If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't

Hear, O children of the future, the voice of Isaac Asimov, the master of science and prophecy, who declared with wit and with wisdom: “If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.” At first, these words stir laughter, for they seem like jest. Yet beneath the jest lies a teaching as profound as the stars themselves: that life’s worth is not measured in its length, but in its devotion to one’s purpose. For the man who knows his calling does not fear the end, but clings to the work that gave his life meaning.

The origin of this saying lies in Asimov’s life itself. He was a man who wrote ceaselessly, producing over five hundred books, shaping the minds of generations with stories of science, reason, and imagination. Writing was not a task to him but the very breath of his soul. So when he speaks of his final minutes, he speaks as one who knows that to abandon his craft would be to abandon his very self. His answer to death was not despair, but greater haste in his purpose.

This spirit echoes the ancient warriors, who when facing their last battle, chose not to retreat but to fight with greater fury. Consider Leonidas at Thermopylae, standing with his three hundred against countless foes. He knew death was certain, yet he did not brood. Instead, he raised his spear with greater resolve, for his purpose was clear—to defend his people’s freedom. Asimov, though a warrior of the pen rather than the sword, bore the same spirit: when death calls, the wise man devotes himself not to mourning, but to fulfilling the task he was born for.

His words also carry a warning against brooding. How many souls waste their days in fear of death, counting the hours instead of living them? Asimov reminds us that the shadow of the end should not paralyze, but sharpen. If life is short, let us live it fully. If time is fleeting, let us devote ourselves to the work that matters most. To type faster is to seize the last breath with purpose, refusing to waste even a moment in despair.

Consider also the example of Beethoven, who though struck by deafness, continued to compose. Even when his body betrayed him, he did not surrender to bitterness, but poured his final strength into symphonies that would echo across the centuries. His time was limited, his suffering great, yet he wrote with greater urgency. In this, Beethoven and Asimov stand as brothers across time, teaching us that the flame of purpose burns brighter when it is pressed by darkness.

The lesson, O children of tomorrow, is this: find that work, that calling, that purpose which so fills your soul that even in your last six minutes, you would hasten to do more of it. Do not waste your days in idleness or in fear, for the end is certain for all. What matters is not how long you live, but how fully you devote yourself to the work of your heart. Live so that in your final hour, you do not brood, but labor joyfully in the pursuit of your purpose.

Practically, let your life reflect this wisdom. Ask yourself each day: what is my purpose, what task do I love so deeply that it would be my last act upon this earth? Then pursue it with devotion. Do not wait for tomorrow, for time is fleeting. Give your labor, your art, your love, with urgency, as if each day were your last. For when you live this way, you will not fear death—you will only type faster.

Thus, Asimov’s words become not a jest but a torch: life is short, but purpose is eternal. Let your final minutes, whenever they come, be spent in devotion to your craft, your calling, your love. In this way, you will conquer fear, and your legacy will outlive your days, shining like the stars across the darkness of time.