Political Theory on Death and Dying: Key Thinkers 1003005381, 9781003005384

Citation preview

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“Through its chronological approach, and dedication of each chapter to a different classical text or philosopher, this multi-​author volume provides a very useful way of getting at the topic of death in the history of philosophy.” Adam Buben, Leiden University “An extraordinary collection—​ 45 essays on the thought of thinkers from Homer to MacIntyre on death and dying, broadly understood to include aging and after-​death possibilities. Always informative—​often insightful—​frequently provocative.” Michael Zuckert, Reeves Dreux Professor of Political Science at the University of Notre Dame “In the year of COVID-​19 comes this timely new book about one of the most fundamental issues in philosophy: death and dying. The Political Theory on Death and Dying is a wonderful compendium of how 45 of the greatest philosophers from Homer to MacIntyre have tackled the problem of death, and, more importantly, its antipode: life! This book will challenge readers to reconsider how they live their lives in the face of the final horizon. Young or old, this is a must-​read book. I highly recommend it!” C. Bradley Thompson, Executive Director of the Clemson Institute for the Study of Capitalism and Professor of Political Science, Clemson University “By thoughtfully engaging writings on death from multiple cultures, historical epochs, and thinkers in diverse religious and political traditions, this collection will be a definitive resource for anyone interested in the breadth of human reflection on this universal topic.” Brian Howell, Professor of Anthropology, Wheaton College

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Political Theory on Death and Dying

Political Theory on Death and Dying provides a comprehensive, encyclopedic review that compiles and curates the latest scholarship, research, and debates on the political and social implications of death and dying. Adopting an easy-​to-​follow chronological and multi-​disciplinary approach on 45 canonical figures and thinkers, leading scholars from a diverse range of fields, including political science, philosophy, and English, discuss each thinker’s ethical and philosophical accounts on mortality and death. Each chapter focuses on a single established figure in political philosophy, as well as religious and literary thinkers, covering classical to contemporary thought on death. Through this approach, the chapters are designed to stand alone, allowing the reader to study every entry in isolation and with greater depth, as well as trace how thinkers are influenced by their predecessors. A key contribution to the field, Political Theory on Death and Dying provides an excellent overview for students and researchers who study philosophy of death, the history of political thought, and political philosophy. Erin A. Dolgoy is assistant professor of philosophy and assistant professor of politics & law at Rhodes College. Her work has been published in Perspectives on Political Science, Utopian Studies (with Kimberly Hurd Hale), and Political Science Reviewer (with Kimberly Hurd Hale). She is co-​editor (with Kimberly Hurd Hale and Bruce Peabody) of Short Stories and Political Philosophy: Power, Prose, and Persuasion (2019). Kimberly Hurd Hale is associate professor of politics at Coastal Carolina University. She is author of Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis in the Foundation of Modern Political Thought (2013), The Politics of Perfection: Technology and Creation in Literature and Film (2016), and co-​editor (with Erin A. Dolgoy and Bruce Peabody) of Short Stories and Political Philosophy: Power, Prose, and Persuasion (2019). Bruce Peabody is professor of government and politics at Fairleigh Dickinson University. He is the co-​editor (with Gloria Pastorino) of Beyond the Living Dead: Essays on the Romero Legacy (2021), co-​editor (with Kimberly Hurd Hale and Erin A. Dolgoy) of Short Stories and Political Philosophy: Power, Prose, and Persuasion (2019), and co-​author (with Krista Jenkins) of Where Have all the Heroes Gone: The Changing Nature of American Valor (2017).

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Political Theory on Death and Dying

Edited by Erin A. Dolgoy, Kimberly Hurd Hale, and Bruce Peabody

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First published 2022 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business © 2022 Taylor & Francis The right of Erin A. Dolgoy, Kimberly Hurd Hale, and Bruce Peabody to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data A catalog record for this title has been requested ISBN: 978-​0-​367-​43741-​1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​0-​367-​43738-​1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​003-​00538-​4 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384 Typeset in Times New Roman by Newgen Publishing UK

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Contents

List of Contributors  Acknowledgments  Introduction 

xi xiv 1

E RI N A. D OLG OY, K I MBER LY H U R D H A LE, AND B RUCE PEAB ODY

1 Memory and Mortality in Homer’s Odyssey 

8

RAC H E L K . A LEX A N D ER

2 Confucian Authority and the Politics of Caring 

19

L I - ​H SI AN G L I SA RO SEN LEE

3 “Every Form of Death”: Thucydides on Death’s Political Presence 

29

DAN I E L SC H I LLI N G ER

4 Mortality, Recollection, and Human Dignity in Plato 

40

AN N WARD

5 Good Old Age: Aristotle and the “Virtues” of Aging 

50

MARL E N E K . SO KO LO N

6 The Buddha, Death, and Taxes 

60

MAT T H E W J. MO O R E

7 Flourishing toward Dissolution: Epicurus on the Resilience of Tranquility 

70

AL E X R G I L LH A M

8 The Political Philosophy of Death in Laozi 

80

P E N G YU

9 The Bhagavad Gītā and Paradox of Death  ST UART G RAY

90

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10 Life and Death as a Political Act: Cicero and the Stoics 

101

C ARLY T. H ERO LD

11 Prenatal and Posthumous Nonexistence: Lucretius on the Harmlessness of Death 

111

TAYLOR W. C Y R

12 The Road to Freedom: Seneca on Fear, Reason, and Death 

121

J. MI C H AE L H O FFPAU I R

13 Continuity Without Corruption: The Political Theology of Death in St. Augustine 

132

JAME S R. STO N ER , JR .

14 Jihād for the City: How Alfarabi Discourages, and Encourages, Death in Battle 

141

AL E XAN D E R O RWI N

15 Techniques for the Social Self: Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī and the Remembrance of Death 

151

SE AN H AN R ETTA

16 Death and Dying, Mortality and Immortality in Moses Maimonides  161 J OSH UA PAR EN S

17 The Young, the Old, and the Immortal: Machiavelli on Political Health and Aging 

171

FAI SAL BALU C H

18 Death in Montaigne’s Essays 

180

B RAN D ON TU R N ER

19 When “Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave”: Shakespeare’s King Lear and The Tempest 

189

MARY P. N I C H O LS

20 Francis Bacon on “the Dolours of Death” 

198

E RI N A. D OLG OY

21 Descartes on How We Should Relate to Death 

209

F RAN S S V E N SSO N

22 “The Wages of Sin”: Morality and Mortality in John Milton’s Paradise Lost  K I MB E RLY H U R D H A LE

219

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23 A Liberation from Fear: Benedict de Spinoza on Religion, Philosophy, and Mortality 

230

AARON L . H ERO LD

24 Thomas Hobbes on the Uses and Disadvantages of Death for Political Life 

241

B RAD L E Y R. JAC K SO N

25 The Role of Death and Eternity in Locke’s Political Philosophy 

251

JAC K C L I N TO N BY H A M

26 Montesquieu on Death, Liberty, and Law 

261

T RE VOR S H E LLEY

27 Can Philosophy Console Us?: Hume’s Understanding of Mortality 

271

ST E P H E N WIR LS

28 Jean-Jacques Rousseau on the Fear of Death and the Happiness of Life  281 DAN I E L C U L LEN

29 Adam Smith and Dying Peacefully 

292

MARI A P I A PAG A N ELLI

30 Nature, Second Nature, and Supernature: Death and Consolation in the Thought of Edmund Burke 

299

L AU RE N K . HA LL

31 Kant on Death and the Purpose of Human Life 

310

J E F F RE Y C H U RC H

32 Overcoming the Mortal Diseases and Short Lives of Republican Governments: Publius and Political Immortality 

320

B RU C E P E ABO DY

33 Hegel on Death and the Spirit 

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C E C I L L . E U BA N K S

34 Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death: Søren Kierkegaard’s Philosophy of Love 

341

JAMI E AROO SI

35 Immortality and Angst in Tocqueville’s America 

351

B E N JAMI N T. LY N ER D

36 “What Is Odious in Death Is not Death Itself, but the Act of Dying”: John Stuart Mill on the Political Philosophy of Death and Dying  H E L E N MC CA BE

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37 Death and Dynamism in Nietzsche’s Political Philosophy 

373

L AU RA K . F IELD

38 Facing Death Fearlessly, So Others Can Live Without Fear: Gandhi’s Philosophy as Art of Dying 

383

V E E NA R. H OWA R D

39 “An Earthly Immortality”: Arendt on Mortality, Politics, and Political Death 

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MI C H AE L C H R I STO PH ER SA R D O

40 Death in Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time 

405

MARK A. ME NA LD O

41 Make Live and Let Die: Michel Foucault, Biopower, and the Art of Dying Well 

415

T OM ROAC H

42 Beauvoir’s Philosophy of Death and Aging 

426

K I K I B E RK

43 Metamorphoses: Gilles Deleuze on Living and Death 

437

C H AS. P H I L LI PS

44 Jacques Derrida on Death, the Death Penalty, and Mourning 

447

MARG U E RI T E LA C A ZE

45 Alasdair MacIntyre and the Twilight of the Virtues 

458

J OH N W. SC H I EMA N N

Index

469

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Contributors

Rachel K. Alexander is a postdoctoral research associate and lecturer in the Department of Politics at the University of Virginia. Jamie Aroosi is a senior research fellow at the Hong Kierkegaard Library at St. Olaf College. Faisal Baluch is assistant professor of political science at the College of the Holy Cross. Kiki Berk is associate professor of philosophy at Southern New Hampshire University. Jack Clinton Byham is assistant professor of political science at Texas A&M International University. Jeffrey Church is professor of political science at the University of Houston. Daniel Cullen is professor of philosophy at Rhodes College. Taylor W. Cyr is assistant professor of philosophy at Samford University. Erin A. Dolgoy is assistant professor of philosophy and assistant professor of politics & law at Rhodes College. Cecil L. Eubanks is alumni professor emeritus of political science at Louisiana State University. Laura K. Field is a scholar in residence at American University and Senior Fellow at the Niskanen Center. Alex R Gillham is assistant professor of philosophy at St. Bonaventure University. Stuart Gray is associate professor of politics at Washington and Lee University. Kimberly Hurd Hale is associate professor of politics at Coastal Carolina University. Lauren K. Hall is professor of political science at Rochester Institute of Technology. Sean Hanretta is associate professor of history at Northwestern University. Aaron L. Herold is assistant professor of political science at SUNY Geneseo. Carly T. Herold is a visiting assistant professor of political science and philosophy at SUNY Geneseo. J. Michael Hoffpauir is associate director of the Lyceum Program and clinical assistant professor in the Department of Political Science at Clemson University.

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xii  List of Contributors Veena R. Howard is professor in the Department of Philosophy at California State University, Fresno where she also holds the Endowed Chair in Jain and Hindu Dharma. Bradley R. Jackson teaches political theory at American University. He is also a Senior Program Officer at the Institute for Humane Studies at George Mason University. Marguerite La Caze is associate professor of philosophy at the University of Queensland. Benjamin T. Lynerd is associate professor of political science at Christopher Newport University in Virginia. Helen McCabe is assistant professor in political theory at the University of Nottingham. Mark A. Menaldo is Department Head and associate professor of Liberal Studies at Texas A&M University Commerce. Matthew J. Moore is professor of political science at California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo. Mary P. Nichols is professor emerita of political science at Baylor University. Alexander Orwin is assistant professor of political science at Louisiana State University. Maria Pia Paganelli is professor of economics at Trinity University. Joshua Parens is professor of philosophy and politics at the University of Dallas. Bruce Peabody is professor of government and politics at Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey. Chas. Phillips is a political theorist and independent researcher. He has a Ph.D. in Political Science from Johns Hopkins University and has been a faculty member at Franklin & Marshall College and Gettysburg College. Tom Roach is professor of philosophy and cultural studies at Bryant University. Li-​Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee is professor of philosophy at the University of Hawai’i-​West O’ahu. Michael Christopher Sardo is a political theorist with a Ph.D. in Political Science from Northwestern University and currently teaches at Tarbut V’Torah Community Day School. John W. Schiemann is professor of government and politics at Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey. Daniel Schillinger is a postdoctoral associate, lecturer, and fellow in the humanities at Yale University. Trevor Shelley is an instructor in the School of Civic and Economic Thought and Leadership at Arizona State University. Marlene K. Sokolon is associate professor of political science at Concordia University. James R. Stoner, Jr. is the Hermann Moyse Jr. Professor and Director of the Eric Voegelin Institute in the Department of Political Science at Louisiana State University.

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List of Contributors  xiii Frans Svensson is senior lecturer of practical philosophy in the Department of Philosophy, Linguistics, and Theory of Science at the University of Gothenburg. Brandon Turner is associate professor of political science at Clemson University. Ann Ward is professor of political science at Baylor University. Stephen Wirls is associate professor of philosophy at Rhodes College. Peng Yu is assistant professor at the Department of Politics at Earlham College.

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Acknowledgments

Much of this book was developed and written in the midst of a deadly pandemic and a period of unusually tumultuous politics. The weekly online sessions between this volume’s co-​editors were always productive and inflected with humor, providing perspective and relief. To find friendship arising out of professional partnership is a rare gift, and one that makes work genuinely pleasurable. We thank our families and friends for their unhesitating support and sometimes genuine (and sometimes feigned) interest in this volume throughout its lifespan. We would particularly like to thank our family members and friends who worked as frontline healthcare workers during this time. This volume would not have been possible without the support of our publishers at Routledge, especially Natalja Mortensen and Charlie Baker. Bruce is also grateful to his Dean, Geoff Weinman, and his Chair, Gary Darden, for their advocacy and encouragement. Finally, we thank and acknowledge all the talented contributors to this book who worked with us in balancing their many obligations with the needs and expectations of the volume editors. Former president of Barnard, Judith Shapiro, famously argued that a liberal arts education pays good psychological and personal dividends by making “the inside of your head … an interesting place to spend the rest of your life.” In their learned and often provocative reflections on mortality, our chapter contributors have continued that project in wonderful new ways.

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Introduction Erin A. Dolgoy, Kimberly Hurd Hale, and Bruce Peabody

In life there is one certainty: everything will eventually die. All human beings who are here on earth, aware and conscious, know that one day we will no longer be alive. We do not know how we will die, or when we will die, but, nonetheless, it will happen. We all share mortality. And many of us share personal existential worries about our own deaths, and the deaths of those we love. Speculations about how we will die and what happens to us when we die are often questions about how we can live, and how we can learn to live well. Fortunately, we are not on our own in wrestling with these questions. It is not surprising that across the ages, death inspires artists, and fuels explorers, emboldens political leaders, and motivates scientists to ever greater heights of innovation and achievement. Contemplation of death and dying is a mainstay of philosophical contemplation, religious reflection, and political discourse. Indeed, concerns about aging and mortality are inextricably tied to the core questions of political theory: what are the essential features of human nature; how do we lead a good life; what forms of justice do we owe to different social groups and claimants (past, present, and future); what role does the divine, and religious belief, fulfill in helping us make a connection between our earthly existence and whatever awaits us thereafter; and how can we be ethical, and forge fair societies, in a universe of scarce resources (limited most acutely by our finite lifespan and the fragility of our bodies)? Political Theory on Death and Dying compiles and curates conversations about death that political philosophers have been engaging in across thousands of years and across far-​flung and diverse societies. The intellectual contributions of each thinker discussed in this volume can inform our personal examinations of mortality, and public policy decisions, and provide the grounds for discussions in classrooms, around dinner tables, in government, and in healthcare settings. Our collection of thinkers can help all of us think through some of these questions concerning our own deaths, and human mortality more generally. The philosophical legacy we present can provide comfort, furnish meaning, and even revivify those individuals who are at the end of their lives. At the same time, the different ways in which our many thinkers struggle with mortality remind us that death is a fundamental (political) concern of well-​ordered societies.

Changing Lifespans, Changing Societies Over the last 150 years, as human life expectancy and health expectancy has been steadily increasing,1 questions about mortality have assumed a new form of urgency. Not only are we, as individuals, afforded more time to contemplate death, but as scientists have examined biological questions that concern senescence, increased medical technologies have expanded the threshold of our mortality (the process of age-​related degeneration often takes decades rather than month or years). As Ronald Bailey anticipates, by the end of this century, it DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-1

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2  Erin A. Dolgoy et al. may not be unexpected to experience a 150-​year lifespan, typified by youthfulness, good health, physical prowess, and mental acuity.2 Some scientists, as Elie Dolgin reports, believe that there may not be a hard limit to the human lifespan.3 Patrik Marier and Isabelle Van Pevenage explain that as populations age and new health concerns emerge “population aging has rapidly become one of the policy problems du jour.”4 Many of the questions at the core of our volume are both longstanding and urgent (as nations including the United States and institutions such as the World Health Organization wrestle with such matters as the goals of healthcare interventions and the allocation of resources).5 This is true not only because prolonging (some version of a good) life is implicit in many public officials’ mandates and formal duties, but also because confronting illness, debilitation, and aging is a major challenge not just for families and communities, but for legislators, administrators, and service providers. For the most part, those who live in the liberal west experience death and illness in somewhat insulated and antiseptic institutions, where patients are heavily medicated against discomfort and surrounded by healthcare professionals.6 Such a model, however, is something of an historical and cultural anomaly. Historically and cross-​culturally, outside of contemporary liberal societies, those who are dying are rarely alone.7 Instead, the deathbed is often a place where friends, family, and religious leaders gather to ritualize a loved one’s death.8 As Philippe Ariès notes, for most societies, “Death was always public.”9 And as J. Lawrence Angel argues, “aging is a cultural as well as a chronological process.”10 Historical and non-​ western approaches to palliative care concern not only the individual who is dying, but the community of which that person is a part. As a consequence, in these contexts, “Death was omnipresent … its reminders everywhere.”11 Clare Gittings argues that “It has often been suggested that people in the late Middle Ages seem to have been obsessed with death.”12 Of course, these settings of ubiquitous death still seek order, mitigation, and meaning amidst loss. According to David Cressy, “Death has two histories, one the cosmic account of its origins in sin and its conquest by Christ’s redemption, the other the more mundane story of how humans coped with mortality.”13 The theological account concerns the nature of our souls and the possibilities of salvation; the physiological account concerns the nature of our bodies and the possibility of prolonging life, as well as mitigating physical decay and physical pain. As we will see over the course of this volume, many of our featured philosophers transcend, blend, or interrogate this divide. Examining the immediate social context in which someone dies leads us to consider the broader social and political implications of how we live our lives, and also how we expect to live as we age. For example, medical advancements have resulted in a “slowing” of the aging process; women are able to safely bear children at older ages, and people of both sexes are able to delay retirement in anticipation of increased life expectancies. As a result, the natural cycle of generational replacement has been disrupted, leading to increased concerns regarding governmental interventions in the lives of citizens, including government obligations not simply to refrain from oppressing citizens, but also to ensure that a certain standard of living is maintained.14 Some public health challenges, such as the COVID-​19 pandemic that gripped the world in the second decade of the twenty-​first century, can put these twin political aspirations into arguable conflict.15 As the population distribution changes, so too do the needs and wants of citizens. Policy initiatives will be required to satisfy those expectations. Citizens in the west are now accustomed to the idea that the state must supplement or outright supply the means to support citizens too old or infirm to earn enough money to care for themselves. The shifting demographic of elderly citizens carries “implications for nearly all sectors of society, including labor and financial markets, the demand for goods and services such as housing, transportation and social protection, as well as family structures and inter-​generational

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Introduction  3 ties.”16 Anyone who follows American political discourse is familiar with the dire future predicted for programs such as Social Security and Medicare; as the working-​age population decreases, an insufficient number of healthy workers will be tasked with supporting the increasing number of retired and infirm citizens. As the quality and quantity of medical interventions increase, so does the expectation that every person’s lifespan will exceed those of previous generations. Our newfound longevity may in fact correspond to a de-​valuing of the elderly themselves. According to Angel, who was writing in 1947, “Apparently the role of the aged in early Greece carried more responsibility, activity, and hence satisfaction than in the present shifting society.”17 As people fight harder and harder against the aging of their bodies and minds (especially in a context of flowering technological, scientific, and pseudo-​scientific claims and resources designed to prolong our youthfulness), those who succumb to old age are now perhaps seen as losers in the battle against time, rather than sources of wisdom or conduits of family and cultural memories. More generally, the prospect of expanded lifespan raises the question of how the aged will best spend their additional years—​and why?

