Just before closing the door, a thought flashed through my mind I’ll take a photograph. He did not see that I had photographed him. After saying goodbye to me, he stood there, absorbed, gazing at the souvenir placed on the windowsill. In general, he did not like all sorts of “trinkets”; he was interested only in things that were real, magnificent, or at least alive. Yet that time he said: “God, what a beautiful column…” and added: “like all of Classical Greece.”

I bought this little statue for Arvydas in Athens. I was looking for something minimal and, at the same time, fundamental. Something that would be minimally invested with the meaning of language that would communicate silence while at the same time expressing the tangible “weight” of the thing itself.

I could not wait to fly back. I knew Arvydas was in hospital. Although it was not the first time, I felt that this time was different. As I walked around Athens, I told him in my thoughts what I was seeing. As though I had been entrusted with seeing this place on his behalf.

I hurried to see him. We talked about Greece the cultural miracle of its Classical period, that fragile yet powerful event which gave birth to philosophy.

We talked about death. Arvydas himself began the conversation… He said: “You know, Justin, I’m no longer afraid of death; it’s dying that is an awful thing, so very exhausting.” He also mentioned that there were many things he could give up; that he would rather not have written all those books at all, if only he could be healthy now, at this very moment. “Health is more important than all metaphysics,” he said.

His thinking was always anchored in what was relevant and important here and now, even at such a moment. He was concerned with how I was living where my children, my wife, and my parents were and what they were doing at that time.

Even while ill, he read. On his bed I noticed the latest edition of Tomas Venclova’s history of Lithuania, lying open. Even earlier, I had been struck by the fact that, despite complaining that he was unable to concentrate, he would read the works of physicists Heisenberg and Bohr. Until his final moment, Arvydas’s thinking as I saw it remained sharp and profound. Not one of our conversations during ten years of friendship was superficial.

That evening, in the gloomy hospital room, through the outline of a small souvenir, he gazed upon the light, beauty, and goodness bestowed by the culture of Greece and its landmarks. Perhaps I was the only one who saw it that way? Perhaps. But it was the last thing I saw that, in its own way, confirmed everything I had until then seen together with Arvydas and with his help. As I closed the door, I knew he was, and would always remain for me, a seer of beauty.

The next day, December 18, Arvydas Šliogeris died. I had sensed that it would happen, but the news struck like lightning. I remember a thought Arvydas himself often repeated: that we can never truly domesticate death; it will always come unexpectedly. I would add we will never grow accustomed to it either. Those who depart somehow remain, existing through their absence.

There has not been a single day when I have not thought of him, when I have not missed his sincere friendship, a friendship that asked for nothing in return, or his wisdom about life.

The time we spent together was not long. His time in life was descending into the valley, while mine was still climbing the mountain. Yet this encounter was entirely enough to make the journey of my life different.

- Justas Kucinskas. 🇱🇹
The last testimony of Šliogeris student final capture of his gaze upon Ancient Greece, taken the day after his death.