which each of us should feel deeply grateful. If we lived forever it would not be so amazing.

When I was 7, we moved to another, larger house five minutes away in preparation for my brother, Sam. The Sphinx Head Tomb was left empty for a little while before my parents began the process of renovating it. They wanted a space to write and read and collaborate in peace. The remodeling was a long process, as it always is, but when the beautiful new incarnation was done, it didn’t get much use. Soon after, my father started looking pale and feeling a little weak. A checkup led to a blood test, which came with the news that he had a rare blood disease.

We moved to Seattle, so he could be treated by the best doctors. Remission, relapse, bone marrow transplant; relapse, bone marrow transplant number two, remission; relapse, bone marrow transplant number three. And then just at the winter solstice of 1996, he was gone. I was 14 years old.

The Sphinx Head Tomb was left unused, slowly filling up with my father’s papers, handwritten notes, photographs, to-do lists, birthday cards, childhood drawings, and report cards. Thousands of individual items, boxed away in 18-foot-high filing cabinets. My mother searched for a home for these keepsakes and manuscripts — the evidence of a great life lived by a great man — but no university or institution was willing to give them the preservative care and prominence she felt they deserved.

As the months turned into years, she devoted herself to carrying on my father’s legacy, somehow continuing their union and collaboration after his death. When my mother had the idea to do a new, updated version ofCosmos, she embarked on four years of pitches and meetings and maybes. Then she met Seth McFarlane, creator of Family Guy, who was a great fan of my dad’s work. And soon, in no small part thanks to Seth, a new Cosmoswas underway. With my mother at the helm and the charming Neil deGrasse Tyson as host, tens of millions more people are now being exposed to the grandeur of science and my dad’s form of joyful skepticism.

But there is something else Seth did for my father’s legacy that has been significantly less tweeted about: He made it possible for all the contents of the Sphinx Head Tomb — all the essays on nuclear winter, the papers on the climate of Venus, the scraps of ideas, a boyhood drawing of a flyer for an imagined interstellar mission — to be preserved in the Library of Congress.

It’s an enormous honor that makes me feel that my father has, in death, achieved a kind of immortality — albeit a tiny, human, earthly immortality. But that’s the only kind a person can hope to achieve. Someday our civilization will crumble. The Library of Congress will be ruins, someone else’s Library of Alexandria. In the biggest sense, our species will eventually die out, or transform into something else, that will not revere what we revere. And then, a few billion years later, when the sun meets its own end, all life on Earth will die with it.

Growing up, I had learned all the reasons why real immortality is impossible from my father, yet I could not help but imagine 23rd or 24th century schoolchildren looking at my dad’s penmanship under glass and feel his life was really extended in some tangible way.

On the brisk, gray day this past November, during the week that would have been his 79th birthday, my family, our friends, and many of my father’s colleagues and former students gathered in Washington D.C. to celebrate the new Seth Macfarlane Collection of the Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan Archive. But when I entered the massive cathedral to the history of the country, I was overcome not with a sense of immortality but its antithesis. In front of the famous original copies of the Gutenberg Bible and the Gettysburg Address it hit me: This was not a monument to eternal life but a mausoleum.

In the way couples sometimes renew their vows, we renewed our grief. And in that moment my father was both so alive in the minds of those who loved him and so painfully gone. The conundrum of mortality and immortality was crystallized for me in the Library of Congress that day, but it’s the same paradox of our small place in the enormous universe that my parents first taught me in the Sphinx Head Tomb.