To my wife, my children, my brothers and sisters, my family, my comrades, my friends, and my readers—
I do not know when these words will become relevant. I am seventy-five now, and one day, as naturally as all living things must, I will cease to be. The chair I sit in today may still be here. The books I have read will remain on their shelves, alongside the books I wrote. The ordinary objects I used will outlive their usefulness to me. On computers, phones, hard drives, and in forgotten corners of digital storage, my words will remain—finished books, published articles, unfinished essays, and notes put aside with the intention of returning to them someday. And then there will be no someday for me. I will not be here.
This does not frighten me. I understand life as an extraordinarily complex organization of matter, temporary by its very nature. One day that organization will come apart. When the activity of my brain ends, the consciousness through which I have known the world will end with it. I do not believe that I will continue elsewhere, watching those I love from some invisible realm. The matter of which my body is made will return to nature’s endless transformations and enter other forms. I am at peace with that. What pains me is the thought of leaving you.
To my wife, I must speak first. You have walked beside me through most of my life. You knew not only the face I presented to the world, but the man behind it: impatient, stubborn, careless at times, easily possessed by an idea and capable of forgetting everything around him when a question seized his mind. You endured my absences even when I was physically beside you. There were hours I spent in conversation with books, arguments, and ideas that I might have spent talking with you. There were moments when I appeared to listen while my mind was somewhere else entirely. There was time and attention you deserved that I did not give you, and there is no way now to return them.
To say that I was pursuing ideas is not an excuse. An intellectual quest does not cancel a failure of tenderness. In searching for answers to the great questions of existence, we can fail to hear the quiet questions of the person sitting beside us. We may try to understand the universe and forget to understand the heart nearest to our own. I did that. Perhaps no one saw my imperfections more clearly than you did, and perhaps no one bore them more patiently. Thank you.
To my children, I have a request: do not make a model of your father. If my life has anything to teach you, study my mistakes at least as carefully as anything I may have achieved. Look at the decisions I postponed, the opportunities I failed to recognize, the stubbornness I mistook for conviction, and the moments when an obsession with ideas made me inattentive to human relationships. Do not imitate me. Become better human beings than I was. Listen more carefully and speak love more freely.
It is not enough to love someone silently and assume they know. Love must sometimes become words. It must become gestures, attention, presence, and time. This is a simple truth, but I learned it rather late. I hope you learn it earlier. And to my family, never imagine that I did not love you. I was simply not always good at giving love a language. Some people can easily turn feeling into words. I could write thousands of pages about ideas and still find it difficult to say a few ordinary words of affection to those closest to me. It is one of the stranger contradictions of my life.
To my comrades, I must say something different. I did not come to Marxism as a believer comes to a religion. I came because I wanted to understand the world. I wanted to know how social relations arise in which one human being exploits another, why wealth accumulates in a few hands while deprivation persists around it, and why history advances through conflict, contradiction, rupture, and transformation. In Marxism I found not a scripture, but a method—a way of seeing reality historically and dialectically.
That is precisely why I ask you not to freeze Marxism in the name of defending it. Do not turn Marx or Lenin, or any of our leaders, into idols. The sanctification of the dead belongs to religion; it should have no place in revolutionary thought. When science changes, philosophy must be capable of learning. When society changes, political analysis must change with it. A new world cannot be understood merely by repeating old sentences, however brilliant the minds that first wrote them. Where I was wrong, criticize me as well. Do not create a doctrine in my name or gather followers around my words. Do not build walls around my ideas to protect them from attack. Set them free. Let critics read them and scientists question them. Let arguments fail and hypotheses collapse. Let whatever cannot survive evidence disappear. The greatest respect we can show an idea is not to protect it from criticism, but to give it the freedom to face criticism.
My books are, in many ways, the remains of sleepless nights. Some pages were written in excitement; others were written while I doubted the very arguments I was making. Some chapters were revised again and again, while others were never revised enough. Like their author, they are incomplete. They may contain repetition, exaggeration, unsupported claims, premature conclusions, and arguments that demand far more evidence than I was able to provide. But I can say this: I did not knowingly write in defence of what I believed to be false. I wrote as I understood. When new knowledge reached me, I tried to reconsider old assumptions. At times, I may have presented a hypothesis with greater confidence than it deserved, and future readers should recognize that possibility. Do not believe me without examination. Do not merely repeat my arguments; question them. Do not worship my books; go beyond them.
