Everything is so dreadfully slow and long drawn out.
For more than sixty years, a father's private doubts about his son lay hidden in a cipher of Greek letters — doubts that history would render almost incomprehensible. The recently decoded diaries of Frank Hawking, discovered during research for an authorised biography, reveal a man who feared his nineteen-year-old son lacked ambition, never imagining that adversity, not comfort, would unlock the mind that would redefine our understanding of the cosmos. In the gap between a parent's worry and a child's eventual becoming lies one of the oldest and most humbling questions: how little we can see of what a person is capable of becoming.
- A secret diary written in Greek-letter cipher for over sixty years has been cracked, exposing the raw, unguarded anxieties of one of science's most iconic figures — seen through his father's eyes.
- Frank Hawking's January 1961 entries describe a drifting, unmotivated undergraduate son who had lost faith in physics and seemed to squander every advantage his father had never enjoyed.
- The diagnosis of motor neurone disease at twenty-one transformed the story entirely — the young man given two years to live instead spent decades rewriting the laws of the universe.
- Frank's later diaries document the anguish of watching his son's body fail, recording with painful honesty that visits felt slow and ghastly even as love remained.
- The first authorised biography, due from John Murray in September, will bring these two hundred thousand decoded words into public view, forcing a reckoning with how genius hides itself before it ignites.
Stephen Hawking's father kept a diary for more than sixty years, encoding his most private thoughts in a cipher built from Greek letters. When researchers finally cracked it while preparing an authorised biography, they found not celebration but worry — a father's quiet fear that his son was drifting.
In January 1961, Frank Hawking wrote about his nineteen-year-old son at Oxford with undisguised frustration. Stephen seemed to lack ambition, spent time at home without purpose, and had apparently lost faith in physics, convinced the arts were superior. Frank found this baffling. At the same age, he had burned with the desire to succeed, and he could not understand why a son with every advantage seemed so unmoved. His wife Isobel believed Stephen had developed an inferiority complex toward his father — a detail Frank recorded without apparent comfort.
The diaries, spanning more than two hundred thousand words and discovered among the papers of Stephen's sister Mary, will form the backbone of the first authorised biography due this September. They cover not just Stephen's student years but the full arc of his life — his marriages, his illness, and his extraordinary career.
What gives the discovery its particular weight is the chasm between Frank's early assessment and what his son became. The young man who seemed to lack initiative would go on to transform our understanding of black holes, write a book that sold thirteen million copies, and become a global symbol of intellectual courage. He died in March 2018 at seventy-six, celebrated as one of the defining minds of his generation.
The path there ran through suffering. Diagnosed with motor neurone disease at twenty-one and given roughly two years to live, Stephen lost his movement, then his voice, eventually communicating only through a synthesiser. For Frank, watching this was its own kind of grief. In May 1967, after the birth of Stephen's first son, he wrote with raw honesty that spending time with his increasingly disabled child felt slow and ghastly — even as love was never in question.
Stripped of its mythology, the story the diaries tell is quieter and more human: a father who doubted, a son who seemed unremarkable, and a disease that, in taking almost everything, somehow freed what was always there.
Stephen Hawking's father kept a diary for more than sixty years, writing in a cipher based on Greek letters to shield his thoughts from prying eyes. When researchers cracked the code while preparing an authorised biography, they found something unexpected: a father's private worry that his brilliant son was, at nineteen, essentially drifting.
In January 1961, Frank Hawking—a tropical disease specialist—sat down and wrote about his undergraduate son at Oxford with a mixture of concern and frustration. Stephen seemed to lack ambition. He spent time at home without much drive. He wasn't studying hard. The words were blunt, the kind of thing a parent might think but rarely commit to paper, let alone in a secret cipher. Frank went further. His wife Isobel believed Stephen had developed an inferiority complex toward his father, and worse, the young man had lost faith in physics altogether, convinced that the arts were superior. Frank found this baffling and disappointing. At Stephen's age, he wrote, he himself had burned with ambition to succeed. If only he'd had half the advantages his son possessed, he might have accomplished far more.
