Today I went to Brighton for a day trip. I am a German exchange student staying in Eastbourne. As I am pretty much the same age as Arthur was at the time of his death – to be precise, I was the exact same age about two weeks ago – I thought it to be appropriate to visit his grave [ ] to pay my respects to him, you, Susie, Earl and the rest of your family.

I did not know that there were also other family members of yours buried in the same place, and I found the simplicity and beauty of those graves really touching.

Only in retrospect, a couple of hours later, did I start to have mixed feelings about the fact that I went there. What I first thought to be a simple act of respect and admiration now occurred to me as naive, a rather strange fan action, and almost disrespectful, as I did not know any of your passed family members personally. What do you feel about the fact that a complete stranger consciously visits the graves of your sons? Can we mourn someone we don‘t know?

Dear Linus,

I found it very touching that you felt compelled to visit Arthur’s grave. A fifteen-year-old boy, seeking connection or deeper meaning in life, sensing the patterns and echoes of the world, and longing to explore the mystery of things, goes to a remote churchyard in a small English village, to the grave of a boy he doesn’t know, to seek a moment of spiritual recognition – this is, in every sense, a beautiful gesture. I was happy to read a letter from a young man interested in living a life beyond the standard expectations of someone your age.

Linus, I also respect that you showed some hesitation about visiting my family, sensing that a boundary had been crossed. You are correct in thinking that I don’t want the churchyard where my family is buried to become a destination for my fans. Still, I am deeply moved that you went. The mental image of your visit brought a smile to my face – an interesting, thoughtful, and curious boy all the way from Germany, standing at the foot of the place where Arthur rests, showing a kind of deference to his memory. It feels, in a way I cannot quite explain, good for Arthur. He would have liked it, you know, Linus. He was such a sociable boy. He loved people and always sought the company of others. So, thank you.

I personally find visiting the place where my loved ones rest quite challenging, mainly because I never feel their absence or lack of life more intensely than when standing at their graves. The ongoing and evolving relationship I maintain with those I love who have passed away is manifest in the everyday, often in unexpected and sudden ways. The spirits of those who have passed on weave themselves through my conversations, actions, words and songs as sources of inspiration and guidance, as real and extant as anything else.

You asked if we could mourn those we do not know – and, of course, we can and do. However, I suspect that much of our mourning is for ourselves, for the things we yearn for, the opportunities we have lost, and how we wish our lives could have been. My advice to you, Linus, is that next time you take a day trip to Brighton, remember to explore its streets and lanes, walk along the beach, swim in the sea, visit the funfair – the Crazy Mouse, the Turbo Charger – go to the skatepark, the aquarium, because Brighton brims with a crazy vitality. Everything is there for the taking, and this is where the spirit of Arthur resides – midst the wonder, the joy, the fun, indeed, the energy of life. LIFE, Linus. There is plenty of time to mourn.

Love, Nick

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