MIT—Molecular Imprints Therapeutics—has been one of the longest and most controversial intellectual pursuits of my life. I was never satisfied with the invisible abstractions traditionally invoked to explain homeopathy: “vital force,” “dynamic energy,” and similar concepts that seemed to me to postpone explanation rather than provide it. A question would not leave me alone: if medicinal molecules are absent from high dilutions, what, physically, remains? That question led me to the possibility of molecular imprints. Could conformational features of drug molecules be imprinted as three-dimensional nanocavities within a supramolecular matrix of water and ethyl alcohol? Could such molecular imprints act as artificial binding pockets for pathogenic molecules? From these questions I tried to build the theoretical framework I called Molecular Imprints Therapeutics.
Is MIT correct? I do not know with final certainty. Years of labour do not make a theory true, and emotional attachment does not make a hypothesis a fact. Nature owes nothing to our convictions. MIT must be tested. The existence of molecular imprints must be demonstrated, their structures characterized, and their proposed interactions with pathogenic molecules investigated experimentally. Do not cite my words as evidence; find evidence. If MIT is shown to be wrong, say so openly. Do not keep an error alive to preserve my reputation, but neither dismiss it without examination. Give it the honest scientific scrutiny that every serious hypothesis deserves. That is all I ask for MIT.
Quantum Dialectics came to occupy my mind most intensely in the later years of my life. I do not claim to have discovered it. Perhaps I constructed it, or perhaps it is only a conceptual framework that emerged from my attempt to bring the newer knowledge of modern science into conversation with Marxian dialectical thought. I tried to imagine the universe as a ceaseless dialectical movement of cohesive and decohesive tendencies, to think of space not as a passive emptiness or backdrop but as a form of matter, and to understand force, energy, mass, life, consciousness, and society as emergent properties appearing across different quantum layers of material organization.
Did I succeed? I do not know. Perhaps I attempted questions too large for the knowledge I possessed. Some may think it presumptuous that a graduate in zoology should venture into questions concerning the fundamental structure of the universe, and they are entitled to think so. My formal training in physics is limited. I do not possess advanced mathematical expertise. I had no university department behind me, no laboratory, no research group, and no circle of theoretical physicists with whom I could test every step of my thinking. I read alone, thought alone, and wrote alone, and I understand more clearly now the limitations that solitude imposed.
I have not completed Quantum Dialectics. Perhaps I never could have. Let its errors disappear. If anything within it deserves to survive, let others find it, test it, reshape it, and carry it further. Its name may change, and my own name may vanish from it altogether. That does not trouble me. The purpose of an idea is not to preserve the name of the person who first gave it words. The purpose of an idea, if it has any purpose at all, is to help us understand reality a little better.
I therefore ask something practical of my children and my family. Do not allow my writings to vanish through simple neglect. There are files on computers, hard drives, phones, blogs, and digital archives. There are published works and unpublished manuscripts, notes, drafts, fragments, and records connected with Quantum Dialectics and MIT. Gather them, catalogue them, and preserve them responsibly. Create a digital archive of my work and, if possible, make it accessible to future readers and researchers.
I do not want monuments, statues, or elaborate memorial ceremonies. A digital archive where my writings can be found, and an open intellectual space where my ideas can be freely criticized, would be enough. If one day a few young people sit together reading one of my essays and someone says, “This man was wrong here,” and after a moment another says, “Yes—but the question he asked is interesting,” that would be enough for me.
My life is not a model of success. I could have been a better husband, a better father, a better friend and comrade. I could have been a more disciplined researcher. I could have listened more and spoken less. Some things I should have begun earlier; some things, perhaps, I should never have begun at all. Time does not move backwards, and life has no second, revised edition.