These diaries, discovered among the papers of Stephen's sister Mary and now being studied for the first authorised biography due from John Murray in September, offer an intimate portrait of a family grappling with expectations and doubt. They span more than two hundred thousand words, translated from Frank's meticulous coded entries, and they chronicle not just Stephen's early years but the full arc of his life—his marriages, his illness, his career.
What makes the discovery striking is the distance between that worried father's assessment and what Stephen Hawking became. The young man who seemed to lack initiative would go on to revolutionise our understanding of black holes and gravity. His book, A Brief History of Time, sold more than thirteen million copies and became a cultural phenomenon. When he died in March 2018 at seventy-six, he was recognised as one of the most brilliant minds of his generation and a symbol of human resilience against impossible odds.
But the resilience came through suffering. Diagnosed with motor neurone disease at twenty-one, Stephen was given roughly two years to live. The disease slowly took his body. His ability to move faded. His voice disappeared. Eventually he could communicate only through a synthesiser, speaking in the mechanical tones that became familiar to millions. For his father, watching this unfold was anguish. In May 1967, after Stephen's first son Robert was born, Frank recorded the emotional weight of spending time with his increasingly disabled son. Everything moved slowly. Conversation was nearly impossible—Stephen's speech had become so laboured and hard to understand that even basic exchange felt gruelling. Frank loved him and wanted to help. But he also wrote, with raw honesty, that he did not enjoy being with him. The experience felt slow and ghastly.
These diaries, hidden away in code for decades, strip away the mythology that often surrounds Hawking's story. They show a father who doubted, who struggled, who felt the weight of his son's condition in ways both tender and uncomfortable. They show a young man who may have seemed lazy to his parents but who, when faced with a disease that should have ended everything, found the will to think, to work, to change the world. The contrast raises a question that lingers: how much of what we call potential is visible at nineteen, and how much emerges only when everything else is taken away?
Citas Notables
We are a little worried at the way Stephen is turning out. He hangs round the house with little initiative and does not study much.— Frank Hawking, January 1961
I find it a slow and ghastly experience with [Stephen]. Everything is so dreadfully slow and long drawn out. His speech is so slow and difficult to understand that conversation is very difficult.— Frank Hawking, May 1967
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why do you think Frank kept the diary in code at all? Was he hiding from Stephen, or from someone else?
He was hiding from everyone—that's what the code itself says. He wanted privacy from people who might be hurt by his honesty. A father writing that his son lacks drive, that he doesn't enjoy spending time with him—those are thoughts you don't want circulating. The code gave him permission to be truthful.
But he was truthful about difficult things. He didn't soften the blow when Stephen got sick.
No, he didn't. That's what makes the diaries so unsettling to read. Frank wasn't performing for posterity. He was writing what he actually felt—the slowness, the difficulty, the sadness. He wasn't a villain for feeling that way. He was just a man watching his son disappear into a disease.
Do you think Stephen ever knew what his father wrote about him being lazy?
There's no way to know. But it's interesting that Stephen went on to become so driven, so productive. Maybe he had something to prove. Or maybe the diagnosis changed everything—suddenly the question of whether he was lazy became irrelevant. He had to work or die.
The biography is coming out in September. What do you think people will do with this information?
They'll probably use it to complicate the Hawking story, which is good. We like our geniuses to have always been geniuses. This reminds us that brilliance isn't always obvious at nineteen. Sometimes it emerges later, under pressure, in ways no one could have predicted.
Frank seemed to measure Stephen against himself. Do you think that shaped how Stephen turned out?
Almost certainly. But not in the way Frank feared. The worry, the comparison, the sense that Stephen had advantages Frank lacked—all of that might have been exactly what pushed Stephen forward. Parents rarely understand the weight they're passing down.