Philosophy and the Politics of Death As we have already noted, in the arena of politics and public affairs, concerns about death and dying are never distant, even if they are often referenced in occluded, indirect, or symbolic ways. The topic is of utmost importance to political leaders, who take responsibility for distributing and managing death in all aspects of governing, from the state’s decision to wage wars (or investigate unlawful killings) to the complexities of fashioning healthcare policy.18 Government jurisdiction over death and dying also extends to more administrative and almost mundane matters such as providing tax benefits to widows and widowers, certifying and recording death through the work of official coroners, and assessing the effectiveness of regulations by their price in lost lives.19 Fear and recognition of death inform how we allocate political priorities (such as renewed attention to opioid addiction) and social honors (such as the posthumous commendation of war heroes).20 In all of these responsibilities and endeavors, governments inevitably define, measure, and assess the significance of deaths, explicitly or indirectly drawing on other thinkers or studies that wrestle with problems of human mortality. Political Theory on Death and Dying appreciates the urgency and complexity of these varied and somewhat disparate conversations about (and efforts to understand) death and dying. Political philosophy, at its most fundamental, is concerned with questions of what it means to live a good life, and the ways in which the political organization of a society can support or hinder that process. Considerations of the good life are necessarily intertwined with perspectives on what it means to lead a healthy life, what it means to live a useful life, and what happens to us as we are dying, and after we die. The history of political thought offers diverse and often contradictory perspectives on these fundamental questions concerning the human experience. Some individuals choose to focus on theological or metaphysical questions, others practical or scientific questions. All accounts of politics are predicated on some understanding of the human life, the ways individuals change over time, and the natural and functional parameters that mark a person’s existence. As Aristotle famously cautioned, “One swallow does not make a summer” just as “one day or a short time does not make a person blessed or happy.”21 How can we take the measure of a person without seeing their full life played out? Beyond these observations, the central role of political philosophy as a “master science,”22 to use Aristotle’s phrase, for organizing our thinking about death is suggested

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4  Erin A. Dolgoy et al. in another way. Political philosophers presume that our preoccupation with mortality (or the fate of our souls), and the duties we owe to the dead and the dying, are unavoidably political questions. A systematic study of the first principles of political life and organization provides a framework in which to discuss these and other questions about the fragile and finite human lifespan. The classic scholarly work in death studies is historian Philippe Ariès’ The Hour of Our Death, which is organized thematically by topic, rather than by thinker. In addition to philosophic and metaphysical concerns, Ariès focuses on the rituals associated with death, dying, and burial. In recent years, a number of additional academic volumes about mortality and death have been published. Several of these are edited volumes, organized by theme, featuring contributors who are predominantly drawn from the field of philosophy. Steven Luper’s edited volume The Cambridge Companion to Life and Death is explicitly concerned with themes of health, illness, death, and life. The volume is “devoted to the metaphysics of life and death, the significance of life and death, and the ethics of life and death.”23 Each chapter is written by a different academician, and incorporates the arguments of multiple philosophers and thinkers. Jeff Malpas and Robert C. Solomon, similarly, compile a thematic volume. Their text is “ ‘existential’ in character.”24 It addresses similar metaphysical concerns as those in Luper’s volume, and uniquely features Ted Horowitz’s account of his own near-​death experience. Ben Bradley, Fred Feldman, and Jens Johansson’s edited volume The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Death grapples with many technical, philosophic, and ethical aspects of death: “What is death?” “What is a person?” “When does a thing die?” “What, if anything makes it permissible to kill fetuses, nonhuman animals, combatants, murderers, or the terminally ill”?25 The chapters in their volume often deal with multiple thinkers, united by their common interest in a single issue or set of moral questions. Simon Critchley’s The Book of Dead Philosophers provides a fun and accessible popular account of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of great philosophers. Each vignette provides a brief account of some of the highlights of the philosopher’s thought, and an account of their death. Critchley’s book has an admirable breadth (he provides anecdotes for 191 philosophers), but he does not address the thinkers’ own philosophical accounts of death. Political Theory on Death and Dying builds upon the foundation established by these and other publications, while making four unique contributions to the literature, and offering four distinct advantages to readers. First, this text is organized according to thinker, and second, is organized chronologically. Since each of our thinkers is considered within a devoted, self-​contained chapter, their arguments can be considered on their own terms. The thinker-​and primary-​text-​based approach in this volume bolsters this book’s long-​lasting relevance. Instead of tying our explorations of death and dying to specific policy debates, current political controversies, or even important (but ever-​evolving) scholarly conversations and lines of inquiry and dispute, this book centers its analysis on the ideas of individual thinkers whose writings have shaped contemporary discussions concerning human mortality and politics, and are of enduring relevance. Additionally, by structuring the text by thinker in chronological order, readers can trace the conversations amongst thinkers, and the ways in which thinkers are influenced by their predecessors. Given this volume’s emphasis, and given our interest in surveying the entirety of each philosopher’s body of work, we conceive of “chronology” through each subject’s death date; that is, we begin with the philosopher whose (estimated) date of death is the earliest, and end with the philosophers who died most recently or who are still alive. We are in no way advocating a teleological understanding of human intellection, a view that argues that our featured thinkers should be considered as all leading to a final, culminating set of insights about human mortality and death. We have chosen to organize the volume chronologically, not because there is some natural progression in our aggregate

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Introduction  5 understanding, but because many of the authors discussed are in conversation with their intellectual predecessors. Thus, we can appreciate each writer’s distinct insights, as well as their connections and similarities to other thinkers, by studying their arguments and claims in ordered sequence. Further, our non-​thematic, chronological sequence reflects our appreciation of the shifting cultural, technological, and intellectual ground under our thinkers’ proverbial feet. As our understanding of science, physiology, and medicine develops, the nature of our philosophical discussions shifts as well. Twenty-​first century theorists are no longer concerned about the balancing of humors, but they may be concerned with gene splicing and stem cell treatments. Some of the thinkers discussed in our volume are especially interested in theological accounts of aging. As such they tend to focus on the religious and otherworldly explanations of what happens to us after we die. Some thinkers focus on the medical interventions that can increase health and youth, and decrease illness and aging. They offer recommendations to maintain longevity and fertility. Others pontificate on the differences between the young and the more experienced, both socially and politically. Moving beyond the advantages of our “sequenced thinker” approach, the third distinct feature of this volume is that it brings together a diverse group of interdisciplinary scholars, each of whom is an expert on a particular philosopher. These authors come from varied intellectual traditions and scholarly backgrounds. We believe this disciplinary variation models the interdisciplinarity of the field of death studies, and reflects our broad understanding of political theory as a field of study defined more by substantive questions (about living and governing well) and techniques of study (textual exegesis and theoretical inquiry) than strict disciplinary boundaries. Fourth, each chapter is written to be usable by both area experts and non-​experts. While our tone and approach are scholarly, each chapter is designed to stand alone; our authors do not expect their readers to be steeped in the relevant scholarly literature or debates regarding a particular thinker or his or her school of thought. Furthermore, our thinker-​ based approach allows a reader to target his or her inquiries and read our relatively short entries in isolation and with greater depth. As a consequence, this volume should be of interest and use to academicians, practitioners, and any others who are concerned with our experiences of aging, dying, and death. As with any broad survey relying upon multiple contributors, this project has admitted shortcomings: our book inevitably leaves out important thinkers whose writing either directly addresses death or has important implications for how we regard and struggle with mortality. While we have made every effort to be comprehensive in our collection, practical and logistical concerns prevent us from discussing every thinker who has contributed to our collective understanding of human mortality and politics. We can easily imagine another volume (or multiple volumes) covering an entirely different set of thinkers and we concede that such a volume would provide essential reading for those interested in understanding death and dying. That said, we have tried to bring together a wide range of relevant thinkers from across the ages and fields of human inquiry and expression—​drawing from scholars and theologians, public servants and activists, playwrights and poets. We have fixed our attention on important writers covering a span of almost three thousand years, and while many of our chapters focus on western thinkers, we have also identified essential thinkers from Asian and Middle Eastern cultures and traditions of thought and belief. In the end, we hope that our unavoidable omissions can be a source of debate, discussion, and pedagogical stimulus rather than regret. We freely submit to the poet Paul Valéry’s concession that a “work is never truly completed … but abandoned.”26

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6  Erin A. Dolgoy et al.

Notes 1 Gurven and Fenelon; Kochanek et al.; Donnelly. Even though the US experienced a statistical decline in life expectancy in 2017, the overall trend is likely to continue with extending lifespan. Bacci explains that “Only in those rare periods free of economic difficulties, social unrest, or disease did it [life expectancy] reach 40. In England, where the chances of survival were greater than on the continent, during an almost 300-​year span from 1541 to 1826 there were only three brief five-​ year intervals, (two during the fortunate Elizabethan era) in which life expectancy reached 40” (61). More precisely, “For England, life expectancy in the 50 years between 1566 and 1616 was roughly 39 years as compared to 34 years one century later (1666–​1716)” (89–​90). Rosen reminds us that many of these estimations are misleading, since life expectancy takes into account everyone who has ever lived and died, as an average, including the infant who dies and the octogenarian who dies. 2 Bailey, 15. 3 Dolgin explains that various elixirs, injections, exercise regimens, improved nutrition, and modern medical procedures (including transplants and reconstruction surgeries) have certainly prolonged life expectancy, delayed aging, and decreased illness, allowing modern people to enjoy the pleasures of temporal life for decades longer than our ancestors, even in the world’s poorer or developing countries. 4 Marier and Van Pevenage, 430. 5 UN Report: World Population Ageing, 1; Rando and Carstensen. 6 See Mitford; see also Gittings, 7. 7 Cressy, 390. 8 Cressy, 391–​3. 9 Ariès, 19. 10 Angel, 23. 11 Cressy, 380; see also Gittings, 8. 12 Gittings, 34. Gittings begins her text with a quotation from Francis Bacon’s essay “On Death.” 13 Cressy, 380. 14 Berlin, 118–​72. 15 Gladstone. 16 UN Report: World Population Ageing, 2. 17 Angel, 23. 18 Berenson. 19 Appelbaum. 20 Khazan; Peabody and Jenkins. 21 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1098a. 22 Aristotle, Politics, 1252a1–​20. 23 Luper, 1. 24 Malpas and Solomon, 2. 25 Bradley et al., 1–​4. 26 Valéry, 399.

References Angel, J. Lawrence. “The Length of Life in Ancient Greece.” Journal of Gerontology 2, no. 1 (1947): 18–​24. Appelbaum, Binyamin. “As U.S. Agencies Put More Value on a Life, Businesses Fret.” New York Times, February 16, 2011, www.nytimes.com/​2011/​02/​17/​business/​economy/​17regulation.html. Ariès, Philippe. The Hour of Our Death. Translated by Helen Weaver. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000. Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Joe Sachs. Newburyport: Focus Publishing, 2002. Aristotle. Politics. Translated by Carnes Lord. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984. Bacci, Massimo Livi. The Population of Europe. Translated by Cynthia De Nardi Ipsen and Carl Ipsen. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999. Bailey, Ronald. Liberation Biology. New York: Prometheus Books, 2005.

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Introduction  7 Berenson, Alex. “Pinning Down the Money Value of a Person’s Life.” New York Times, June 11, 2007, www.nytimes.com/​2007/​06/​11/​business/​businessspecial3/​11life.html. Berlin, Isaiah. “Two Concepts of Liberty.” In Four Essays On Liberty. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969. Bradley, Ben, Fred Feldman, and Jens Johansson. The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Cressy, David. Birth, Marriage, and Death: Ritual, Religion, and the Life-​Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Dolgin, Elie. “There’s No Limit to Longevity, Says Study that Revives Human Lifespan Debate.” Nature 559 (July 5, 2018). Retrieved from www.nature.com/​articles/​d41586-​018-​05582-​3. Donnelly, Grace. “Here’s Why Life Expectancy in the U.S. Dropped Again This Year.” Fortune.com, February 9, 2018, http://​fortune.com/​2018/​02/​09/​us-​life-​expectancy-​dropped-​again. Gittings, Clare. Death, Burial and the Individual in Early Modern England. London: Croom Helm, 1984. Gladstone, Rick. “As Measles Surges, ‘Decades of Progress’ are in Jeopardy.” New York Times, November 29, 2018, www.nytimes.com/​2018/​11/​29/​world/​europe/​measles-​increase.html. Gurven, Michael and Andrew Fenelon. “Has Actuarial Aging ‘Slowed’ over the Past 250 Years? A Comparison of Small-​Scale Subsistence Populations and European Cohorts.” Evolution 63, no. 4 (2009): 1017–​35. Khazan, Olga. “A Shocking Decline in American Life Expectancy: Because of the Opioid Epidemic, Americans Have Been Dying Younger for Two Years in a Row.” The Atlantic, December 21, 2017, www.theatlantic.com/​health/​archive/​2017/​12/​life-​expectancy/​548981. Kochanek, Kenneth D., Sherry L. Murphy, Jiaquan Xu, and Elizabeth Arias. “Mortality in the United States, 2016.” NCHS Data Brief, no. 293. Hyattsville: National Center for Health Statistics, 2017. Retrieved from https://​www.cdc.gov/​nchs/​data/​databriefs/​db293.pdf. Luper, Steven. The Cambridge Companion to Life and Death. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Malpas, Jeff and Robert C. Solomon. Death and Philosophy. New York: Routledge, 1998. Marier, Patrik and Isabelle Van Pevenage. “Three Competing Interpretations of Policy Problems: Tame and Wicked Problems through the Lenses of Population Aging, Policy and Society.” Policy and Society 36, no. 3 (2017): 430–​45. Mitford, Jessica. The American Way of Death Revisited. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1997. Peabody, Bruce and Krista Jenkins. Where Have All the Heroes Gone: The Changing Nature of American Valor. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011. Rando, T.A. and L.L. Carstensen. “Foreword.” In Handbook of Aging and the Social Sciences (8th ed.). Edited by L. George and Kenneth Ferraro. Oxford: Elsevier Science & Technology, 2015. Rosen, Sherwin. “The Value of Changes in Life Expectancy.” Journal of Risk and Uncertainty 1, no. 3 (1988): 285–​304. UN Report: World Population Ageing. New York: United Nations, 2017. Retrieved from www.un.org/​ en/​development/​desa/​population/​publications/​pdf/​ageing/​WPA2017_​Highlights.pdf. Valéry, Paul. “Au sujet du Cimetière marin.” La Nouvelle Revue Française (March 1933).

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1  Memory and Mortality in Homer’s Odyssey Rachel K. Alexander

Though scholars are divided when it comes to the identity of Homer, tradition considers him to be the Greek author of the Iliad and the Odyssey, written around the late eighth and early seventh century BCE .1 Providing accounts of the Trojan War, in the Iliad, and its aftermath, in the Odyssey, these epic poems present human confrontation of mortality. Indeed, Homer frames the Iliad as a tale of Achilles’ destructive wrath that sent many souls of heroes to Hades, and his tale of Odysseus’ harrowing journey home after the war, in the Odyssey, features two visits down to Hades.2 This chapter will turn to Homer’s Odyssey to better understand death and the human condition of being mortal, by focusing on Odysseus’ response to what he heard and saw in Hades. Odysseus’ rejection of immortality, even after facing death’s reality, for the sake of preserving his memory and homecoming, illuminates the relationship between mortality, memory, inquiry, and love of one’s own. When Odysseus descends to the underworld, he hears Achilles’ famous preference for being a slave on earth rather than ruler of the dead in Hades.3 He also encounters the frightening depiction of dead souls as fluttering shadows.4 Perhaps more striking is Odysseus’ response to what he hears and sees in Hades. He does not follow Achilles’ advice to avoid death, whatever the cost, even though he has seen its grim reality. At the beginning of the Odyssey, in fact, the very first image of Odysseus we encounter, described by Athena to Zeus, is of his captivity by the divine nymph Calypso on her island Ogygia, where he strains to see (noeō) Ithaca, his fatherland, and “longs to die” (himeirō thaneein).5 Moreover, as we discover in Book Five, Odysseus longs to die in the face of an offer of deathlessness from Calypso, who wants him to live immortally with her as her husband and ruler of her household.6 Athena’s description of Odysseus as simultaneously straining to see Ithaca and longing to die suggests both that Odysseus longs to die if he must stay with Calypso and never return home and that he longs to return home, even if this requires that he eventually die. The strength of his love of his own appears to drive the choice that entails his mortality. Yet, so too does his desire to see, or more literally intuit or perceive by his mind (noeō), seem to drive his choice. One of his most memorable encounters, for example, is his encounter with the Sirens, and his straining to escape his bounds to hear the knowledge they offer.7 Even in the first few lines of the poem, Homer tells us that Odysseus has seen (eidon) many cities and come to know (gignōskō) the minds of many men through his travels.8 His wandering far from Ithaca has brought him knowledge of the world and its inhabitants. On Calypso’s island, however, his strain to perceive and know points homeward. That Calypso, as Athena reports, attempts to charm Odysseus, with soft and flattering words, into forgetting Ithaca, also suggests that more is at play, in Odysseus’ choice, than simply love of his own. His memory, and therefore the soundness of his very mind and identity, are at stake. In this chapter, I argue that Odysseus’ longing to die and his choice to remain mortal are driven by his desire to remember, which is in turn bound up both with his love of his own and with his desire to know. The age-​old question of political thought is thus at work DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-2

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Homer  9 in Homer’s depiction of the options Odysseus faces—​does the human desire to know lead beyond the confines of one’s home, one’s political community and its customs or laws, and perhaps even to their rejection? In order to investigate the relationship between memory and mortality, we first explore the threats to memory, posed by his pursuit of knowledge, that Odysseus faces on his journey; secondly, we examine what Odysseus learns about mortality and memory on his visit to Hades; and, finally, we consider the ways in which Odysseus’ choice of memory and mortality over immortality facilitates not only his return to his own, but also his own pursuit of knowledge. Unlike Menelaus’ mind-​numbingly intoxicated coexistence with his wife Helen, whose elopement with Paris of Troy sparked the Trojan War, Odysseus’ reunion with his wife Penelope involves memory and inquiry.