Yet life is not an examination in which the marks are added at the end and a final verdict of success or failure is pronounced. Perhaps life is simply a brief attempt by consciousness, emerging within a temporary and complex organization of matter, to understand itself and the reality in which it finds itself. My attempt was small, incomplete, and often lost its way. Still, I searched. That is the one thing I can say about my life with some certainty.
To my companion in life, if one day the memory of me becomes painful, do not force yourself to hold it tightly. You have the right to let me fade slowly. To my children, do not carry my life on your shoulders. You are not responsible for completing my unfinished dreams. Find your own dreams. You need not walk the roads I walked; make new roads. To my family, do not make my absence the centre of your lives. Even in a world without me, mornings will arrive, rain will fall, children will laugh, and new books will be written. Live fully in that world.
To my comrades, rather than commemorating me, try to understand the age in which you live. Do not abandon criticism in the name of loyalty to the Party, and do not turn away from science in the name of defending Marxism. To my friends, when you speak of me, do not speak only of what was good. Laugh at my stubbornness and remember my mistakes. Do not sanctify in death the man who lived imperfectly among you. Remember me incomplete, for my imperfections were part of what made me human.
If there is anything of value in my books, time may find it. If there is not, let them pass quietly into oblivion. Not every word survives, and not every idea has a future. Everything we write does not become part of truth. Some ideas are errors, some are wrong turns, and some are unfinished roads towards places that do not exist. I have no reason to believe my writings are exempt.
If MIT is a genuine scientific possibility, let it survive by evidence, not by my conviction. If it is wrong, let it disappear. If even one small idea in Quantum Dialectics touches reality, let it take another form in another mind. It does not matter if my name is eventually lost. Ideas sometimes travel farther than their creators; sometimes, to continue their journey, they must leave their creators behind.
I do not insist on being remembered. Memory itself is temporary. Faces intimately familiar today will fade. Names once spoken with affection or anger will become sounds that mean nothing to another generation. My name will be no exception. Perhaps one day someone will look at my photograph and ask, “Who was he?” There is no tragedy in that. To be forgotten is also a transformation of nature.
Looking back, I cannot call my life a success, nor can I call it a failure. Perhaps both words are too small for the measure of a life. We do not ask a river whether it succeeded or failed. It flowed. It struck rocks and changed direction. At times it carried mud; at times it ran clear. Eventually it entered a larger current. Perhaps my life was something like that.
I loved some people and hurt some people. I understood a few things and failed to understand many more. I believed I had found answers, only to watch those answers turn into new questions. I read, thought, wrote, argued, was wrong, and thought again. Perhaps, after all these years, I have understood only this: we are not the owners of truth; we are temporary travellers who walk for a short distance along its path.
My journey will end. The complex movement of thought within my brain will one day fall silent. The consciousness writing these words will cease. The questions I have asked will receive no further answers from me, and sentences left unfinished will remain unfinished. I have no complaint.
The universe existed before I arrived and will continue without me. Stars will form and die. Matter will enter new organizations. Life will take new forms. Human beings will ask questions I never thought to ask. Ideas beyond my imagination may become ordinary knowledge to the children of another age. Within that immense movement, I was a very small event—a brief organization of matter, a temporary consciousness, a question that flickered for a moment. But in that moment, I looked at the world, tried to understand what I could, and wrote what I thought I understood. That is enough.
I was not a successful man, nor was I simply a failed man. I was a human being walking through the countless contradictions between success and failure, moving from one question to another. My search will end unfinished, but that is not a tragedy. No human being writes the final word. Each generation receives unfinished sentences from the generation before it. Some it continues, some it corrects, some it erases, and where some sentences once stood, it writes entirely new ones. Perhaps that is how human knowledge grows.
So when I ask you to preserve my words, I do not ask you to preserve them unchanged. If there is anything alive in them, carry it forward. Let the ideas that must die, die. And let the same be true of me.
Remember me for as long as you wish, and then, slowly, let me fade. Let me return to nature. I leave my words in the hands of time, my questions to the minds of the future, and those I love to lives of their own. There is nothing more I need to hold.
My sentence ends here—not with a full stop, but with a pause. And if someone is there to write the next sentence, let them write it.
QUANTUM DIALECTICS- ALL ARTiCLES 
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