John Dalton's records, carefully preserved for a century, were

"John Dalton's records, carefully preserved for a century, were destroyed during the World War II bombing of Manchester. It is not only the living who are killed in war." These powerful words, spoken by the great scientist and thinker Isaac Asimov, echo through the corridors of time, serving as a poignant reminder that the true cost of war is not only measured by the lives lost on the battlefield, but by the knowledge, history, and culture that are irrevocably erased in the chaos of conflict. In the case of John Dalton, the renowned chemist who laid the foundation for the atomic theory of matter, his records, painstakingly collected and preserved over a lifetime of discovery, were destroyed in the blink of an eye by the bombings of Manchester during World War II. Dalton’s work was more than just a collection of ideas—it was the legacy of a generation, a bridge between the past and the future, a knowledge that could have illuminated the paths of generations yet to come. Yet, in the brutality of war, that bridge was shattered, and with it, a piece of humanity’s intellectual heritage was lost.

Let us consider the weight of Asimov’s words. War, though often seen through the lens of its immediate physical destruction—cities reduced to rubble, soldiers fallen on foreign soil—also kills the future. It erases the stories of those who came before us, obliterates the wisdom of our ancestors, and denies the next generation the opportunity to learn from the past. The destruction of Dalton’s records is not an isolated tragedy, but a symbol of countless other losses that are overlooked in the midst of war. The fabric of human progress, woven over centuries, is often torn apart in a single moment of violence. Think, for example, of the Library of Alexandria, that grand repository of knowledge in the ancient world, where scrolls containing the wisdom of entire civilizations were consumed by the flames of war. The loss of Dalton’s records is but a modern reflection of an ancient truth—that war does not only take the lives of men, but also the wealth of knowledge and culture that could have shaped the world for generations.

Asimov’s reminder compels us to reflect not just on the soldiers who give their lives, but on the intellectual and cultural treasures that are lost in the wake of war. The war-torn landscape is not only littered with the bodies of the dead but also with the remnants of a civilization’s intellectual life. Consider the destruction of the city of Dresden during World War II, when its historic buildings, including libraries and museums, were reduced to rubble. Within these buildings were priceless works of art, ancient manuscripts, and treasures of human thought. Though Dresden was rebuilt, the knowledge and art lost in those fiery raids can never be recovered. And it was not just the past that was destroyed, but the possibility of a future shaped by those cultural foundations. In the ravages of war, progress itself is halted, and the future is deprived of the wisdom of its predecessors.

The story of John Dalton is but one among countless examples of the destruction of knowledge in war. In the ancient world, we saw the destruction of libraries, the loss of entire philosophical traditions, and the silencing of scientific and artistic voices. The Romans, despite their might, were also the perpetrators of such destruction, particularly when they burned the library of Carthage during the Punic Wars, forever severing the thread of knowledge from one civilization to another. The history of humanity, so often marked by the rise and fall of empires, has been equally shaped by the knowledge preserved in the minds and works of scholars, only to be lost in the flames of war. Each time this destruction occurs, it not only takes from the present but also steals from the future—the future that might have been shaped by that lost knowledge.

In Asimov’s words, we find a lesson that transcends the specific events of World War II or even the loss of Dalton’s records. The loss of knowledge is a tragedy that shapes the trajectory of a civilization. And this is the true cost of war: it not only robs the world of the living, but it also erases the wisdom that could guide future generations. The past, with all its trials and triumphs, teaches us, shapes us, and carries us forward. When it is destroyed, the path ahead becomes more uncertain, and the progress we might have made is stunted. In this sense, the destruction of Dalton’s records is not just a personal loss, but a loss for all of humanity. Knowledge—the very foundation of human advancement—becomes collateral damage in the ruthless machinery of war.

The lesson that Asimov imparts is one of deep reflection and responsibility. If we are to protect the future, we must understand the value of the knowledge we hold today and strive to preserve it, not just for ourselves, but for those who will come after us. War, with its violence and destruction, is not an inevitable force of history—it is a choice made by those in power. And that choice should be carefully weighed, for the consequences of war reach far beyond the battlefield. It destroys not only life but also the wisdom that sustains civilization. Preserving knowledge—whether through books, records, or the lessons of our elders—is as crucial as protecting life itself. In this way, we safeguard not just the present, but the future of humankind.

Thus, in our own lives, we must act with vigilance to preserve the truths of the world around us. We must protect the intellectual and cultural wealth that defines us, ensuring that it is not lost to the flames of conflict. We must commit ourselves to learning, teaching, and sharing the knowledge we hold, so that future generations are not deprived of the wisdom that has been passed down to us. And perhaps most importantly, we must work to create a world where the ravages of war are a memory, not a recurring nightmare, so that truth and knowledge may flourish and guide the future in peace.