Odysseus’ Curious Forgetfulness Invoking the Muse, Homer introduces the reader to Odysseus as a man of many ways (or a man of many turns, polutropos) who wandered (plazomai) very far after sacking Troy.9 This introduction prompts the reader to ask whence, whither, and, most especially, why Odysseus wanders. One obvious answer is first suggested by the passive voice of the verb plazomai, which can also be translated as “made to turn aside.” Odysseus has been turned aside from his destination—​by Poseidon, we soon learn from Zeus—​and he wanders in search of his fatherland.10 He is a wanderer (and man of many ways and turns) in part, at least, because his return home has been thwarted by the gods. Yet, his wandering state is not simply a matter of fate. As Zeus indicates a few stanzas into Book One, Poseidon did not turn Odysseus aside from his destination until Odysseus blinded the Cyclops. “From that time forth,” Poseidon did not kill Odysseus but “made him a wanderer [plazō] from his fatherland.”11 Odysseus is lost because he blinded the Cyclops Polyphemus, not simply due to necessity, but due to his curiosity. Odysseus seeks out the Cyclopes not in order to find food, shelter, or transportation home, but to “make trial” (peiraō) of them in order to know what kind of men (anēr) they are.12 In seeking knowledge of “lawless” men, men without political life, Odysseus seems to seek knowledge of natural man.13 His craft and wit serve this pursuit of knowledge as much as, if not more than, they serve his labored journey home. Odysseus’ inquiry not only involves wandering, but it also leads him to assume varying disguises, as his epithet polutropos (shifty, or wily) suggests. To the Trojans, for instance, as Helen divulges to his son Telemachus, Odysseus craftily appears as a beggar, as he later appears to his own people, upon his return to Ithaca.14 To the young maiden Nausicaa and her people the Phaeacians, on the other hand, he appears to be a god.15 Indeed, his very penchant for disguise seems godlike; just as Athena appears alternatively as Mentes, Mentor, and a young herdsman, and as the immortal Proteus, Old Man of the Sea, assumes the forms of “all creatures that come forth and move on the earth,” so, too, do Odysseus’ appearances seem limitless.16 But if this fluidity of form seems to bring him closer to the immortals and facilitate his pursuit of knowledge, his multiplicity also threatens his memory and identity. In his capacity to be anyone, Odysseus, as he identifies himself to Polyphemus, risks becoming No One (Oūtis).17 His multiplicity suggests that the very accumulation of knowledge that his shiftiness enables also threatens his knowledge of himself.18 Indeed, when the other nearby Cyclopes interpret Polyphemus’ plight as one of a mad man, tormented, though there is not any one (mē tis) tormenting him, their pun reveals a connection between Odysseus’ clever mind (mētis) and the loss of identity it threatens. The danger that Odysseus’ wandering search for knowledge poses to his goals becomes more manifest in his constant battle to keep memory of Ithaca alive for himself and his

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10  Rachel K. Alexander comrades. At nearly every step of their journey, Odysseus and his comrades are enticed to forget their homes. In one of their early detours, for example, Odysseus’ companions encounter the Lotus-​Eaters, who feed them the honey-​sweet fruit of the lotus. The fruit makes them wish to stay with the Lotus-​Eaters and forget about homecoming.19 Odysseus has to forcefully carry them away, only to run into a similar problem later in their travels; when they come upon the island of the goddess Circe, she welcomes Odysseus’ companions with cocktails that make them forget entirely the land of their fathers and, moreover, lose their humanity, assuming instead the forms of pigs.20 Forgetting their country, they become city-​less beasts, not unlike the Cyclopes, whose one-​eyed sight seems to preclude memory and political life alike. Circe soon warns Odysseus of the Sirens, whose singing mesmerizes any passerby so as to forget about returning home to his wife and children.21 Later, after losing his last remaining companions to their disobedience, Odysseus ends up stranded on the island of Calypso, who tries to entice him to forget his homeland.22 Not only do Odysseus’ quests often require him to shed his outward identity, but they tempt him and his comrades to forget even the memory of that identity. In so doing, Odysseus’ wandering pursuit of knowledge seems to, paradoxically, cost him and his comrades some of the knowledge they already possess, and thereby put their identities at risk, for what one knows and remembers is what one is.23 Odysseus and his companions’ time on Circe’s island presents the apex of this threat to memory, for it is here that Odysseus is most explicitly identified as having forgotten about Ithaca, so much so that he needs his comrades to remind him before he makes moves to resume their journey homeward. What makes Odysseus’ forgetfulness more remarkable is that he is aware of Circe’s power to captivate men before he approaches her, and even takes measures to guard against her charm. After landing on Circe’s island, Odysseus sends some of his companions ahead to investigate, as he did in the country of the Lotus-​Eaters. Circe lures all but Eurylochos, who suspects treachery, into her palace, gives them a dangerous potion that makes them forgetful of their own country, and turns them into pigs.24 When Eurylochos returns to Odysseus to report the loss of his comrades, Odysseus embarks on a rescue mission, armed with protection from Hermes. Hermes has knowledge, available only to the gods, of the nature of the plant moly, which has medicinal properties that will block Circe’s spells.25 The drug does appear to immunize Odysseus from Circe’s charms—​she fails to turn him into a pig, for example. And yet it does not save Odysseus from forgetting about his country. Rather, a year goes by as Odysseus and his companions feast with Circe, and he still makes no efforts to return home. It takes his companions pulling him aside and exhorting him before he asks Circe for leave. “Possessed [daimonios] man,” his comrades plead, “remember now the fatherland, if it is divinely ordained for you to be saved and to come to your high-​ roofed home and father’s country.”26 Hermes’ divine assistance has granted Odysseus access to what is known to the gods, knowledge of the moly plant, but it has also diminished his memory. Even as Odysseus remains human, his experience made possible by Hermes’ knowledge demonstrates that he is nevertheless susceptible to lose himself in the pursuit of divine knowledge.27 His comrades’ wake-​up call jolts Odysseus’ memory and initiates a new leg of his journey, in which he will realize the tradeoff demanded by an immortal existence and the godlike knowledge such an existence might offer.

Remembering Death Indeed, Odysseus’ remembrance of Ithaca demands his confrontation with mortality, for once his companions persuade him to implore Circe to send them home, she acquiesces, with

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Homer  11 the qualification that he must first accomplish another journey—​to the house of Hades.28 Odysseus must face—​and accept—​his mortality if he is to preserve his memory, and the first soul he encounters in Hades suggests why this is so. Although Circe had said she was sending them to Hades to consult Teiresias, the Theban seer, the first soul to greet Odysseus and his comrades in the underworld is their friend Elpenor, who had accidentally stumbled off of the roof of Circe’s palace after a night of drinking.29 His soul thus has descended to Hades more quickly than his friends, and he is eager to meet Odysseus with a fervent request: “that you remember me, and do not go and leave me behind unwept, unburied, when you leave.”30 The first task Odysseus receives in Hades is to remember. It was his companions’ plea to him to remember (the fatherland) that prompted his journey to Hades, and there a similar petition faces him. Why does memory require that Odysseus confront his mortality, and vice versa? Elpenor’s request sheds light on the relationship. The reality of death summons memory. Memory’s purpose is to call to mind what has passed. If nothing passed away, and things and humans were therefore always present, then remembering them would be unnecessary. If Odysseus wishes to preserve his memory—​from charms of the immortals who entice him to forget—​he must accept his own mortality. The next soul Odysseus encounters—​again, surprisingly before he sees Teiresias—​is his mother Anticlea, and her advice to him, like Elpenor’s request, affirms the relationship between memory and mortality. Anticlea died out of grief for her lost son, Odysseus.31 Here, the relationship between memory and mortality seems to have been reversed. While Elpenor’s death is cause to remember, Anticlea’s memory of Odysseus has caused her death. Perhaps Anticlea also perceives in the loss of Odysseus a loss of descendants capable of remembering her after she has passed; if her son is lost, then she, too, is lost. Anticlea’s predicament is the inverse of the Lotus-​Eaters; while they forget the past and so live perpetually in the present (as immortals do), she thinks only of the past, and so is dead. Yet, Anticlea’s death in response to her son’s absence contrasts with her husband Laertes’ response and grief, suggesting that memory, though a proper response to death, need not hasten death. According to Anticlea, Laertes, in response to his son’s absence and the death of his wife, no longer goes into the city, but remains on his estate. He lives a hard life of mourning, “with foul clothing upon him,” but when the blossoming time of summer comes, “everywhere he has places to sleep on the ground, on fallen leaves in piles along the rising ground of his orchard, and there he lies, grieving, and the sorrow grows big within him as he longs for your homecoming.”32 At the end of the poem, when Odysseus finally reunites with his father, the sign he offers to prove his identity is knowledge of the very trees that Anticlea in Hades describes Laertes sleeping under. “I asked you of each tree when I was a child,” Odysseus reminds his father, and you named them all and told me what each one was, and you gave me thirteen pear trees, and ten apple trees, and forty fig trees; and so also you named the fifty vines you would give to me. Each of them bore regularly, for there were grapes at every stage upon them.33 Laertes’ memory includes not only his beloved son, but the trees in his orchard that he gave to his son, and their seasonal bloom. In remembering both Odysseus and the home they share, Laertes averts the despair that breaks Anticlea. Perhaps Anticlea, too, would have remained home with Laertes instead of descending to Hades had she remembered the fullness of their home in addition to her longing for Odysseus. The noble swineherd Eumaios’ professed hope suggests as much when, describing the great grief that Anticlea’s death has caused Laertes, “hurting him more than all else,” Eumaios recalls the pleasure that

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12  Rachel K. Alexander he himself received in conversing with Anticlea and the love she had for him.34 He hopes that “no friend who lives here with me dies such a death, nor any who does me the acts of friendship.”35 Eumaios’ hope points to the role that the memory of one’s friends might serve in preventing a premature death by despair, like that of Anticlea. Now all that remains of Anticlea is a shadow that Odysseus three times tries to physically embrace, but to no avail. Anticlea explains that he cannot embrace her because “this is the way of mortals, when they die; their tendons no longer hold the flesh and bones together,” but the body burns while the spirit leaves the bones and the soul flies here and there.36 “Yet,” she commands him, “you must swiftly struggle towards the light of day, and you must know all of these things in order that you might afterwards tell your wife.”37 Anticlea suggests that the proper response to knowledge about death is to remember this knowledge in order to share it with one’s beloved. Homer thus gives Odysseus’ mother, although she died in grief for her son, the opportunity to continue to nurture his life, not only reminding him of his father’s love and his son’s good judgment, but of his wife who awaits his homecoming.38 We might expect that Anticlea’s terrifying description of what happens to the human person when he or she dies—​flesh, bones, spirit, and soul disperse—​would dishearten Odysseus and incline him to accept Calypso’s later offer of deathlessness. But Anticlea’s final counsel prefigures what Calypso will later suggest is the primary factor influencing Odysseus’ choice to remain mortal: his longing for his wife Penelope.39 Anticlea’s account of death’s destruction of the body does not induce Odysseus to choose immortality, when later presented with the option, so that he may forever enjoy the pleasures of wholeness that death dissolves. Rather, in pairing her account of death with her recommendation that he share it with his wife, Anticlea reminds Odysseus of deathlessness’ cost. Without death’s limits, Odysseus would lose love and friendship, which, as Aristotle notes, endures as long as both friends remain human.40 Mortality renders human beings vulnerable and needy, leading us to cultivate friendships and political communities that help us to live and to live well. Immortality deprives us of such human goods. We are now in a position to see not only the relationship between mortality and memory, but the relationship between mortality, memory, and love of one’s own. Death not only urges humans to remember what passes away, but it encourages us to relish with others and take ownership over the limited life and time we have. Still, Odysseus’ choice of mortality and memory over an immortality that would cost his memory does require that he give up the knowledge available to immortals. This becomes clear in two particular episodes following Odysseus’ descent into Hades—​his encounters with the Sirens and with Calypso. When Odysseus passes the Sirens about whom Circe warned, they enchant him to forget about returning home by promising that, if he stops to listen to them, he will “know more than ever he did, for we know on every side that which the Argives and Trojans suffered in wide Troy through the gods’ will. Over the all-​nourishing earth we know as much as comes into being.”41 The Sirens promise Odysseus knowledge of all that comes into being. Such knowledge would seem to entail deathlessness, inasmuch as its possessor would need to be freed from death’s limits if he were to know of everything that has and will come into being. The enticing offer presented by the Sirens seems to be one of knowledge available only to immortals, but such knowledge can be Odysseus’, so long as he is willing to give up his memory of home. He must also, as evidenced by the corpses surrounding the Sirens, give up his life, which is to say that the offer the Sirens make to him is not an honest one. But their deceptive offer does nonetheless indicate that the possession of godlike omniscience would threaten one’s memory. Odysseus resists their seduction only by following the counsel of Circe (to plug his comrades’ ears with wax and have them restrain him), which she gave of course only after Odysseus made the decision,

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Homer  13 urged by his comrades, to remember Ithaca and return home. The tradeoff is clear: memory and return require him to descend to Hades, accept his mortality, and reject the comprehensive knowledge promised by immortality. Similarly, Calypso attempts to lure Odysseus from remembering Ithaca by presenting him with an immortal and ageless life with her in Ogygia.42 When Hermes arrives on the island with Zeus’ instructions for Calypso to release Odysseus, we get a glimpse of what kind of knowledge an immortal life with her might entail. Calypso immediately recognizes Hermes, Homer tells us, “for the immortal gods are not such as to go unrecognized by one another, not even if one dwells in a faraway home.”43 By contrast, human beings often fail to recognize immortal gods. As Odysseus remarks to Athena once she has revealed herself to him upon his return to Ithaca, “It is hard, O goddess, for even a mortal man of good understanding to recognize you on meeting, for you make yourself appear like all things.”44 Just as Hermes’ godlike capacities allow him to uproot things and know their natures, immortality seems to involve the capacity to see through outward appearances that dupe even the wily Odysseus. Insofar as Calypso’s offer to Odysseus of immortality includes this capacity, his choice on Ogygia seems to be between immortality and divine knowledge, on one hand, and mortality and memory, on the other.45 Why must such divine knowledge cost Odysseus his memory? Both comprehensive knowledge of particulars and knowledge of the nature of things stand at odds with the rootedness of physical and temporal particularity that belongs to the human, mortal experience. The Sirens’ knowledge encompasses “every side” of what is suffered and everything that comes into being on the earth, and Hermes’ and Calypso’s capacities to see through outward forms and appearances entail an unveiling and uprooting that seem to threaten the growth and existence of anything that comes into being altogether. How could one know such things without escaping the subjectivity inherent to a mortal and embodied existence, with its peculiar sufferings and experience of time?

Examinations in Ithaca Odysseus’ rejection of immortality in favor of memory does limit his pursuit of knowledge. However, his choice does not completely foreclose his inquiry into the unknown, as a second look at his encounter with Anticlea will make clear. Anticlea’s injunction to Odysseus to know the things she has told him for the purpose of sharing them with his wife not only appeals to Odysseus’ love and friendship for Penelope. It also appeals to his desire to know, for Anticlea advises Odysseus not simply to remember but to know (oida) these things for his wife. In knowing these things for Penelope and recounting them to her, Odysseus will come to know them with his wife, and thus will know them more deeply.46 Odysseus’ journey thus far has manifested a battle between his desire to return home and his curiosity about the unknown. His love of knowledge and love of his own have seemed in tension, insofar as the former requires a distancing of oneself from a particular perspective produced by the latter’s attachments to particular places or people. Yet, here, Anticlea’s counsel suggests that Odysseus’ two loves might work in tandem. Odysseus’ love for Penelope might motivate his pursuit of knowledge about these things. By the same token, his pursuit of knowledge might also drive him to return to Penelope, whose thoughts and desires he does not know, even though she is his own wife. Indeed, one of the things Odysseus first asks Anticlea is “about the wife I married, what she wants, what she is thinking, and whether she stays fast by my son, and guards everything, or if she has married the best man among the Achaeans.”47 Odysseus’ return to Penelope, which will require his acceptance of death, will allow Odysseus to retain the human good of love and friendship, but it will also allow him to continue to pursue knowledge of the human mind that has

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14  Rachel K. Alexander driven his wandering. Memory and mortality serve both love of one’s own and inquiry into the unknown. Odysseus is so uncertain of Penelope, in fact, that, when he does finally reach Ithaca, he approaches his return to her as he approaches the cave of the Cyclops. As Athena describes his odd manner of homecoming, another man, coming home after having wandered, would have happily hastened to see his children and wife in his halls; but for you it is not dear to be taught or learn by hearsay, not until you have made trial [peiraomai] of your wife.48 Athena’s use of the word peiraomai echoes Odysseus’ announcement to his companions that he and a few of them will investigate the Cyclopes: “Wait here, while I, with my own ship and companions that are in it, go and make trial [peiraomai] of these men, and learn what they are.”49 While Odysseus, in choosing home, memory, and mortality over immortality, gives up the possibility of accessing divine knowledge, he need not altogether abandon the pursuit of knowledge that drove his wandering. Odysseus makes trial of Penelope by disguising himself as a beggar before entering their home, testing her memory. Odysseus presumably does not expect Penelope to recognize him through his disguise, which will allow him to spy on his household and see whether circumspect Penelope has remained faithful to his memory. Has she remembered Odysseus, as Agamemnon in Hades later praises her for doing, or has she forgotten him and her vows, turning her eyes and heart to one or more of her suitors?50 Her epithet, after all, usually translated as “circumspect” (periphrōn), etymologically suggests thinking (phroneō) from all sides (peri), or having a many-​sided mind (phrēn), making her just as versatile and therefore difficult to predict as wily Odysseus. Penelope is a match for her husband’s many turns and ways (polutropos). In Penelope Odysseus meets his match and his partner, for she weaves her wiles not against him but to preserve his homecoming and his home.51 For three years she holds off the suitors by demanding that they wait for her hand in marriage until she has finished weaving a shroud for Laertes. Her remembrance of Odysseus requires her to face the reality of death, too. Weaving by day, she unravels by night, thus forestalling the suitors indefinitely. When her maidservants spoil that scheme, she weaves new wiles, presenting her beauty to the suitors in order both to increase their gifts to her household and to impress the still-​ disguised Odysseus.52 Moreover, she craftily proposes an archery contest for the suitors with a bow that she knows only Odysseus can string, thereby reminding Odysseus of his capabilities and assuring that he will defeat the suitors and win her hand.53 Circumspect Penelope passes Odysseus’ test with flying colors, but not before she herself makes trial of him. As Odysseus, after he has killed the suitors and removed his disguise, explains to Telemachus, “leave your mother to make trial of [peirazō] me in the palace as she will.”54 And test him she does, ordering their maidservant Eurycleia to “make up a firm bed for him outside the well-​fashioned chamber: that very bed that he himself built.”55 “So she spoke to her husband, making trial [peiraō] of him.”56 Knowing what the mobility of their marriage bed would require, Odysseus expresses anger and hurt. If Eurycleia can in fact make up his bed outside of the chamber, then that must mean that some other man, likely an immortal, has taken his place. “There is no mortal man alive, no strong man, who lightly could move the weight elsewhere,” for Odysseus built the chamber around a thick olive tree, using its deeply rooted trunk as a bed post.57 Just as Odysseus made trial of Penelope’s memory, so has she tried his. The marriage bed remains rooted in the ground [empedos], but her command that it be moved, in soliciting Odysseus’ anger and detailed account of the bed, reveals his faithfulness and his memory. Odysseus passes Penelope’s test.

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Homer  15 Odysseus came to know the minds of many human beings in the course of his travels, or so Homer reports, but the mind of his wife might have more to teach him than any he has known from his travels. Circumspect Penelope, as her epithet suggests, “thinks from all sides,” while retaining her humanity. She does not care about knowing what the Sirens offer—​knowledge of everything that comes into being in the wide world. She wants to know her own. Her test of Odysseus involves his memory of who he is—​her husband who planted the roots of their marriage bed—​rather than his memory of those he met in his travels, as he recounted them to the Phaeacians. She is, after all, too “circumspect” for that. Her very test of Odysseus is Homer’s test of Penelope, and this too she passes with flying colors. Whereas Odysseus has tested many, including Penelope, Penelope is the only one who tests Odysseus. Therefore, Odysseus’ relationship with Penelope allows him to continue to indulge his curiosity and pursue knowledge of the human mind, even as he returns home from wandering. Moreover, his choice of memory over immortality demands such a partnership, with its mutual tests. If Odysseus is to preserve his memory, he will need another’s help, for one cannot remind oneself of what one has forgotten. In this way, Odysseus’ return to Penelope allows him to pursue a kind of knowledge different from that offered by Hermes, the Sirens, or Calypso. In facilitating cross-​examination and dialogue with Penelope, his return to her furthers his pursuit of knowledge of her and of himself, and therefore of human nature.58 In choosing memory and mortality, he may be giving up the comprehensive knowledge available to Calypso or Hermes, whose knowledge of the moly plant involves digging up its roots. Still, the knowledge Odysseus pursues with Penelope entails planting and preserving roots, and in that sense may be deeper than the divine knowledge he rejects.59

Jealous Gods Penelope suggests as much when she distinguishes her and Odysseus from the gods. “The gods granted us misery,” she tells Odysseus, after he has passed her test, “wondering in jealousy that the two of us, remaining beside one another, should enjoy our youth, and then come to the threshold of old age.”60 The gods possess knowledge of nature, and yet they wonder at the love between Odysseus and Penelope, perhaps because, as Penelope’s reference to old age suggests, knowledge of this enduring love comes through suffering. Human knowledge may be less comprehensive than divine knowledge, but it also may be deeper than the uprooting knowledge of the gods. The suffering inherent to mortality allows human beings to see things that the gods cannot see. Menelaus and Helen provide a helpful foil for Odysseus and Penelope’s mortal and faithful relationship. Not only is Helen notoriously unfaithful to Menelaus, but, when we meet them after their reunion, we find that they are able to remain beside one another in part with the help of Helen’s drugs, which make them forget all ills.61 Her Egyptian medicine is so potent as to make a person blissfully indifferent towards the death of his mother or father, or the murder of his brother or son, even if he were to see it with his own eyes.62 Helen and Menelaus may technically remain together, but, insofar as they pursue a state of self-​imposed forgetfulness, they cannot be said to abide by one another from youth to death, as can be said of Penelope and Odysseus. In fact, as Menelaus explains to Telemachus, they will not accompany one another to death; the gods will convey Menelaus, at least, to the Elysian Field, where there is “no snow, nor much winter there, nor is there ever rain.”63 Menelaus seems to have accepted the offer of immortality that Odysseus rejects, at the cost of his memory and any self-​examination and cross-​examination with Helen that preservation of memory might require. Odysseus and Penelope remember and remain with one

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16  Rachel K. Alexander another, and this incurs jealous wonder from the immortals whose divine knowledge and deathlessness tempt human beings from both memory and love “till death do us part”—​the very human goods that the gods themselves lack.

Notes 1 I am grateful for the generous support for this research provided by the 2019–​20 John and Daria Barry Postdoctoral Research Fellowship that I held at the James Madison Program at Princeton University. I am also grateful to Mary Nichols, Kimberly Hale, and friends at the James Madison Program for their careful reading of this chapter and helpful suggestions to improve it. For a helpful discussion of the “Homeric Question,” see Brann, 4–​9. 2 Il. 1.1–​3, Od. 11, 24.1–​204. Citations of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey are by book and line number and are from Caroline Alexander’s translation of The Iliad and Richard Lattimore’s translation of The Odyssey, with emendations. 3 Od. 11.489–​91, cf. Plato 386a–​387b. 4 Od. 10.495. 5 Od. 1.55–​9. 6 Od. 5.206–​13; cf. Book Eight of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics: “Without friends, no one would choose to live, even if he possessed all other goods” (1155a5–​6). 7 Od. 12.184–​91. 8 Od. 1.3. 9 Od. 1.1–​2. 10 Od. 1.75. 11 Od. 1.74–​5. 12 Od. 9.172–​6. 13 Od. 9.106–​15. 14 Od. 4.245–​50. 15 Od. 6.243. 16 Od. 1.105, 2.268, 13.222, 14.417. As the Muses, in Hesiod’s Theogony, claim to “know how to speak many false things as though they were true [etumos]” (27), so does Homer similarly say of Odysseus, when he speaks to Penelope as though he were a beggar: “He spoke many false things that were like true [etumos] sayings” (Od. 19.203). 17 Od. 9.366. 18 In his book on the Odyssey, Patrick Deneen also highlights the battle between different types of knowledge at work in Odysseus’ journey, framing Odysseus’ rejection of immortality as a choice of the techne or artifice required for political life over the immortals’ immediate and unmediated knowledge of nature. For Deneen, Odysseus does not embrace mortality so much as he recognizes and pursues an immortality available for human beings through the human artifice at work in marriage and political life (32–​58). 19 Od. 9.94–​7. 20 Od. 10.235–​6. 21 Od. 12.39–​46. 22 Od. 1.55–​7. 23 Cf. Aristotle’s De Anima 417a20, 429b25–​430a9. 24 Od. 10.230–​40. 25 Od. 10.287–​306. 26 Od. 10.472–​4. 27 For an insightful and beautiful treatment of the ways in which Odysseus “steadfastly and insistently remember[s]‌that he is a human being (anthrōpos)” in Homer’s Iliad, see Flaumenhaft, 28. 28 Od. 10.490–​1. 29 Od. 10.552–​60, 11.51. 30 Od. 11.66–​73.

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Homer  17 31 Od. 11.202–​3. 32 Od. 11.187–​96. 33 Od. 24.336–​44. 34 Od. 15.356–​7, 361–​71. 35 Od. 15.359–​60. 36 Od. 11.216–​22. 37 Od. 11.223–​4. 38 Od. 11.184–​7. 39 Od. 5.210. 40 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1159a2–​13. 41 Od. 12.184–​91. 42 Od. 7.255–​8. 43 Od. 5.77–​9. 44 Od. 13.312–​13. 45 In his book on the Odyssey, Benardete argues that Odysseus’ rejection of Calypso’s offer entails a rejection of “divine knowledge, to which presumably he would have had permanent access once he took up Calypso’s offer” (36). As an example of this knowledge, Benardete points to the knowledge Calypso shares with Odysseus about the storm that destroyed his last ship (Od. 12.389–​90). 46 As Diomedes remarks before his and Odysseus’ nighttime expedition, “with two going out together one notices before the other where advantage lies; a man alone, even if he is observant, all the same his mind has shorter reach, and his judgment is narrow” (Il. 10.224–​6). Aristotle quotes this passage at the beginning of his discussion of friendship in the Nicomachean Ethics, in which he further examines the fruitful relationship between friendship and the activity of perceiving and philosophizing (1155a16, 1171b33–​1172a8). Homer’s presentation of Odysseus and Penelope, along with Anticlea’s motherly advice, shows that he too understands that two going together has greater scope than the nighttime raid in the Iliad. 47 Od. 11.177–​9. 48 Od. 13.333–​6. 49 Od. 9.172–​6. 50 Od. 24.192–​8. 51 Od. 19.134–​55. 52 Od. 18.158–​62, 281–​3. 53 Od. 19.571–​ 81. Scholars are divided in interpreting the relationship between Odysseus and Penelope. Benardete, on one hand, argues that Penelope plays no role in Odysseus’ homecoming. Odysseus returns to rule and, “keeping [Penelope] in the dark,” does not intend to share any part of that rule (124–​5). Their ultimate reunion in Book 23, Benardete argues, simply marks an “imitation of [their] former marriage” (146). Other scholars, like Brann and Kirby, make the case for Penelope’s centrality to Odysseus’ homecoming, although they disagree about her role. While Kirby identifies “Penelope’s persistent inability—​or insistent refusal—​to recognize Odysseus” as “the final and apparently insuperable obstacle to his homecoming” (38), Brann argues that Penelope recognizes Odysseus “at first sight” (274), but hides her recognition, serving as “co-​ conspirator” to his conquering of the suitors (283). 54 Od. 23.113–​14. 55 Od. 23.177–​9. 56 Od. 23.181. 57 Od. 23.187–​204. 58 Od. 23.288. 59 My reading, which understands Odysseus’ choice to remember and return home to Penelope as constituting a pursuit of self-​knowledge, differs from those of scholars like Benardete, who interprets Odysseus’ rejection of immortality and return home as a choice of “self-​opacity,” since he chooses a future ruled by the gods over one subject neither to fate nor to divinely bestowed glory (40–​1). It also differs from interpretations of scholars like Brann, who interprets Odysseus’ wandering, his odyssey, as central to his pursuit of self-​knowledge, which he must gain before he can return home (116–​17, 149, 171, 175, 195, 249). His detainment in Ogygia, from her perspective,

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60 61 62 63

is not so much a turning point involving his choice as it is an achievement of the solitariness necessary for him to become “teller of his soul’s own tale” (177, 215–​17). Od. 23.210–​12. Od. 4.220–​1. Od. 4.222–​6. Od. 4.567.

References Aristotle. De Anima. Translated by Mark Shiffman. Indianapolis: Focus Publishing, 2010. —​—​—​ Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Robert C. Bartlett and Susan D. Collins. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011. Benardete, Seth. The Bow and the Lyre: A Platonic Reading of the Odyssey. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997. Brann, Eva. Homeric Moments: Clues to Delight in Reading the Odyssey and the Iliad. Philadelphia: Paul Dry Books, 2002. Deneen, Patrick. The Odyssey of Political Theory: The Politics of Departure and Return. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000. Flaumenhaft, Mera J. “The Undercover Hero: Odysseus from Dark to Daylight.” Interpretation 10, no. 1 (1982): 9–​41. Hesiod. Theogony in Hesiod, The Homeric Hymns, and Homerica. Edited and Translated by Hugh G. Evelyn-​White. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914. Homer. The Iliad. Translated by Caroline Alexander. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2015. —​—​—​ The Odyssey. Translated by Richard Lattimore. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2007. Kirby, Margaret. “Recognizing Odysseus: The Role of Signs in Odyssey 19–​23,” in Athens, Arden, Jerusalem: Essays in Honor of Mera Flaumenhaft, 35–​46. Edited by Paul T. Wilford and Kate Havard. New York: Lexington Books, 2017. Plato. Republic. Translated by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1968.

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2  Confucian Authority and the Politics of Caring Li-​Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee

It is inarguable that Confucianism is the most prominent intellectual tradition in Chinese civilization, whose earliest dynastic records stretch back to the Xia dynasty (2070–​1600 B C E ) founded by three sage-​kings: Yao, Shun, and Yu. Their benevolent governance is seen as partly historical and partly didactic by later generations, including Kongzi 孔子, Latinized as Confucius (551–​479 BC E ). Confucius was born in the state of Lu to a minor knight who in his old age took in a young maiden as his concubine. Since his father passed away when Confucius was young, being a son of a concubine, Confucius grew up impoverished, but was keen at learning. The most detailed records that we have of Confucius come from the Analects, a collection of sayings and deeds of Confucius and others compiled by his disciples after Confucius’s death.1 Although Confucius left no writings of his own, many of the ancient classics are said to be compiled by Confucius, including the Shujing (Classic of Documents, the earliest dynastic records stretching back to the Xia dynasty), the Shijing (Classic of Poetry, many of the poems of which were speculated to be composed by women and preserved by Confucius), and the Yijing (Classic of Change with 64 hexagrams, offering guidance for a multitude of affairs). Hence, in the studies of Confucius’s thought, many ancient Classics also become part of the Confucian canon as well. As a political philosophy, the teaching of Confucianism hinges on actualizing benevolent governance (ren zheng 仁政), which starts with the self-​cultivation (xiu shen 修身) of a moral personhood at home; one’s sphere of moral influences is then concentrically radiated from one’s own family, community, state, to the world at large. Confucianism’s one binding thread in interpersonal relationship is reciprocity (shu 恕), and its presumption of human nature is our in-​born goodness (xing shan 性善) and our receptivity to positive social modeling through ritual (li 禮). Confucianism demands the exercise of authority of any kind, both personal and political, to be initially and continuously grounded in one’s capacity to serve and to care for others. In the realm of politics, this Confucian demand is manifested in the call for the ruler or state to care for the people, especially those in vulnerable positions: the young, the old, the sick, and the disabled. Dependency care, in other words, is the crux of Confucian political philosophy and hence, there is much we can learn from Confucianism in dealing with the issue of prolonged dependency and caring for the dependent in our own time.2 In this chapter, I offer a Confucian take on what constitutes a legitimate political authority and its accompanying obligations to care for its political constituents, especially the vulnerable—​the young, the old, the sick, and the disabled—​as a mitigating measure in shifting our attitude toward caring for others. Learning from Confucianism, I understand that caring for the dependent is both an ethical constituent of one’s relational personhood and a political, legitimating benchmark of state authority. My focus on the Confucian DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-3

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20  Li-Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee relational self, and the associated political obligations of dependency, suggests a framework for reorienting our thinking about compassionate care for the members of a community, throughout their life cycle. While this chapter does not offer a sustained meditation on death and the individual self (the focus of so much western philosophical thought), its exploration of the Confucian model of caring and responsibility is a necessary moral counterweight and alternative that can help us address the challenges of prolonged dependency that are incident to prolonged (but finite) lifespans.

A Primer of Confucianism Many contemporary scholars have argued that the term “Confucianism” is an inexact translation of its Chinese counterpart, Ru 儒, which, prior to Confucius, generally refers to classicists or learned literati.3 By Confucius’s times, the term Ru has become increasingly a signifier for a distinct school of thought. After Confucius’s death, Confucius becomes the most prominent thinker in the school of Ru (Ru jia 儒家) distinct from other competing schools of thought, such as the school of Dao (Dao jia 道家) and the school of Mo (Mo jia 墨家). Many of Confucius’s disciples and their subsequent disciples have also achieved canonical status, such as Mencius (372–​289 BC E ) and Xunzi (third century B C E ). In sum, the school of Ru—​or Confucianism as it has been known in the wider world—​is not limited to any singular thinker; instead, it is a complex, long-​running commentary tradition of the various Classics and those who study and teach them. Nevertheless, Confucius occupies a singularly significant place in the school of Ru. Unlike other schools of thought, Confucianism enjoys the backing of the dynastic court as the state orthodox teaching since the Han dynasty (206 B C E to 220 C E ). As early as the second century BCE , civil service exams based on Confucianism were set up as an impartial way to rank the merit of the imperial officials; and by the mid-​seventh century during the Tang dynasty (618–​907 CE ), it was further expanded into an open system to recruit talented and worthy civil servants, both aristocrats and commoners, to serve in the dynastic court and at the provincial level. This merit-​based system—​rarely seen anywhere else in the world during the pre-​modern era—​was used throughout Chinese dynastic history till the last dynasty of Qing (1644–​1912 C E ). In brief, Confucianism is not just an intellectual tradition; in many ways, Confucianism is the official seal of the state political authority seeking to revive and augment the past sage-​kings’ moral vision for the world at large, and hence its focus has been unmistakably pragmatic and this-​worldly.4

Xiao and Relational Personhood Unlike the western liberal model of individualism, Confucianism offers a relational conception of the self whose personhood is deeply entrenched in the intertwining of the self and other; in this model, the answer to the question of “who am I” is never about what the self or the soul by itself constitutes per se, but instead focuses on the human ecology in which one emerges as an ethically, socially, and politically viable being. In other words, Confucian moral personhood presupposes an intra-​and inter-​generational co-​dependency from the very start. Confucianism understands dependency and caring for the dependent—​since caring for others and being cared for are part of the shared human experience—​as inevitable existential givens.5 As Confucius says in the Analects, those who are ren (humane, benevolent)—​the highest Confucian accolade—​in wishing to establish themselves establish others, in wishing to promote themselves promote others (夫仁者, 己欲立而立人, 己欲達而達人); or as says Mencius, those who are ren love others (仁者愛人).6 It is not just that a good person is

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Confucius  21 compassionate and hence seeks to help others. Rather, for Confucius, the sense of self can only be formed in a state of co-​dependency. Without others, Confucius argues, there is no self; the self is always a self with and among others, as the etymology of ren 仁 that is composed of two 二 and person 人 indicates. Hence, to cultivate oneself is to cultivate one’s interpersonal relationships with and among others intra-​and inter-​generationally, and to be ren is to extend one’s familial love and affection to all, albeit through gradations, in the ever widening and overlapping webs of human relations. Unlike the western liberal tradition which focuses on the consent of free, equal, and independent (male) adults who are themselves no longer dependents and are unburdened by the work of caring for others, the relational conception of the Confucian self naturally leads to a different kind of theorizing in dealing with our ethical as well as political obligations to one another intra-​and inter-​generationally. For instance, familial obligation to care for one’s parents when they are infirm is a rare topic in western ethical or political theories that, for the most part, deny such obligation.7 In contrast, caring for others is paramount in Confucian political thought, and xiao 孝(filiality)—​caring for one’s parents and family—​is the most fundamental Confucian virtue. In Confucianism, there are five core social relations, and each relation is anchored by a specific virtue: parent–​child (孝 xiao/​filiality), spousal (别 bie/​functional distinction), siblings (序 xu/​deference), ruler–​subject (義 yi/​righteousness), and friends (信 xin/​ trust).8 While these five social relations are not meant to be exhaustive, they focus our self-​cultivation (xiu shen 修身) on our interpersonal relationships by prioritizing these five core social relations. The parent–​child relation marks the beginning of our moral personhood. As Confucius says in the opening passage of the Xiaojing—​the Classic devoted to explicating the multifaceted meaning of filiality—​xiao is the root of excellence and whence comes the birth of moral education (夫孝, 德之本也, 教之所由生也). And to be xiao, as Confucius continues to say, begins with serving one’s parents, then proceeds to serving one’s ruler, and is completed by the establishment of one’s character (夫孝, 始於事親, 中於事君, 終於立身).9 In other words, to Confucius, how one fares in meeting one’s familial obligations is not irrelevant to, nor distinct from, how one fares in meeting one’s social and political obligations; instead a complete person (chengren 成人), who is ethically, socially, and politically adept, literally grows out of a filial child at home. Personhood for Confucianism is not a matter of listing an array of inward and individual characteristics, rational or otherwise; rather it is a matter of how well various social roles, some given and some acquired, are inhabited throughout one’s lifetime. Familial roles, for the most part, are the first ones that we are given to embody, but the skills we need to inhabit these roles are not given to us by nature; they are learned primarily through the positive social modeling in the parent–​child relation. In other words, the way we are well cared for by our parents provides a positive model for us to make ourselves worthy social companions to others, learning how to be cared for and how to care for others well. The effect of parental care well done goes beyond just helping us to survive our most vulnerable stages in life; it helps shape our dispositions that color the lens through which we encounter the world, and our expectations of how interpersonal relationships, both familial and non-​familial, should take place. These skills that we learn in the parent–​child relation, in short, make the kind of world we anticipate to live in and lay the foundation upon which all other social relations are built. Family and familial relations are the foundation, the inception for all that follows. Hence, the completion of one’s moral personhood starts with one’s skillful embodiment of a filial child at home.10 The totality of one’s personhood, for Confucianism, is a continuous and accumulative process of how one fares in widening and sustaining the overlapping webs of human

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22  Li-Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee relations, traversing the personal, social, and political. The conventional, western, bifurcation of the private and public, the familial and the ethical, or the personal and the political is not a shared background assumption in the Confucian theoretical construction of what an ethical and political subject should look like. Hence, caring for one’s family, especially one’s aging parents, is not just a matter concerning the private, the personal, or the sentimental; rather it is a matter with ethical, social, and political importance.

Ren and Care-​based Political Authority A well-​ordered humane state of ren 仁, for Confucius, builds on a well-​ordered family where the parents are affectionate and the children filial. Filiality is the Confucian response to the perpetual parental care rendered on one’s behalf, especially during one’s infancy and childhood, a time crucial to one’s physical survival and formative to one’s lifelong dispositions. The survival of a newborn requires the utmost attentiveness from the caregivers whose successful care, in turn, requires them to be completely absorbed into the needs of this frail being who is not yet able to verbalize its needs, to express its gratitude, or to indicate its willingness to reciprocate later on. Caring for a newborn is a completely one-​sided affair of self-​sacrifice with delayed and uncertain gratitude that might never come. Nonetheless, affectionate parents give themselves entirely to meeting the needs of their newborn. And that affection and generosity of parenthood toward a newborn is how Confucians see a benevolent state of ren behaving toward its people. It is important to note that the parent–​child relationship is not thus conceived of as a contractual transaction where the parents care for the young with the anticipated return of care in their old age. Confucian xiao goes beyond that. The virtue of xiao is intertwined not just with a sense of gratitude for the actual favors incurred on one’s behalf, but more importantly with the understanding of our inherent interdependency. We do not come into existence by our own sheer will or just with the help of our own immediate family; what we get to enjoy today we owe to those who came before inter-​and intra-​generationally. As says the Chinese proverb, when one drinks the water, one thinks of its source (飲水思源). Hence, in Confucianism, caring for others is not just a matter of a transactional reasoning; instead, we care for others as an act of strengthening this web of relations that sustains us in the first place by paying it forward so that others can also come into existence. Parental care is enacted similarly. Parents care for the newborn with the understanding that they themselves came into existence because someone else had cared for them. This gratitude and understanding of our existential interdependency are then passed down to the next generation and beyond, when the care is reciprocated to one’s aging parents and the care is bestowed on the vulnerable newborn. In fact, according to the school of Mo (Mo jia 墨家), a competing school of thought, the way of Confucians is characterized by their parental devotion to caring for the newborn infant (儒者之, 道古之人『若保赤子』).11 Remarkably, in Confucianism, discussion of caring for the newborn infant occurs not in the context of the so-​called “womanly sphere,” as one might expect in the western tradition, but instead in the context of state governance with the emphasis on the continuum of the family and the state. For in Confucianism, there is no chasm between the personal, the social, and the political; how one behaves at home lays the foundation for how one behaves socially and politically. The metaphor of caring for the newborn infant in state governance is first derived from the Shujing (Classic of Documents) where it is said “if the king tended to the people as if he were tending to his own newborn infant, then the people would be tranquil and orderly” (若保赤子, 惟民其康乂).12 And the way to tend to the newborn infant is to be responsive

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Confucius  23 and sincere. The same passage from the Shujing is further elaborated in the Great Learning (Daxue)—​one of the canonical Confucian Four Books: In the “Kangzhao” (of Shujing) it is said, “Act as if you were watching over an infant.” If one is really responsively sincere, though one may not hit exactly the wants of the infant, one will not be far from doing so (《康誥》曰：「如保赤子」, 心誠求之，雖 不中不遠矣).13 In other words, responsive sincerity is the key to meeting the needs of the vulnerable who cannot help themselves in private as well as in public. Caring for one’s family, starting with one’s newborn, has a radiant effect on the whole state. The caring example starts with the ruler whose efficacious authority hinges on a demonstrated caring capacity for the family and the people; tyrants who care for no one but themselves are often depicted as inviting calamities leading to their own ruin. Hence, the Great Learning concludes with a call for rulers themselves to first demonstrate their due care for their own families before they can teach their subjects to follow suit (宜其家人, 而後可 以教國人). Not only is the chasm between the family and state not present, neither is caring seen as a predominately feminine characteristic. More importantly, providing good care for the most vulnerable is an integral part of the Confucian political discourse, a legitimating benchmark of the state’s authority. A kingly, benevolent state, as said in the Mencius, takes caring for those without the care of a family—​the widower, the widow, the childless, and the orphan—​as its first political consideration (老而無妻曰鰥。老而無夫曰寡。老而無子曰獨。幼而無父曰孤。此四者， 天下之窮民而無告者。文王發政施仁，必先斯四者).14 Xunzi further expands the list of the vulnerable to include the disabled in his discussion of the regulation of a king: Those who have one of the Five Illnesses should be raised up and gathered in so that they can be cared for. They should be given official duties commensurable with their abilities and employment adequate to feed and clothe themselves so that all are included and not even one of them is overlooked (五疾，上收而養之，材而事之，官施而衣食 之，兼覆無遺).15 According to later commentary, the “Five Illnesses” refers to those who have physical or mental disabilities.16 Keep in mind that the political relationship between the ruler and subject in Confucianism is neither contractual, nor a matter of dictatorial paternalism; rather, it is a responsive virtue-​based leadership. In order to rule efficaciously, the rulers must offer themselves as positive social models to care for their own family and to care for the people who cannot care for themselves. Through positive social modeling, the people then are thus moved to care for their own family and one another. Caring for the social dependent is the defining feature of the Confucian state whose political authority is premised, first and foremost, on its caring capacity. Unlike the liberal bifurcation of the family and the state, the private and the public, the autonomous subject and the dependent, the Confucian model provides a relational alternative to cope with the issue of prolonged dependency and caring for the elderly, the sick, and the dying. But to imagine such a Confucian alternative will require a reorientation of not only our individualistic conception of the self to a relational one, but also a shift from our law-​based society to a ritual-​based one where intersubjective relationship is seen as a matter of ritual civility and mutual obligation.

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24  Li-Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee

Li and Social Cohesion Rights-​based states, like western liberal democracies, regulate interpersonal relationships through law, which is general by design and coercive by nature. Hence, interpersonal relationships in the western individual paradigm are essentially impersonal. Law can regulate only external behavior and ensure only external compliance, but by itself, it cannot bring about a harmonious, cohesive society; in fact, law, by necessity, is impersonal, punitive, and reactive. Due to these characteristics, laws and regulations in statecraft have their advantages and drawbacks. As noted by Confucius, Lead the people with administrative injunctions and keep them orderly with penal law, and they will avoid punishments but will be without a sense of shame. Lead them with excellence and keep them orderly through observing ritual propriety and they will develop a sense of shame, and moreover, will order themselves.17 In other words, laws and regulations can define the outer boundaries of human behavior, but they provide no proactive, positive models and appropriate social mechanism for actual self-​transformation to take place. For that to take place, li 禮 (ritual) is required. Confucian li covers both religious and civil rituals, and both religious and civil rituals are solemn in importance and both are also subject to change, albeit conservatively.18 It is this solemnly spiritual as well as pragmatic feature of Confucian li that makes it a proficient vehicle for social cohesion and harmonization. For the most prized function of ritual, as said in the Analects, is harmonization (禮之用, 和為貴).19 The emphasis on li in political discourse is quintessentially, if not uniquely, Confucian, in the Chinese intellectual tradition and as compared to the vast western intellectual traditions. Confucianism sees the overlapping of the personal and the political, and understands that law must be completed by ritual as a necessary component in successful statecraft. In other words, ritual is the necessary ingredient in making governing effective. For law functions like a physical fence demarcating the outer boundaries of human behavior, whereas ritual works as the actual knot that binds us to one another personally, socially, politically, and spiritually. Ritual, in short, is a complex set of social rhythms whose tune, through positive modeling, we have gradually learned to dance to with grace and due measure in our daily encounter with others. Rituals are public performances with socially recognizable scripts, and a ritual script involves various components such as physical object, posture, sentiment, verbal communication, and timing. In a well-​performed ritual, all these elements—​the natural, human, and cosmic worlds—​are brought into harmony and a productive outcome is effected. That is to say, in performing a ritual script, we not only bring our measured inner emotions and desires into synchronicity with our measured outer postures and speeches, but also bring the human community into synchronicity with what the natural world is able to sustainably provide with proper timing and material modesty. To be proficient in ritual performance requires a lengthy training through positive social modeling. Family is the institution where positive social modeling first takes place. In order to raise a filial child, for instance, parents will have to be filial themselves toward their own parents so as to offer themselves as positive models for their children to follow. In the same way, in order to be served well in a civil state, the social superior must first learn to serve others well so as to offer themselves as positive models for their social inferiors to follow. In short, reciprocity 恕, as Confucius says, is the enduring guideline in human conduct (其 恕乎! 己所不欲, 勿施於人).20 Ritual with a concrete social script is the figurative knot that binds us together in a synchronistic harmony born out of internalized positive social modeling starting at home and radiating into society at large.

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Confucius  25 Guided by reciprocity, ritual serves specifically to provide a refined, measured, and sustainable outlet for human emotions and to meet human desires such as for food or shelter. As explained in the Liji (Record of Rites), we are born with seven dispositions (人情)—​joy, anger, grief, fear, love, hate, and desire (喜怒哀懼愛惡欲七者)—​and the sages use ritual to enhance or moderate these untaught human dispositions in order to govern well (故聖人 所以治人七情，修十義，講信修睦，尚辭讓，去爭奪，舍禮何以治之？).21 These seven untaught human dispositions are further conceptualized as an uncultivated field in need of ritual as the first facilitating instrument that makes a productive and sustainable garden possible (故人情者，聖王之田也, 修禮以耕之).22 Without ritual, our inborn dispositions might not yield a productive outcome, just like an uncultivated field, whose future harvesting is uncertain, lies wasted at the mercy of chance. In contrast, with ritual one takes the first step toward the sustainable ownership of one’s inborn dispositions in this mutually enriching, communal garden. To govern without ritual, as the Liji continues to explain, is like ploughing the field without a share (故治國不以禮， 猶無耜而耕也).23 Ritual is essential to governance, just as ploughing is to the field; without the former, nothing productive can come of the latter. Ritual provides a structured and refined social outlet for us to express our emotions and to meet our basic needs such as material comforts. In times of great adversity such as when facing death or mourning for one’s family, excessive grief can be harmful to oneself and to one’s surviving loved ones. Mourning ritual, for instance, is able to provide an appropriate outlet for one to mourn while at the same time to guard against a complete self-​abandonment to bereavement. That refining and cultivating function of ritual is what enables us to derive a more favorable outcome from our natural dispositions. Ritual, in other words, is like a levee (fang 坊) that helps channel our flow of emotions and desires to a greater and helpful outcome.24 And since ritual is a public performance, to cultivate one’s natural dispositions through ritual will require others to offer themselves as positive social models, as it were, to help plough the field of our natural dispositions in hopes of a greater harvesting in this mutually enriching, communal garden.

Datong and the Great Community The metaphor of a communal garden as a way to envision the interdependency of human ecology is instructive. Since Confucianism understands personhood as a process, from which an ethically, socially, and politically adept person will emerge, one must properly attend to the field of human dispositions with a wide range of social cooperation. First, those who come before must plough the field and provide themselves as positive models for the seeds of virtue to be planted, and then there must be continuing instruction and schooling to further enable others to optimize the seeded field. When the time comes for harvesting, as says the Liji, one harvests the fruits with generosity to share and to celebrate the harvest with music to give repose to all in this community garden (本仁以聚之，播樂以安之).25 On the flip side, if the field is neglected or no positive social model is initially provided, whether or not the field yields any fruits at all will only be a matter of chance. In a civil society, we all are reliant on the communal garden to survive and to thrive. We owe the fruits that we enjoy today to the works of the previous generation, and what seeds get to be planted in the field will depend on our willingness to give ourselves as positive models to plough and maintain this communal garden for generations to come. If one acknowledges that the roots of self and others are all depending on the same plot of communal land that feeds all, then the goal for each will not be to grow as big and overshadowing to others as possible, since a depleted soil impoverishes all who grow in it. Cooperation, generosity, and material modesty take precedence in the Confucian utopia of a Great Community (datong 大同).

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26  Li-Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee As written in the Liji, Confucius recounts a time past “when the great dao prevailed” (大道之行也) and the world was a harmonious unity.26 Datong is the highest political aspiration for Confucians, an idealized state that safeguards its vulnerable members, including the aged, the ill, and the dying. In this idyllic Great Community, one not only cares for one’s family, but also cares for others; therefore, those without the care of family are not left behind. The realization of this idyllic community is, in part, dependent on our willingness to go beyond narrow concerns of our own selves or our immediate families, in order to also care for others, especially the vulnerable—​the old, the young, the sick, and the disabled (矜寡孤獨廢疾者, 皆有所養).27 To build this idyllic Confucian Great Community requires a different conception of the self, a self that is at its core porous to others so that each is constitutive of the other from the start of each’s personhood. The cultivation of Confucian moral personhood starts with xiao, which in turn requires the parents to offer themselves as positive models to their children first in order for them to learn how to be cared for and how to care for others well. Similarly, to be served well, the rulers themselves first have to be the positive social models for their subjects by caring for their own family well and by caring for the subjects, especially the vulnerable ones, well. Each of us came into the world through the work of others, not just for our physical survival, but also for the sort of dispositions we inhabit. Through li, our natural dispositions are shaped and channeled into a greater, helpful outcome where we learn to dance to the tune of a complex set of social rhythms with grace and due measure, in harmony and with material modesty. Ritual binds us and deepens our understanding of the interdependency of human ecology where the making of oneself initially, and in a large part, depends on the attentive generosity of others inter-​and intra-​generationally. The wellbeing of the self, hence, at its very outset is not just an individual concern of self-​happiness, but a larger relational issue where the self and the other must be addressed simultaneously, with the resultant Great Harmony for all.

Conclusion The Confucian relational self is much closer to our existential experience of the self than the western individualistic self that is wholly in possession of himself. Hence, the Confucian self is much better positioned to address our existential challenges—​such as caring for others or being cared for as we move through different stages of life. Dealing with the issue of prolonged dependency in our time will require more than sufficient financial resources. It will also require a reorientation of our conception of the self, what a desirable society should look like, and where the political authority lies so that a more inclusive and compassionate society can be built. Confucianism offers a framework for caring for others, starting with one’s family and extending more generally to the young, the old, the sick, and the disabled. The health of our communal garden should concern us all and requires all of us to attend to it by offering ourselves as positive models to plough the field and to plant the seeds of virtue for future harvesting. With attentive generosity and material modesty, we will be able to continue to live and die, and most of all to share and thrive in this great garden of ours.

Notes 1 For Chinese intellectual history, see De Bary et al. For the translation of the Analects, see Ames and Rosemont. 2 For Confucius’s view of death and mourning rituals, see Olberding, “Consummation of Sorrow” and “I Know Not ‘Seems’.” 3 For the origin of Ru, see Jensen; and Rosenlee, Confucianism and Women.

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Confucius  27 4 In North America and Europe, Confucianism is usually taught as a religion or ethnic study instead of philosophy. For the systematic exclusion of non-​western philosophy from the history of philosophy and its racist lineage, see Park; and Rosenlee, “Revisionist History.” 5 For feminist care ethics and its critiques of the western political paradigms, see Noddings; Kittay; Held; and Rosenlee, “Feminism and Multiculturalism.” 6 Analects 6:30; Mencius 4B3. 7 Aristotle might be one exception who explicitly discusses adult children’s obligation to care for their parents as a way to repay the actual favors incurred on one’s behalf (Nicomachean Ethics, 1164b4–​5). For contemporary scholarship, see English; Sommers; Dixon; Ivanhoe; and Rosenlee, “Why Care?” 8 Mencius 3A4. 9 Xiaojing, Ch. 1. 10 On the effects of parental care, see Olberding, “I Know Not ‘Seems’.” 11 Mencius 3A5. 12 Shujing, “Kangzhao” chapter. 13 The Confucian Four Books refers to the Analects, the Mencius, the Great Learning (Daxue), and the Zhongyong. 14 Mencius 1B5. 15 Xunzi 9.1. 16 Watson, 34. 17 Analects 2.3. 18 For a brief account of Confucian rituals where the secular and the sacred overlap, see Fingarette. 19 Analects 1.12. 20 Analects 15.24. 21 Liji, “Liyun” chapter. 22 Liji, “Liyun” chapter. 23 Liji, “Liyun” chapter. 24 For a detailed study of Confucian rituals, see Ing. 25 Liji, “Liyun” chapter. 26 Liji, “Liyun” chapter. 27 Liji, “Liyun” chapter.

References Ames, Roger and Henry Rosemont. The Analects of Confucius: A Philosophical Translation. New York: Ballantine Books, 1999. De Bary, William T., Irene Bloom, Wing-​tsit Chan, Joseph Adler, and Richard J. Lufrano. Sources of Chinese Tradition, vols. I–​II. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. Dixon, Nicholas. “The Friendship Model of Filial Obligations.” Journal of Applied Philosophy 12, no. 1 (1995): 77–​87. English, Jane. “What do Grown Children Owe Their Parents?” In Vice and Virtue in Everyday Life: Introductory Readings in Ethics. Edited by Christina Sommers and Fred Sommers, 682–​9. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich Publishers, 1979/​1989. Fingarette, Herbert. Confucius: The Secular as Sacred. Long Grove: Waveland Press, 1998. Great Learning (Da Xue). The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​liji/​da-​xue. Held, Virginia. The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Ing, Michael David Kaulana. The Dysfunction of Ritual in Early Confucianism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Ivanhoe, Philip. “Filial Piety as a Virtue.” In Working Virtue: Virtue Ethics and Contemporary Moral Problems. Edited by Rebecca L. Walker and Philip J. Ivanhoe, 297–​312. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Jensen, Lionel M. Manufacturing Confucianism: Chinese Traditions and Universal Civilization. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Kittay, Eva Feder. Love’s Labor: Essays on Women, Equality, and Dependency. New York: Routledge, 1999. Liji. The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​liji.

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28  Li-Hsiang Lisa Rosenlee Mencius (Mengzi). The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​mengzi. Noddings, Nel. Caring: A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Olberding, Amy. “I Know Not ‘Seems.’ ” In Morality in Traditional Chinese Thought. Edited by Amy Olberding and Philip J. Ivanhoe, 153–​75. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2011. —​—​—​. “The Consummation of Sorrow: An Analysis of Confucius’ Grief for Yan Hui.” Philosophy East and West 54, no. 3 (July 2004): 279–​301 Park, Peter. Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy: Racism in the Formation of the Philosophical Canon, 1780–​1830. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2013. Rosenlee, Li-​Hsiang Lisa. “A Revisionist History of Philosophy.” Journal of World Philosophies 5, no.1 (2020): 121–​37. —​—​—​ Confucianism and Women: A Philosophical Interpretation. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. —​—​—​. “Feminism and Multiculturalism Revisited: A Hybridized Confucian Care.” In Bloomsbury Handbook of Chinese Philosophy and Gender Studies. Edited by Ann Pang-​ White, 157–​ 72. New York: Bloomsbury, 2016. —​—​—​“Why Care? A Feminist Re-​appropriation of Confucian Xiao.” In Dao Companion to the Analects. Edited by Amy Olberding, 311–​34. New York: Springer Press, 2014. Shujing (Shang Shu). The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​shang-​shu. Sommers, Christina. “Philosophers against the Family.” In Vice and Virtue in Everyday Life: Introductory Readings in Ethics. Edited by Christina Sommers and Fred Sommers, 728–​54. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich Publishers, 1989. Watson, Burton. Hsun Tzu: Basic Writings. New York: Columbia University Press, 1963. Xiaojing (Xiao Jing). The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​xiao-​jing. Xunzi. The Chinese Text Project. https://​ctext.org/​xunzi.

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3  “Every Form of Death” Thucydides on Death’s Political Presence Daniel Schillinger

Death looms large in Thucydides’ (460–​400 B C E ) History.1 As a political historian whose subject is the twenty-​seven-​year war (431–​404 B C E ) between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, Thucydides necessarily depicts and analyzes widespread death and destruction. Yet it would be more precise to say that Thucydides chose to “write up” the war not least because of its unmatched destructiveness.2 In Thucydides’ own words: “never had so many cities been captured and destroyed … never had so many people been driven from their countries or killed, either in the war itself or as a result of civil strife.”3 Thucydides eagerly attends to the atrocities and calamities of warfare, which are otherwise sidelined, to a great extent, in the history of political thought. Thucydides’ attention to war, suffering, and political collapse may lead the reader to wonder why Thucydides does not, like other classical political thinkers, offer a vision of the flourishing individual and city. Where are the characteristic discussions of the best regime, the best practicable regime, the best way of life for the individual, and the definition of justice that we find in Plato’s Republic and Laws and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Politics? In my view, Thucydides anticipates later anti-​utopian thinkers, who self-​consciously refuse to take their bearings from imaginations or professions of the political best, focusing instead on the operation of efficacious power. Among these are Niccolò Machiavelli, Thomas Hobbes, and Friedrich Nietzsche, themselves readers and admirers of Thucydides.4 Nietzsche, for example, casts Thucydides as the original political realist, the first political thinker to theorize power by itself, untainted by the delusional hopes for justice that mark Platonic and Biblical thought—​and all thought derived from those two sources. According to Nietzsche, if you feel the pull of utopian longings within yourself, then you need a certain bitter medicine—​namely, to read Thucydides’ History.5 Thucydides may be the most thoroughgoing realist of all, since he, unlike Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Nietzsche, does not write to remake the political world. Thucydides foregrounds death, then, because the cultivation of judgment requires accurate understanding of the whole of political life, including its dark side. Rather than trade pleasing stories for approval or influence in the manner of a poet such as Homer, a demagogue such as the Athenian leader Cleon, or a fabulist historian such as Herodotus, Thucydides proclaims that his war narrative will be both “accurate” and “useful” and “a possession for all time” as a result.6 A former Athenian statesman himself, exiled in 424 B C E for failing to prevent the revolt of Amphipolis, an Athenian tributary ally, Thucydides offers would-​be political leaders among his readers an unvarnished account of political life that lingers on the level of brute facts and refuses to cover over unpleasantness or complexity.7 In fact, Thucydides devotes himself precisely to the depiction and analysis of calamities that appear to be as horrific and as fatal as they are difficult to explain in full—​for example, the plague at Athens and civil war at Corcyra. In sum, Thucydides eschews moralism and systematicity because he aims to cultivate a kind of judgment that is attuned in a quasi-​tragic DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-4

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30  Daniel Schillinger mode to unexpected disasters—​to the many forms of death and destruction—​that shape political life. This Thucydidean education also checks the tendency of Athenian citizens, if not of all citizens, toward self-​aggrandizement and self-​justification by highlighting the many ignominious deaths that the Athenians cause and suffer themselves in the course of the war.

Pericles’ Funeral Oration Yet the most well-​ known passage in the History—​ the Funeral Oration delivered by Thucydides’ Pericles—​might seem to be anti-​tragic, even utopian. Not only is this speech the most famous in Thucydides’ text, but it is also the most famous speech to have survived from classical antiquity, at least in the judgment of the classicist Paul Woodruff.8 As many scholars have observed, in fact, one can hear echoes of the Funeral Oration in Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address.”9 Pericles’ speech has also informed philosophical defenses of political action in the twentieth century—​in the work of Hannah Arendt, for example. Following Arendt, at least initially, we can approach the speech as a beautiful defense of political action in general and of Athenian democratic citizenship in particular.10 According to Pericles, democracy means rule by the people, for the people.11 In Athens, all citizens are equal before the law; the outcomes of lawsuits do not hinge on social status. Although many offices in Athens are filled by sortition, when the Athenians appoint office-​ holders through election (as they do their generals, for example), they forget about wealth and think only of the citizen’s virtue.12 Pericles also emphasizes the idea of freedom—​the freedom to participate in public life and to live as one pleases in private life.13 This freedom is compatible with lawfulness: for all their liberality, the Athenians fear breaking the law.14 To hear Pericles tell it, Athens squares the political circle by integrating into the democracy practices and virtues usually held to be irreconcilable: equality and meritocracy, reverence for the law and freedom to pursue pleasure in private, the activities of speech and those of action. The “both/​and” syntax of Pericles’ speech—​the Athenians have both this and this—​achieves its peak in a well-​known line: “We are lovers of nobility with restraint, and lovers of wisdom without any softening of character.”15 Athens has both philosophers and warriors. But how, exactly, does participation in the life of the city benefit the individual Athenian? In Pericles’ own words: “In sum, I say that our city as a whole is a lesson for Greece, and that each of us presents himself as a self-​sufficient individual, disposed to the widest possible diversity of actions, with every grace and great versatility.”16 According to Pericles, democratic Athens is kallipolis, the beautiful and best city, a regime that cultivates the full humanity of its citizens and promotes their flourishing. Athenian democratic politics educates its citizens to virtue—​in particular, deliberative rationality and courage.17 The Athenians learn how to think for themselves through deliberating in the assembly; and they courageously carry out what they plan.18 On the one hand, we can say that Pericles is not simply boasting: in their speech at Sparta in Book 1, the Corinthians had presented the Athenians as a whirlwind of thought and action—​in contrast to the Spartans, whose ignorance the Spartan King Archidamus had freely admitted and defended.19 The kinetic energy of the Athenians arises out of their unique combination of daring and deliberation. Thus, the commemoration of death is an occasion to reflect on the distinctive virtues of the Athenian people. On the other hand, the Funeral Oration strikes a triumphalist note at odds with its dismal subject and circumstances. Pericles issues a clarion call to his fellow citizens: die for Athens, and you, like Achilles, will win “praise … that will never grow old” and have as your

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Thucydides  31 monument “all the earth,” especially “the unwritten record of the mind … even in foreign lands, better than any gravestone.”20 But whereas Homer’s Achilles agonizes over his tragic choice between a long and undistinguished life or a short and glorious one, Pericles insists that the choice is easy.21 “Any man of intelligence will hold that death, when it comes unfelt to a man at full strength and with hope for his country, is not so bitter as miserable defeat for a man grown soft.”22 And whereas Herodotus’ Solon had advised the Lydian King Croesus to consider no man happy until he is dead (on account of the many reversals of fortune that beset human beings ruled by jealous gods), Pericles suggests that the individual Athenian, by choosing to die in battle on behalf of Athens, cuts off the possibility of future reversals and secures a good end for himself.23 Pericles’ promise, more precisely, is that democratic Athens will save the individual from oblivion by incorporating him into the collective greatness of the city. So choiceworthy is death in battle for Athenians that Pericles insists that such a death comes “unperceived” or “unfelt.”24 Nor should family members feel much grief for their lost sons, husbands, and brothers: to the parents of the dead, Pericles offers not condolences, but rather “good cheer.”25 These discordant remarks are accentuated by the end of the speech—​Pericles’ command that the women of Athens stop lamenting, that they be silent and absent.26 Perhaps most disturbing of all, Pericles commands his audience, to “look … at the power our city shows in action every day, and so become lovers (erastai) of Athens.”27 Is it really appropriate that citizens redirect their sexual longing toward politics in general and toward the greatness of empire in particular? Wherever one lands on that question, Pericles’ remarks on death, grief, and eros suggest a radical depreciation of the body, the family, and the household.28 Pericles’ utopian vision of Athens was and remains alluring; it is not for nothing that Thucydides assigns to Pericles soaring praise of the Athenian democratic regime. Evidently,  Thucydides wants to make a strong case on behalf of Athens.29 Viewed as a whole, however, Thucydides’ History questions the Periclean vision, if it does not explode it altogether.30 When the Athenians died during the war, their deaths were often inglorious, even pathetic; and they experienced terrible bodily suffering. What is more, the city for which they died was less worthy of their devotion than Pericles had thought or said, not least because of the gruesome deaths that the Athenians frequently and unjustly inflicted upon others. Death is a useful leitmotif for deflating Pericles’ Funeral Oration and for appreciating Thucydides’ more somber political perspective—​a perspective that calls into question Pericles’ radical depreciation of the body and private life and his corresponding inflation of the Athenian democracy and empire.

The Plague at Athens Thucydides moves directly from Pericles’ Funeral Oration to his analysis of the plague at Athens. The contrast is stark: Athens as cosmopolis in Pericles’ Funeral Oration turns into Athens as necropolis in Thucydides’ commentary on the plague. Indeed, we can think of Thucydides’ plague narrative as an instance of the genre that Bernard Williams has dubbed “stark fictions,” literary works that hold up for contemplation the most “extreme, undeserved, and uncompensated suffering.”31 Although Williams has in mind Greek tragedies, and especially the tragedies of Sophocles, he also associates Thucydides and Sophocles as the two pre-​Nietzschean thinkers who directly challenge the belief that “somehow or other, in this life or the next, morally if not materially, as individuals or as an historical collective, we shall be safe; or, if not safe, at least reassured that at some level of the world’s constitution there is something to be discovered that makes ultimate sense of our concerns.”32 Thucydides’ commentary on the plague reveals the quasi-​tragic core of his political thought.33

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32  Daniel Schillinger More precisely, within the context of Book 2 of the History, Thucydides invites the reader to test Pericles’ utopian vision of Athens against the degeneration of the city brought about by the plague during the very same year. To adapt Josiah Ober’s useful interpretative framework to my own argument, Thucydides Histor implicitly criticizes Pericles Theoretikos.34 While Pericles had promised the transmutation of individual bodily pain and loss into resplendent collective glory, the plague shatters the Athenian people, throwing them back on their private corporeal suffering. Thucydides spares us none of the gory details. Since he had the plague himself, he writes about the symptoms at length, using the precise language of Hippocratic medicine: fever, bloodshot eyes, throat and tongue sore to the point of bleeding, sneezing, coughing, shortness of breath, vomiting, retching, blisters, sores, insomnia, ulcers, diarrhea, the loss of extremities and genitals, and amnesia.35 He makes clear that most people who contracted this disease—​whatever it was—​died. It is the destructiveness of the plague rather than Pericles’ utopian vision of Athenian politics and empire that elicits Thucydides’ commentary. In fact, at the beginning of his plague narrative, he alludes to his comment at the beginning of the work about the war’s superlative destructiveness: “no one could remember a disease that was so great or so destructive of human life.”36 In a war remarkable for its destruction and suffering, the plague at Athens is the single event that causes the greatest number of deaths.37 Writing about the plague, Thucydides makes a number of lasting points about the role of death in political life. First, the vulnerability of the individual human body, its susceptibility to terrible suffering and death, poses a severe challenge to collectivist political projects that aim to deny the significance of private suffering and grief. Even if public glory may be equally distributed throughout the political community (and it is not clear that it can be), bodily suffering, death, and grief are irreducibly singular, private: the Athenians’ “community of pleasures and pains,” to borrow a concept from Plato’s Republic, crumbles in the face of calamity.38 Indeed, many deaths as a result of the plague were lonely affairs. At the same time, Thucydides suggests that the best Athenians voluntarily exposed themselves to suffering and death in order to care for the sick: “the doctors themselves died fastest”; likewise, “one person would get infected as a result of caring for another so that they died in droves like sheep.”39 This is a tragic insight that runs directly counter to the Periclean promise of a superlative reward—​everlasting glory—​for virtue: in a world of war, the virtuous tend to suffer most and to die young. Later in the narrative, at the conclusion of the disastrous Sicilian expedition (415–​413 B C E ), Thucydides makes a similar point in his so-​called eulogy of Nicias: “he was killed, a man who, of all the Greeks in my time, least deserved such a misfortune, since he had regulated his whole life in the cultivation of virtue.”40 Nicias’ cultivation of ethical virtue and piety availed him little: it did not result in his being a capable commander, that is, in his possession of political virtue; nor did it protect him from a brutal and inglorious death in Syracuse, executed by his enemies after the destruction of his forces. In contrast to the author himself, many of Thucydides’ characters are like Nicias—​ desperate to believe that they live in a cosmos that supports justice by rewarding the virtuous or at least shielding them from ruin. Even the sophisticated Athenians, who frequently make arguments about the severely limited sway of justice in political life, often reveal their Nician side. Strikingly, during the plague, which might seem to be an amoral natural disaster, the Athenians took great pains to understand and justify their fate. It is well-​ known that the plague produced “great lawlessness” in Athens according to Thucydides.41 While one would be forgiven for supposing that it was the prospect of imminent death which led the Athenians to become lawless, Thucydides shows, paradoxically, that the Athenians’ acculturated preoccupation with justice, human and divine, contributed to their

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Thucydides  33 lawlessness: “No one was held back in awe, either by fear of the gods or by the laws of men … But they thought that a far greater sentence hung over their heads now, and that before this fell they had a reason to get some pleasure in life.”42 Having been sentenced to die, the Athenians decided that they might as well commit some crimes.43 Transgressive action can provide comfort when so acting props up the belief in a cosmos, a universe that makes sense of and safeguards human life. For Thucydides’ Athenians, capital punishment meted out by the gods is less terrifying than the indiscriminate death of the innocent along with the guilty under a godless sky.

Corcyrean Civil War The longest commentary in the work—​ longer even than Thucydides’ remarks on the plague—​treats the civil war at Corcyra. Clifford Orwin argues, persuasively, that the two passages go together: both are unusual in their focus on internal political life as opposed to war among cities; and both concern political collapse.44 In 427 B C E , the island of Corcyra (modern-​day Corfu) degenerated into factional conflict and full-​blown civil war. Thucydides depicts the extreme violence committed by the rival factions, the democratic and oligarchic Corcyreans. As Thucydides puts it: Every form of death was seen at this time; and (as tends to happen in such cases) there was nothing people would not do, and more: fathers killed their sons; men were dragged out of temples and then killed hard by; and some who were walled up in the temple of Dionysus died inside it.45 In other words, neither the attachments of family nor the demands of piety protected the Corcyreans from death at the hands of their enemies. According to one common line of interpretation, Thucydides uses this episode to show the importance of “law and order”: in its absence, human beings succumb to their own worst impulses—​as in the state of nature theorized by Hobbes.46 But could the absence of “law and order” really motivate fathers to kill their own sons? On the contrary, for Thucydides, factional conflict (stasis) is defined not by an absence of politics, but by a surfeit of it. Fathers killed their sons in Corcyra because, in Thucydides’ own words, “family ties were not so close as those of factions, because their members would readily dare to do anything on the slightest pretext.”47 Loyalty to faction and hatred of the enemy swallowed all other human attachments and conventions. Whereas for Hobbes civil war refers to the utter absence or breakdown of political order, for Thucydides, civil war refers to the perverse totalization of political life. So all-​consuming was civil war at Corcyra that it fundamentally altered the way Corcyreans communicated with others and understood themselves. Most famously, according to Thucydides, Corcyrean civil war corrupted the language of the virtues. Corcyreans came to esteem reckless violence and to disdain courage. What was formerly praised as self-​control appeared, in the context of civil war, to indicate an absence of partisan zeal; perversely, the most extreme individuals were praised for their self-​control.48 Note that, on a precise reading of Thucydides’ argument, it is not the meanings of the words themselves that have changed, but rather the Corcyreans’ estimation or evaluation of them.49 In the absence of trust and a common ethical framework, the democratic and oligarchic Corcyreans were more like opposing armies than fellow citizens; in a beautiful, haunting line, Thucydides writes that “their thoughts were in battle array.”50 Faction had changed them. In fact, the civil war at Corcyra would never abate; later in the text we learn that the Corcyreans instead killed one another down to the last man.51

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34  Daniel Schillinger The Corcyreans thus became murderers—​not because they were fundamentally evil people, but because their circumstances, like those of Sophocles’ Oedipus, pushed them to err. On this point, Thucydides anticipates Sigmund Freud, who would later write of the atrocities committed by ordinary Europeans during World War I: We may already derive one consolation from this discussion: our mortification and painful disillusionment on account of the uncivilized behavior of our fellow-​citizens of the world during this war were unjustified. They were based on an illusion to which we had given way. In reality our fellow-​citizens have not sunk so low as we feared, because they had never risen so high as we believed.52 No less than Freud, Thucydides taps the circumstances of war, including the larger war between Athens and Sparta, as that which infects the Corcyreans with the readiness, if not the capacity, to murder family members and neighbors. Although Thucydides in no way excuses people who commit atrocities, neither does he excoriate them. Their particular crimes strike him as less important than the corruption of the Hellenic world brought about by the war, that “violent teacher,” which taught human beings to indulge their capacity for violence.53 Whether Thucydides would agree with Freud that these reflections provide “consolation” is another question. Perhaps they are true—​but nonetheless terrible.

Atrocities Thucydides’ History features many atrocities. The Athenians’ annihilation of the tiny island of Melos (416 B C E ) is the most notorious: it remains a stock example of the weakness of justice in guiding affairs among nations.54 But the Athenians did the same to Scione (423 BC E ), though Thucydides curtly reports this atrocity without comment and almost in passing: “At about the same time this summer, the Athenians took Scione by siege, killed all the adult males, took the women and children into slavery, gave the land to the Plataeans to occupy.”55 Moreover, while the Athenian statesman Diodotus had succeeded in persuading the citizen assembly not to execute the entire population of Mytilene (427 B C E ), he did not even attempt to save the oligarchic faction of that city—​a full one thousand men whom the Athenians readily executed.56 In addition, way back in the first year of the war, the Athenians had captured Spartan heralds, executed them, and dumped their bodies.57 Even this event was not a beginning point of Athenian atrocities. At least, according to Herodotus, the Athenians had murdered Persian heralds of Darius in the same way a generation earlier.58 Murder—​including the murder of innocent heralds, who were supposed to be protected by conventions of hospitality and warfare—​is almost an Athenian tradition.59 One possibility, then, is that the Athenians are uniquely unjust and brutal. What the Corcyreans do to one another the Athenians do to all Hellenes. That the Athenians themselves embrace a hardheaded view of rule might seem to support this view. The Athenian envoys to Sparta, Pericles, Cleon, Diodotus, the Athenian envoys to Melos, and Alcibiades all argue, albeit with important variations, that it is natural for human beings, and perhaps even for the gods, to rule to the limits of their power; moreover, what it is natural and hence compulsory to do, one must be excused for so doing.60 For example, the Athenian envoys to Melos say to the leaders of Melos: “Nature always compels gods (we believe) and men (we are certain) to rule over anyone they can control.”61 Worse, many of these Athenian leaders insist on their virtue, including their justice and moderation. The Athenian envoys to Sparta thus suggest that the Athenians “deserve to be praised” for exhibiting “more justice [and

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Thucydides  35 moderation] than they have to” in their rule over their subject cities.62 Having committed atrocities for the sake of empire, the Athenians have the gall to praise themselves. In particular, the movement from the Melian Dialogue at the very end of Book 5 to the Sicilian expedition in Books 6 and 7 might suggest that the Athenians are uniquely unjust in Thucydides’ view—​and that their injustice elicits a corresponding punishment.63 This is a classic Thucydidean transition, which seems to carry thematic significance, much like the movement from Funeral Oration to plague. Having destroyed the Melians, the Athenians are themselves destroyed in Sicily. The final lines of Book 7 emphasize the complete reversal of fortune: They were utterly vanquished on all points, and none of their losses was small. It was “total destruction” as the saying is, for the army and navy alike. There was nothing that was not lost, and few out of many returned home. This is what happened on Sicily.64 Perhaps the Athenians get their comeuppance. Yet this moralistic account is too simple. For Thucydides, not injustice but error explains the disaster in Sicily; crucially, the expedition could have succeeded. Thucydides offers this judgment in his eulogy of Pericles: “these mistakes led to many others, such as the voyage against Sicily, which was due not so much to mistaking the power of those they attacked, as it was to bad decisions on the part of the senders”—​especially, Thucydides implies, the removal of Alcibiades, the Athenians’ most able commander.65 Irrespective of the Athenians’ injustice, they could have conquered Sicily and won the war. Nor can the Athenians be considered uniquely unjust: atrocity and self-​justification (in bad faith) are ubiquitous in Thucydides’ text. The Athenians’ enemies, the Spartans, indisputably sink to the Athenians’ level of brutal violence and rank hypocrisy, if they do not fall even lower. For example, the Athenians’ butchery of the Melians corresponds to the Spartans’ butchery of the Plataeans (427 BCE ). Perhaps the latter is worse, as the Spartans subject the Plataeans to a kind of show trial, even though they have already decided to massacre them at the behest of the Thebans.66 The most notorious Spartan atrocity in the war is their murder of some two thousand Helot slaves. Thucydides reports that Spartans once invited the Helots to pick out the two thousand best among them—​in particular, those who had fought most valiantly for Sparta—​with the promise that these men would receive their freedom. “The Spartans, however, soon afterwards did away with them, and no one ever knew how each perished.”67 Nor could one argue, finally, that the Athenians and Spartans, as the two great powers in Greece, have been uniquely corrupted by their power; for even weaker peoples commit atrocities. Arguably the most pathetic episode in the entire History is the massacre by Thracian mercenaries of the boys attending school in the small Greek city of Mycalessus (413 BC E ).68 Of this massacre Thucydides writes: “everywhere confusion reigned and every form of death”; it was an event “unapproached by any in suddenness and horror.”69 The phrase, “every form of death,” points back to Thucydides’ commentary on Corcyrean civil war, and suggests that the conclusions we drew about the Corcyreans—​that the war unleashed their latent capacity for violence—​apply to all human beings during war, Greeks and “barbarians” alike.

Conclusion Viewed as a whole, Thucydides’ History is the true Funeral Oration of Athens, which, in contrast to Pericles’ Funeral Oration, eulogizes the precarity of the Athenian democracy and indeed of all decent regimes amid disasters such as plague and war. While the

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36  Daniel Schillinger plague at Athens is a natural disaster, the chief cause of death during the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians is human action. The History is rife with atrocities; whereas the conventions of family and piety usually restrain human beings in times of peace, war overwhelms the sub-​and supra-​political limits on political strife. Death’s political presence also has psychological implications, perverting the conceptual vocabulary of the virtues as human beings struggle to justify their cruel actions and terrible ends. Remember, on this point, Thucydides’ commentary on the plague: as much as the Athenians feared death itself, what really gnawed at them was the meaninglessness of death caused by the plague. By contrast, Thucydides, who is otherwise preoccupied with identifying the best explanations of the war, refuses to explain the plague, compelling the reader to inhabit its destructiveness, the omnipresence of death in Athens, without relief. And this he does for the reader’s own benefit—​that is, to educate his or her judgment for understanding and acting within a world of war, calamity, and atrocity. In particular, because war is normal rather than exceptional, Thucydides pushes would-​be political leaders and students of political life to strip away their illusions about politics at its best, and to grapple instead with the tragic circumstances that surround them in fact.

Notes 1 Thucydides’ text has no title; I follow the useful convention of referring to it as the History. Also note that we do not know the exact dates of Thucydides’ birth and death. 2 1.23.2. References to Thucydides are by book, chapter, and line numbers as appropriate. My own translations and transliterations refer to the Oxford Classical Text, edited by Jones and revised by Powell. I use the translation of Woodruff, Thucydides on Justice, wherever possible. Because Woodruff has only translated selected passages, I also turn to Mynott, Thucydides, modifying his translation as necessary. I have also consulted the commentaries of Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover; and of Hornblower. 3 1.23.2 4 See Polansky for an excellent account of both Nietzsche’s Thucydides and the literature on Thucydides’ realism and its legacy. 5 Nietzsche, 117–​18. 6 1.22.2–​4. 7 Connor, 236: “The text leads the reader back to events and individuals, not away toward abstractions and dogmas. It respects rather than reduces the complexity of events… .” 8 Woodruff, 39. 9 Orwin, Humanity, 26–​7; Wills, 41–​63; Stow. 10 Arendt, 175–​247; see also Loraux. 11 2.37.1. 12 2.37.1. 13 2.37.2. 14 2.37.3. 15 2.40.1. See Manville, 73–​84; Balot, Courage, 28. 16 2.40.1. 17 2.40.3. 18 On these points, see Balot, Courage, 25–​46. 19 See 1.70 and 1.84. 20 2.43.2–​3. 21 Homer, Iliad 9.410–​16. 22 2.43.6. 23 Herodotus, Histories 1.32; Edmunds, 76–​84. 24 2.43.6; anaisthetos. 25 2.44.1.

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Thucydides  37 26 2.45.2. 27 2.43.1. 28 Orwin, “Beneath Politics,” 113–​27; Jaffe, 143–​8. 29 Strauss, 154; Romilly, 112–​30; Nichols, 24–​50. 30 Balot, “Was Thucydides a Political Philosopher?,” 324–​35. 31 Williams, “Fictions, Pessimism,” 56. 32 Williams, Shame and Necessity, 164. 33 Additional “tragic” or “pessimistic” readings of Thucydides include: Cornford; Stahl, 79–​80, 186; Macleod, 140; Wohl, 50–​4; Euben, 167–​201. 34 Ober, “Thucydides Theoretikos,” 275–​6. 35 2.48. On the Hippocratic vocabulary of this passage, cf. Connor, 58 n. 19; Parry, 116; Hornblower, vol. 1, 321–​2. 36 2.47.3; cf. 1.23.2. 37 At least 75,000 Athenians died in the estimation of Ober, Rise and Fall, 213. 38 Plato, Republic 462b–​e. 39 See 2.47.2 and 2.51.4. 40 7.87.5. 41 2.53.1. 42 2.53.4. 43 See Orwin, Humanity, 90. 44 Orwin, Humanity, 173. 45 3.81.5. 46 For example, Slomp, 577–​8. For a more sensitive treatment, see Ahrensdorf, “Fear of Death,” 580–​3. 47 3.82.6. 48 3.82.4–​5. 49 Palmer, 412. This interpretation is supported by Hobbes’s translation of the key line: “The received value of names imposed for signification of things, was changed into arbitrary” (222). 50 3.83.1. 51 4.48.5. 52 Freud, 285. 53 3.82.2. 54 5.116. 55 5.32.1. 56 3.50.1. 57 2.67.4. 58 Herodotus, Histories 7.137. 59 See also 1.106.2, 3.112.7. 60 See Strauss, 192; Orwin, Humanity, 200–​3; Ahrensdorf, “Realistic Critique”; Eckstein. 61 5.105. 62 1.76.3–​4. 63 For example, in the classic interpretation of Cornford, 187. 64 7.87.6. 65 2.65.11. 66 3.68. Moreover, the Plataeans had played a pivotal role in saving Greece from enslavement during the Persian War, while the Thebans had medized. 67 4.80.4. 68 7.29.3–​5. 69 7.29.5. On this episode, see Orwin, Humanity, 133–​6.

References Ahrensdorf, Peter J. “The Fear of Death and the Longing for Immortality: Hobbes and Thucydides on Human Nature and the Problem of Anarchy.” American Political Science Review 94, no. 3 (2000): 579–​93.

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38  Daniel Schillinger —​—​—​“Thucydides’ Realistic Critique of Realism.” Polity 30, no. 2 (1997): 231–​65. Arendt, Hannah. The Human Condition, second edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998. Balot, Ryan K. Courage in the Democratic Polis: Ideology and Critique in Classical Athens. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. —​—​—​. “Was Thucydides a Political Philosopher?” In The Oxford Handbook of Thucydides. Edited by Sara Forsdyke, Edith Foster, and Ryan Balot, 327–​39. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Connor, W. R. Thucydides. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984. Cornford, F. M. Thucydides Mythistoricus. London: Edward Arnold, 1907. Eckstein, Arthur M. “Thucydides, the Outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, and the Foundation of International Systems Theory.” International History Review 25, no. 4 (2003): 757–​74. Edmunds, Lowell. Chance and Intelligence in Thucydides. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975. Euben, J. Peter. The Tragedy of Political Theory: The Road Not Taken. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. Freud, Sigmund. “Thoughts for the Times on War and Death.” In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 14. Translated by James Strachey and Anna Freud. London: Hogarth Press, 1957. Gomme, A. W., A. Andrewes, and K. J. Dover. A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, 5 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1945–​81. Hobbes, Thomas (trans.). Hobbes’s Thucydides. Edited by Richard Schlatter. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1975. Hornblower, Simon. A Commentary on Thucydides, 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991, 1996. Jaffe, Seth N. Thucydides on the Outbreak of War: Character and Contest. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Loraux, Nicole. The Invention of Athens: The Funeral Oration in the Classical City. Translated by Alan Sheridan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986. Macleod, Colin. “Thucydides and Tragedy.” In Collected Essays, 140–​58. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983. Manville, P. B. “Pericles and the ‘Both/​And’ Vision for Democratic Athens.” In Polis and Polemos. Edited by Charles D. Hamilton and Peter Krentz, 73–​84. Claremont: Regina Books, 1997. Mynott, Jeremy (trans.). Thucydides: The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Nichols, Mary L. Thucydides and the Pursuit of Freedom. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Twilight of the Idols; and, The Anti-​Christ. Translated by R. J. Hollingdale. New York: Penguin, 1990. Ober, Josiah. The Rise and Fall of Classical Greece. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018. —​—​—​. “Thucydides Theoretikos/​Thucydides Histor: Realist Theory and the Challenge of History.” In War and Democracy: A Comparative Study of the Korean War and the Peloponnesian War. Edited by David McCann and Barry S. Strauss, 273–​306. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2001. Orwin, Clifford. “Beneath Politics: Thucydides on the Body as the Ground and Limit of the Political Regime.” In Thucydides and Political Order: Concepts of Order and the History of the Peloponnesian War. Edited by Christian R. Thauer and Christian Wendt, 113–​27. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2016. —​—​—​ The Humanity of Thucydides. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994. Palmer, Michael. “Stasis in the War Narrative.” In The Oxford Companion to Thucydides. Edited by Ryan Balot, Sara Forsdyke, and Edith Foster, 409–​25. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Parry, Adam. “The Language of Thucydides’ Description of the Plague.” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 16, no. 1 (1969): 106–​18. Polansky, David. “Nietzsche on Thucydidean Realism.” Review of Politics 77, no. 3 (2015): 425–​48. Romilly, Jacqueline de. Thucydides and Athenian Imperialism. Translated by Philip Thody. New York: Blackwell, 1963. Slomp, Gabriella. “Hobbes, Thucydides and the Three Greatest Things.” History of Political Thought 11, no. 4 (1990): 565–​86.

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Thucydides  39 Stahl, H. P. Thucydides: Man’s Place in History. Translated by David Seward. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003. Stow, Simon. “Pericles at Gettysburg and Ground Zero: Tragedy, Patriotism, and Public Mourning.” American Political Science Review 101, no. 2 (2007): 195–​208. Strauss, Leo. The City and Man. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964. Thucydides. Thucydidis Historiae, 2 vols. Edited by H. Stuart Jones and J. E. Powell. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1942. Williams, Bernard. Shame and Necessity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. —​—​—​. “The Women of Trachis: Fictions, Pessimism, Ethics.” In The Greeks and Us: Essays in Honor of Arthur W. H. Adkins. Edited by Robert B. Louden and Paul Schollmeier, 42–​ 53. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Wills, Gary. Lincoln at Gettysburg: Words that Remade America. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992. Wohl, Victoria. Euripides and the Politics of Form. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015. Woodruff, Paul D. (ed. and trans.). Thucydides on Justice, Power, and Human Nature. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993.

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4  Mortality, Recollection, and Human Dignity in Plato Ann Ward

Plato (428/​427 or 424/​423–​348/​347 BC E ) defines death as separation of the soul from the body. In this chapter I consider the social and political implications of this understanding of human mortality by exploring the theory of recollection as it is discussed by Socrates in three Platonic dialogues, the Meno, the Phaedo, and the Phaedrus, with focus on the Phaedrus.1 The implications of human mortality in these Platonic dialogues are threefold. First, by raising the question of the possible existence of the soul after the death of the body, thinking about mortality points to the soul’s intrinsic ability to learn truths that are within or have been seen by the soul itself, suggesting a basic dignity to every human being that would otherwise be concealed. Second, it suggests that bodily mortality is necessary for the spread and progress of knowledge. Third, spurred on by an awareness of mortality, thinking about the ideas or supra-​material Platonic universals that scholars have come to call the Forms, allows for a form of speech that seeks not to win but to enlighten by revealing truth.

Recollection in the Meno and Phaedo The question of death and the immortality of the soul arises in the Meno after Meno, Socrates’ interlocutor, is unsuccessful in defining virtue. Despite this failure, Socrates assures Meno that he still wishes to seek together with him for virtue’s true meaning. But how can we begin the search for truth if we do not know what we are looking for? Thus, Meno asks, “How will you aim for something you do not know at all? If you should meet with it, how will you know that this is the thing that you did not know?”2 In other words, if we do not know what virtue is before we begin, how will we know that we have found it in the end? Human learning which seeks to grasp the truth appears to be an impossible activity. To resolve this problem and keep the idea of the search for truth alive, Socrates draws on or develops the theory of recollection.3 Recounting what he heard from priests and priestesses and poets such as Pindar, Socrates speculates that: As the soul is immortal, has been born often, and has seen all things here and in the underworld, there is nothing which it has not learned; so it is in no way surprising that it can recollect things it knew before, both about virtue and other things. As the whole of nature is akin, and the soul has learned everything, nothing prevents a man, after recalling one thing only—​a process men call learning—​discovering everything else for himself, if he is brave and does not tire of the search, for searching and learning are, as a whole, recollection.4 By recollection Socrates appears to mean that the learner, when questioned in the right way, remembers truths, such as the nature of virtue, they knew before but had forgotten. The questioner, such as Socrates, does not therefore impart or give knowledge, but rather DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-5

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Plato  41 reminds the learner of the knowledge in their souls that they had forgotten was there. Socratic questioning is thus not merely a technique to induce aporia—​knowledge that one is ignorant of the subject at hand—​but is transformative or is a pathway pointing to the human soul’s intrinsic ability to learn as the discovery of truth within the soul itself. Moreover, learners, it appears, do have knowledge of the truth they are looking for before they “learn” it, as it were. Going further, Socrates says, “the whole of nature is akin,” or related. Thus, when the soul recollects one thing it can recollect all things, as all things are the same in some way. The image here is that all things in the cosmos share some universal characteristic in common that makes them the same; there is one universal being or essence, one idea, uniting all things.5 In drawing on the theory of recollection to resolve the problem of learning, Socrates also suggests the immortality of the soul. In the above passage, Socrates speculates that upon death the soul separates from the body and goes through an eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. In its endless transmigration or cycle from life to death and death to life when it enters the body of a new person upon being born, the soul has contemplated and therefore learned all things, which it can then recollect when questioned in the right way. Socrates also suggests that bodily mortality is essential for the spreading of knowledge. If the body were imperishable, the soul would never be released to enter the bodies and allow for the learning of future generations to come. Socrates’ discussion of recollection in the Meno is very similar to his discussion of recollection in the Phaedo, which he draws on as a demonstration of the immortality of the soul. In prison after having been convicted and condemned to die, Socrates, in the Phaedo, defends the desirability of his own death. To persuade his two main interlocutors, Simmias and Cebes, of the goodness of death, Socrates must also persuade them of the immortality of the soul. However, before turning to the argument for the immortality of the soul, we will briefly consider Socrates’ definition of death and his explanation of the philosopher’s relationship to this condition. It is this discussion of philosophy and death that initially causes the question of the immortality of the soul to be raised.6 Socrates and Simmias initially agree that death is the separation of the soul from the body, in which the body comes to be “itself all by itself,” and the soul likewise, once freed from the body, comes to be “herself all by herself.”7 The philosopher has a special relationship to this condition of death because, while living, according to Socrates, they eschew the body and its pleasures, such as those of “food and drink” and all “the pleasures of love-​making.” They also reject all the material goods and luxuries that serve the body, for instance “diverse cloaks and sandals and the other, body-​related beautifications.”8 The philosopher turns away from satisfying the body and pursuit of material goods because they interfere with the soul’s attempt to “get in touch with truth.”9 Moreover, the bodily senses of sight, hearing, tasting, touching, and smelling tend to conceal rather than reveal the truth to the soul in “her act of reasoning.”10 Socrates’ point is that in life, the philosopher seeks to suppress the body in order to free the soul from the body’s distorting effects in its search for truth. The philosopher, in trying to separate soul from body, attempts to make life as much as possible like the condition of death.11 The anti-​materialism of philosophy in Socrates’ discussion of the desirability of death is related to what Socrates portrays as the nature of truth that is the object of the philosophic quest. According to Socrates, the philosopher’s soul, when “she comes to be herself all by herself as much as possible,” strives for “what is.”12 Socrates is referring to his theory of the ideas or forms. He gives a somewhat fuller account of what he means by the ideas later on in the Phaedo when, explaining his “second sailing” to Cebes, Socrates refers to those “much-​babbled-​about things” such as the “Beautiful Itself by Itself and a Good and a Big

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42  Ann Ward and all the others.”13 Taking the idea of the beautiful as an example, Socrates claims that all of the particular manifestations of beauty, such as “a blossoming color or shape,” are beautiful “because [they] participate in that Beautiful.”14 Socrates continues and says, “nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence of or communion with that Beautiful,” and, “it’s by the Beautiful that all beautiful things are beautiful.”15 Socrates appears to suggest that the idea of the beautiful is that universal characteristic which all particular examples of beauty participate in or share; it is that quality or “class characteristic” of beauty that makes the beautiful things what they are—​beautiful—​and thus what allows us to call them beautiful.16 Moreover, in his discussion of the philosophic quest near the beginning of the Phaedo, Socrates indicates that whereas the particular manifestations of the ideas in the material world, such as a beautiful color and shape, can be grasped by the senses of the body, the ideas themselves, such as the beautiful itself, can only be grasped by reason in the soul. Socrates thus suggests that the ideas, while in the material world inasmuch as they move through and hence make the particulars what they are, also transcend the material world in some sense.17 The anti-​materialism of the philosopher, therefore, is driven by the supra-​materialism, as it were, of the ideas, the object of the philosophic quest.18 According to Socrates, only the person “who neither puts any sight into his thinking nor drags any sense along with his reasoning,” will grasp hold of the truth, and thus philosophers must “free (themselves) from the body and behold things themselves with the soul herself.”19 Socrates concludes his argument for the desirability of his own death by reference to the ideas. If the ideas can only be grasped by the soul when it is completely free from the distorting effects of the body, then only after death can the philosopher attain that to which their entire life has been devoted: “the thoughtfulness we desire and whose lovers we claim to be will be ours—​when we’ve met our end and, as the argument shows, not while we’re alive.”20 Socrates presents death as that which allows the soul of the philosopher to finally be alone with the ideas, and thus eternally grasping and thinking the “True.”21 Significant problems arise, however, with Socrates’ argument for the desirability of his own death. The image of death as that which allows the soul to finally be alone with the ideas assumes that the soul, along with the ideas, is immortal. Yet, Socrates has not argued for the immortality of the soul thus far, and it is clear that his interlocutors do not accept the truth of such an assumption at this point in the conversation. Cebes responds to Socrates’ image of the afterlife by claiming that many people fear that the soul vanishes when the body perishes.22 Cebes’ implication is that we and the philosopher should fear death not because we love the body but because we love the soul and thinking itself, which, Cebes now suggests, perishes along with the body when we die. Cebes, therefore, does not agree that the death of the philosopher, like their life, is the separation of the soul from the body, but rather that it is the perishing of both soul and body. Socrates, in other words, to convince them of the goodness of his own death must also convince them of the immortality of the soul. Socrates initially puts forward three arguments in an attempt to persuade Simmias and Cebes of the immortality of the soul: the argument from contraries, the argument from recollection, and the argument from non-​composition and invisibility.23 I will focus solely on the argument from recollection. In his argument that all learning is actually recollection, Socrates maintains that to recall something requires having had prior knowledge of that which is recalled. For instance, as an example of recalling similar things, Socrates argues that when we see “equal” sticks and stones, we are reminded of the “Equal Itself ” or the “Equal that is,” or, in other words, the idea of the Equal.24 The initial cause, therefore, of recollection of the ideas, are the senses and their contact with the particular things in the material world.25

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Plato  43 This same process of recollection holds for all of the ideas or forms; whenever we consider particular manifestations of a thing in this world, such as particular manifestations of beauty, if we contemplate them correctly we are reminded of the universal classification, such as the idea or form of beauty itself, that groups the particulars into a class.26 The knowledge in the soul, therefore, that the learner recollects is knowledge of the universal ideas or forms. But, where did we get this knowledge of the ideas or forms such that we can be reminded of them when considering their particular manifestations? Socrates concludes that the soul must have acquired knowledge of them before we were born, and then “forgot” this knowledge when entering our body upon birth.27 This shows that the soul, thinking the universal ideas, exists separate from the body prior to birth, and that the process of recollecting, in this case aided through the senses but in the Meno through Socratic questioning, entails overcoming the inhibiting factors of the body after birth.28 Moreover, as in the Meno, recollection of the ideas or natural essences of things points to the human soul’s intrinsic ability to learn.

The Phaedrus and the Ascent to Beauty The Phaedrus shows that the soul’s intrinsic ability to learn, or to recollect the ideas or natural essences of things, causes a longing for eternity that points to the being of the soul not simply before birth but after death as well. Specifically, the soul’s longing for the eternal in beauty is identified by Socrates as the true experience of love. Thus, love is defined in the dialogue such that it implies the separation of soul from body and would require death for its ultimate fulfillment. Socrates, in the Phaedrus, references his theory of recollection in his second discourse on love. In search of a more refined definition of love, Socrates begins his second discourse by defining the soul. According to Socrates, “every soul is immortal,” and the “very essence and principle” of the soul is immortality.29 The soul is immortal because it is self-​ moving and as such is the source of motion of everything else with body “whose motion comes from within.”30 As the source of motion, it has no beginning as it is the source of all other beginnings, and thus has no end either; the soul is in eternal motion.31 Moreover, as immortal, the soul is in principle separable from the body which is mortal. Having defined its essence, Socrates continues to define the soul’s structure. According to Socrates, understanding the precise structure of the soul would take a very long time. Thus, he will use an image or likeness of the soul to give indirect access to its structure. The image of the soul that Socrates crafts is that of a “team of winged horses and their charioteer.”32 The “charioteer,” famously denoting reason in the soul, drives the horses of passion. One horse is “beautiful and good,” representing desire for honor or passion with a sense of shame. This horse is governed by the charioteer through persuasion.33 The other horse is dark, shameless, and violent, representing the desire for sexual pleasure, and must be governed through force.34 The charioteer, therefore, must weave together in the soul two opposites: the passion for honor and the passion for sexual pleasure in the presence of a particular instantiation of beauty. Socrates furthers the image of the structure of the soul by discussing its relationship to the ideas or natural essences of things. According to Socrates, that which is in “the place beyond heaven” is “without color and without shape and without solidity, a being that really is what it is, the subject of all true knowledge, visible only to the intelligence, the soul’s steersman.”35 The beings or ideas beyond the outer rim of the heavens include Justice, Self-​ Control, and Knowledge, but by far the most radiant being is the being or idea of Beauty.36 Thus, as it seems the soul can exist apart from the body, so it seems the ideas can exist apart from the material realm.

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44  Ann Ward Socrates poeticizes that four different types of souls attempt to grasp the immaterial ideas beyond the heavens. The highest type of soul is that of the gods. These divine souls are drawn by their charioteer to the outer rim of the heavens, and from there, look beyond the heavens receiving a deathless intellectual vision of ideas.37 Next, the most god-​like soul “raises the head of its charioteer up to the place outside and is carried around in the circular motion with the others. Although distracted by the horses, this soul does have a view of Reality, just barely.”38 Thus, the charioteer of the soul keeps the horses of passion under control and allows the soul, just barely, to gain rational access to and hence knowledge of the ideas. The third-​best soul has a charioteer who can raise his head sometimes and thus see some of the ideas, but, being pulled violently by the horses of passion in different directions, sinks back down again and so misses other ideas; this soul has some rational knowledge of some things.39 According to Socrates, the remaining souls are all eagerly straining to keep up, but are unable to rise; they are carried around below the surface, trampling and striking one another as each tries to get ahead of the others … Many souls are crippled by the incompetence of the drivers.40 Thus, due to the violent struggle of the passions within and the resultant weakness of their reason, some souls never intellect the ideas or acquire true knowledge of anything. Except for the divine souls who remain in heaven, the other three types of souls, after intellecting or attempting to intellect the ideas but failing, fall to earth and enter a body upon being born; the combination of soul and body is called an animal which is mortal. According to Socrates, “a soul that has seen the most will be planted in the seed of a man who will become a lover of wisdom or of beauty, or who will be cultivated in the arts and prone to erotic love.”41 The soul of the philosopher, therefore, like that of the gods, has intellected the ideas and is a lover of beauty. All human beings have souls that have grasped some truth; as Socrates says, “a soul that never saw the truth cannot take a human shape.”42 This is so, according to Socrates, because, a human being must understand speech in terms of general forms, proceeding to bring many perceptions together into a reasoned unity. That process is the recollection of things our soul saw when it was traveling with god, when it disregarded the things we now call real and lifted up its head to what is truly real instead.43 To the extent, therefore, that a human being can speak, they can also think, and thinking proceeds by way of general categories or forms. For instance, a person perceives many particular examples of a tree, but through observing the particular examples comes to understand the common or universal characteristic that all the particular examples share, thus making them trees rather than, for example, flowers; a person can come to understand the idea or natural essence of the tree itself. This process of reasoning from the particular to the universal or class characteristic—​to the idea or natural essence—​Socrates calls recollection. Yet, recollection suggests prior knowledge which we had forgotten but are now remembering. When did we acquire this prior knowledge of the idea? When our soul had been traveling with the god on the outer rim of heaven before entering our body upon being born.44 Thus, Socrates’ articulation of recollection in the Phaedrus is very similar to his articulation of it in the Phaedo. In the Phaedo, Socrates argues that when a person sees particular examples of equal things in this world—​for example equal sticks and stones—​they are reminded of the Equal itself, or the idea of the equal that the soul beheld before birth but had forgotten upon entering a human body as it was being born.

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Plato  45 Socrates’ discussion of recollection in the Phaedrus allows him to define or give an account of the human experience of love, which he characterizes as a type of divine madness.45 According to Socrates: When [someone] sees the beauty we have down here and is reminded of true beauty; then he takes wing and flutters in his eagerness to rise up, but is unable to do so; and he gazes aloft, like a bird, paying no attention to what is down below—​and that is what brings on him the charge that he has gone mad … Nature requires that the soul of every human being has seen reality … But not every soul is easily reminded of the reality there by what it finds here … Only a few remain whose memory is good enough; and they are startled when they see an image of what they saw up there.46 The lover, therefore, whose memory is good enough to be reminded of true beauty “up there” when he sees an example of beauty “down here,” is the philosopher, and to define love is to define philosophy. When a philosopher, or someone with a philosophic soul, perceives a particular example of beauty in the world, they are reminded of the being of beauty itself, or the idea of beauty, which the particular example participates in and that reason in their soul intellected before birth. The particular example of beauty in the world that reminds the philosopher of the idea of beauty itself can be “a godlike face or bodily form,” or a beautiful soul that “has a talent for philosophy.”47 Connected to the image of the soul as the horses of passion being driven by their charioteer, it appears that love is reason’s longing, upon being reminded by the beautiful body or beautiful soul of the beloved of true beauty, to be drawn up by the horses of passion to the “region beyond heaven” for a deathless intellectual vison of the idea of beauty itself.48 The soul’s experience of this longing for upward flight to the eternal idea is love. Thus, love is a rational longing or desire in the soul, not for the body or even the soul of the beloved, but for the idea of beauty that the beloved’s body and soul participate in.49 As a desire to grasp the idea it is a desire for knowledge. Although eager to “rise up” it is “unable to do so,” presumably because it is still weighted down by the mortal body. The soul, therefore, will only grasp that for which it longs, and thus have knowledge, when it returns to the ideas after death. Socrates’ understanding of love in the Phaedrus articulates a knowledge of self as well as a knowledge of the ideas. Knowledge of self arises, Socrates suggests, when a philosophic lover and their beloved exchange places.50 True or philosophic love, therefore, is reciprocal, as the beloved also becomes a lover, loving the lover in return. This occurs because the beloved begins to grasp the beauty in the soul of the philosophic lover, and hence begins to see himself; the lover’s soul is a mirror in which the beauty of his own soul is reflected. This image of reciprocal love is an image of self-​reflection or a coming to know the self, the type of self-​knowledge that Socrates claims he desires at the beginning of the dialogue.51 Yet, is there an ascent to a separate idea of beauty in this image of reciprocal love? Is philosophic “friendship” the love of another self as it ascends to the idea of beauty; is it an image of mutual ascent? Or, as Socrates suggests near the end of the dialogue, are the ideas, such as the idea of beauty, within the soul of the philosophic friend that we contemplate and not in the region beyond the outer rim of heaven?52

Dignity and Dialectic Socrates’ discussion of recollection in the Phaedrus illuminates the social and political implications of human mortality that are also present in the Meno and the Phaedo. In the

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46  Ann Ward Phaedrus Socrates says that any person who can speak and therefore think does so in general forms, and hence is moved by a soul that has grasped the eternal ideas before entering their body upon being born and to which their soul longs to return after their body dies. Socrates goes so far as to say that no human shape can be enlivened by a soul which has not seen some truth. The first social and political implication of human mortality in Plato’s thought, therefore, is that thinking about mortality points to the soul’s intrinsic ability to learn truths that are within or have been grasped by the soul itself. The connection between the human soul and truth in Plato’s thought brings to light a basic dignity to every human being that would otherwise be concealed; it suggests that all human beings to some extent are bearers or holders of truth, and have an intrinsic ability to learn truth. The second implication is that bodily mortality is that which allows for the progress of knowledge. If the soul were never released by a perishable body to migrate to and allow for the learning of future generations, only the “first fathers” or founders, as it were, could philosophize. The third social and political implication of mortality in Plato’s thought comes to light when we connect Socrates’ discussion of recollection in his second discourse on love in the Phaedrus with his discussion of rhetoric later in the same dialogue. Socrates initially describes rhetoric as “a way of directing the soul by means of speech, not only in the law courts and on other public occasions, but also in private.”53 Phaedrus, however, argues that if it is an art, rhetoric is an exclusively public form of speech that seeks to persuade on great matters in the law courts and the assembly.54 In response, although initially agreeing to leave the private form of rhetoric aside to address its public form, Socrates claims, “Rather, it seems that one single art … governs all speaking.”55 Socrates’ implication is that all human speech, including the dialectical speech of the philosopher, seeks to “direct” or persuade the soul of the listener, and thus is a form of rhetoric. For clarity in what follows, therefore, I refer to the public form of rhetoric that seeks to deceive and the one who uses it as simply “rhetoric” and the “rhetor,” whereas I refer to the form of rhetoric that seeks to reveal the truth and the one who uses it as “dialectic” and the “philosopher.” The rhetor, although knowing “what each thing truly is,” and thus its essence or idea, for the sake of winning or defeating their opponents seeks to deceive in the law courts and assembly in two related ways.56 First, in their ability to speak on opposite sides of an issue, the rhetor makes great matters such as justice, goodness, and beauty appear, when convenient, like injustice, evil, and ugliness, and hence their opposites.57 In the words of Socrates’ old accusers in the Apology, rhetoric deceives “by making the weaker speech the stronger,” and hence falsehood appear like truth.58 Second, such speaking encourages in the souls of their listeners a belief in “perspectivity,” or the belief that the truth of something is simply how you perceive it; what appears just for one person can equally appear and therefore be unjust for another. It fosters the belief, in other words, that there are no stable essences or forms, there are no ideas in which the particular and changing things of this world participate. Dialectic is a form of speaking that differs from the rhetoric of the law courts and the assembly in crucial ways. Although acknowledging to Phaedrus that in his second discourse on love he “used a certain sort of image” of love that “may have led us astray,” Socrates insists that in this discourse there were “kinds of things the nature of which it would be quite wonderful to grasp by means of a systematic art.”59 Thus, although his second discourse was poetic and thus deceptive in some ways, Socrates assures us that that there were truths in it worthy to be grasped by the philosophical art.60 According to Socrates, in his second discourse, “The first truth consists in seeing together things that are scattered about everywhere and collecting them into one kind, so that by defining each thing we can make clear the subject of any instruction we wish to give.”61 This truth refers back to line 249c in the second discourse when Socrates says,

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Plato  47 a human being must understand speech in terms of general forms, proceeding to bring many perceptions together into a reasoned unity. That process is the recollection of things our soul saw when it was traveling with god, when it disregarded the things we now call real and lifted up its head to what is truly real instead.62 Taken together, these two passages suggest that when a human being speaks and therefore thinks, what they are doing is perceiving particular things in this world and then using reason in their soul to categorize these particulars into their kinds or classes of things, or to understand the common characteristic that all the particulars have in common, making them a kind or class of things. In other words, thinking involves reasoning about the essential natures of the particulars, about their ideas or forms. Doing so allows the thinker to give definitions of things—​to say what they are—​and thus definitions for the subjects being spoken about, allowing for the truth to be revealed. In the latter part of the dialogue Socrates calls this process of thinking “collection” practiced by the “dialectician”; in the second discourse he calls it the “recollection” of the philosophic lover longing for knowledge, felt as upward flight to the eternal idea. The third social and political implication of mortality in Plato’s thought, therefore, is that it allows for deliberation in speech which is dialectical rather than simply rhetorical. Spurred on by an awareness of mortality, the philosopher recollects eternal ideas that allow for a form of speech that seeks not simply to win but to enlighten by revealing the truth. Dialectic, therefore, prevents the emergence of perspectivity and the collapse into “nihilism,” the belief that nothing is true in the sense of having a stable essence or form. In preventing nihilism, dialectic thus illuminates the dignity and immortality possible for all human beings and allows for the progress and transmission of knowledge from one generation to the next.

Notes 1 I wish to thank the editors for their careful reading of and comments on a previous draft that have helped me to improve and clarify my argument. 2 Plato, Meno, 80d. 3 Moravscik denies that the paradox of learning for which recollection is brought in as a resolution actually calls into question all forms of learning, including learning done through empirical inquiry. See Moravscik, 113. 4 Plato, Meno, 81b–​e. 5 See Socrates’ discussion of the Good or idea of the good in the Republic (508c–​509c), in which he indicates that the Good is the cause of all things and that all things participate in goodness. 6 For much of the discussion below, see Ward, “Immortality of the Soul.” 7 Plato, Phaedo, 64c. 8 Plato, Phaedo, 64d–​e. 9 Plato, Phaedo, 65c–​d. 10 Plato, Phaedo, 66a. 11 See Gerson, 55, 57–​8; Bobonich, 14–​15; Benardete, 288; and Bostock, 25, 27, 29; but see Vetter, 135–​7, 143, 147; and Russell, 78, 90–​2, 100–​2. 12 Plato, Phaedo, 65d–​e. 13 Plato, Phaedo, 100b. Also see Burger, 7. 14 Plato, Phaedo, 100c–​d. 15 Plato, Phaedo, 100d–​e. 16 Also see Plato, Republic, 476a–​b, 479a; Stern, “Antifoundationalism”, 203; Nichols, 112; and Bostock, 147, 207; but see White, “Essences”, 142, 143, 148. 17 Plato, Phaedo, 65e–​66a. 18 Gerson, 59–​61; Bobonich, 25–​6, 28. 19 Plato, Phaedo, 65e–​66a, 66e.

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48  Ann Ward 20 Plato, Phaedo, 66e. 21 Plato, Phaedo, 67b. 22 Plato, Phaedo, 70a–​b. 23 Plato, Phaedo, 69e–​72e; 72e–​77a; 78b–​84b. 24 Plato, Phaedo, 74b–​c. 25 Notice that this contradicts Socrates’ claim in his argument for the desirability of his own death that the senses conceal rather than reveal truth to the soul. Also see Zoller, 30; Vetter, 140; and Bostock, 162. 26 Plato, Phaedo, 75d. Also see Stern, Socratic Rationalism, 197–​8; and Ward, “Immortality of the Soul,” 26. 27 See Klein, 131, who argues that despite the emphasis on recollection after the forgetting at birth, Socrates suggests that the soul is capable of and is understood to have engaged in learning in a time prior to rebirth. 28 Plato, Phaedo, 75c–​d. 29 Plato, Phaedrus, 245e. 30 Plato, Phaedrus, 245e. 31 Plato, Phaedrus, 245d. 32 Plato, Phaedrus, 246a–​b. 33 Plato, Phaedrus, 254a–​c. 34 Plato, Phaedrus, 254e. 35 Plato, Phaedrus, 257c–​d. 36 Plato, Phaedrus, 250b. 37 Plato, Phaedrus, 247d–​e. 38 Plato, Phaedrus, 248a. 39 Plato, Phaedrus, 248a. 40 Plato, Phaedrus, 248a–​b. 41 Plato, Phaedrus, 248d. 42 Plato, Phaedrus, 249b, 250a. 43 Plato, Phaedrus, 249c. 44 But see Werner, who argues that recollection in this life cannot grant access to an unmediated grasp of the ideas. Werner, Myth and Philosophy, 93–​4, 102–​3. Also see Werner, “Rhetoric and Philosophy,” 31–​4. 45 Plato, Phaedrus, 244a, 249d. 46 Plato, Phaedrus, 249d–​251a. 47 Plato, Phaedrus, 251a, 252e. 48 Plato, Phaedrus, 247c. 49 But see White, who argues that the beloved can be loved for their own sake. White, “Love and the Individual,” 399–​403. 50 Plato, Phaedrus, 255d–​e. 51 Plato, Phaedrus, 230a. 52 Plato, Phaedrus, 276a–​b. 53 Plato, Phaedrus, 261a. It is important to note that by “speech” in this passage Socrates implies both its verbal and its written forms. Also see Werner, “Rhetoric and Philosophy,” 23. 54 Plato, Phaedrus, 261b. 55 Plato, Phaedrus, 261e. 56 Plato, Phaedrus, 262a–​b. 57 Plato, Phaedrus, 261c–​d. 58 Plato, Apology of Socrates, 19b–​c. 59 Plato, Phaedrus, 265c-​d. 60 Also see Rowe, 106, 116, 121. 61 Plato, Phaedrus, 265d. 62 Plato, Phaedrus, 249c.

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References Benardete, Seth. The Argument of the Action: Essays on Greek Poetry and Philosophy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Bobonich, Christopher. Plato’s Utopia Recast: His Later Ethics and Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Bostock, David. Plato’s Phaedo. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986. Burger, Ronna. The Phaedo: A Platonic Labyrinth. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984. Gerson, Lloyd. Knowing Persons: A Study in Plato. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Klein, Jacob. A Commentary on Plato’s Meno. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Moravscik, Julius. “Learning as Recollection.” In Plato’s Meno in Focus, 108–​25. Edited by Jane M. Day. London: Routledge, 1994. Nichols, Mary P. Socrates and the Political Community: An Ancient Debate. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988. Plato. Apology of Socrates. Translated by G. M. A. Grube. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2002. —​—​—​ Meno. Translated by G. M. A. Grube. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2002. —​—​—​ Phaedo. Translated by Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Eric Salem. Newburyport, MA: Focus Classical Library, 1998. —​—​—​ Phaedrus. Translated by Alexander Nehemas and Paul Woodruff. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1995. —​—​—​. Republic. Translated by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1968. Rowe, C. J. “The Argument and Structure of Plato’s Phaedrus.” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 32, no. 212 (1986): 106–​25. Russell, Daniel C. Plato on Pleasure and the Good Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Stern, Paul. “Antifoundationalism in Plato’s Phaedo.” Review of Politics 78, no. 3 (1989): 190–​217. —​—​—​ Socratic Rationalism and Political Philosophy: An Interpretation of Plato’s Phaedo. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993. Vetter, Lisa Pace. “Women’s Work” as Political Art: Weaving and Dialectical Politics in Homer, Aristophanes, and Plato. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2005. Ward, Ann. “Skepticism and Recollection in Socrates.” In The Socratic Method Today: Student Centered and Transformative Teaching in Political Science, 47-​56. Edited by Lee Trepanier. New York: Routledge, 2018. —​—​—​.“The Immortality of the Soul and the Origin of the Cosmos in Plato’s Phaedo.” In Matter and Form: From Natural Science to Political Philosophy, 19–​34. Edited by Ann Ward. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009. Werner, Daniel S. Myth and Philosophy in Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. —​—​—​“Rhetoric and Philosophy in Plato’s Phaedrus.” Greece & Rome 57, no. 1 (2010): 21–​46. White, F. C. “Love and the Individual in Plato’s Phaedrus.” Classical Quarterly 40, no. 2 (1990): 396–​406. —​—​—​ “The Phaedo and Republic V on Essences.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 98 (1978): 142–​56. Zoller, Coleen. “Seducing Socrates and Resolving Plato’s Separate Soul Paradox.” In Socrates: Reason or Unreason as the Foundation of European Identity, 30–​44. Edited by Ann Ward. Newcastle-​upon-​ Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007.

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5  Good Old Age Aristotle and the “Virtues” of Aging Marlene K. Sokolon

Aristotle (384–​322 BCE ) was the son of a Macedonian court physician. While he wrote on wide-​ranging topics from logic to political science and rhetoric (leaving an intellectual legacy so influential that in medieval Europe he was simply known as “The Philosopher”), his father’s profession probably inspired his great interest in physiology and biology. Despite his broad interests, Aristotle never presents a comprehensive theory of old age, but refers to aging and old age across his biological, physiological, and political texts. In the context of advice to rhetoricians, for example, Aristotle makes his infamous characterization that old men are stingy, shameless, hopeless, and cowardly.1 For this and other reasons, scholars such as Simone de Beauvoir criticized Aristotle for his negative stereotyping of aging adults.2 Despite his negative caricature, Aristotle’s approach to aging is more complex than it may appear as it interconnects his understanding of natural physiological processes and political philosophy. In particular, his discussion of “good old age” reveals that the contemporary concern for “healthy aging” is not so recent. Most importantly, rather than simply dismissive of old age, Aristotle suggests understanding the aging process is necessary for a happy and virtuous life.

What Is Old Age? Aristotle’s approach to aging is similar to what is now called a “life course model,” which posits a sequential and path-​dependent process of human development. At times, he appears to endorse the Athenian lawgiver Solon’s view of ten life stages, each consisting of seven years (birth to age seven, seven to fourteen, and so forth). For example, in the Politics, Aristotle suggests that those who “divide the ages by periods of seven years are generally speaking not wrong.”3 This every-​seven-​year division also explains Aristotle’s distinction between physical prime, beginning around 30 to 35, and mental prime which begins at 49.4 In this case, physical prime roughly corresponds to Solon’s fifth stage and intellectual prime to the seventh. In contrast, in the Generation of Animals, Aristotle suggests a four-​stage lifespan analogous to the four seasons, because both seasons and life have similar turning points associated with heat and cold.5 Most often, however, Aristotle employs a three-​stage lifespan classification: youth, prime, and old age.6 This three-​stage lifespan is found in the Rhetoric’s analysis of physical and mental prime, the three stages of growth and decline of bodily organs in On Respiration, and the discussion of reproductive prime in the Politics.7 Aristotle appears to utilize the different lifespan models according to the topic under discussion. Aristotle’s discussion of education recognizes that instructing a seven-​year-​ old differs significantly from a fourteen-​or a twenty-​year-​old. Related, his discussion of reproductive prime criticizes political regimes, such as Troezen, that permit child brides, since young motherhood can be dangerous to both the mother and child. His discussion DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-6

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Aristotle  51 of reproductive lifespan is also the only instance where Aristotle specifies an end age for the prime of life: for women, reproductive prime is from 18 to menopause at about 50; and, for men, from about 37 to 70 at the latest. In contrast, Aristotle typically sets a starting age for prime, but no specific age when prime ends or old age begins. Even in the example of reproductive old age, Aristotle qualifies that menopause “generally” starts around 50 or that male reproduction ends around 70 at “the latest.” Such qualifications and lack of specific dates for lifespan milestones implicitly acknowledge individual variation in the life-​stage path. Thus, Aristotle indicates that individuals vary as to when their prime—​mental, reproductive, or physical—​ends and old age begins. Aristotle explores the question of why we age in broader discussions of natural science that situate the aging process within his larger theory of four elementary substances: earth, fire, air, and water. In On Length of Life, for example, Aristotle explains that all matter consists of the hot, cold, dry, and moist.8 All living things are “hot and moist,” because they contain a kind of psychic or vital heat, which for animals with blood is located in the heart. Life is maintained through some form of “refrigerative” organs (katapsyktikou) that cool down this psychic heat through respiration.9 The biological aging process consists of the natural decay of these “refrigerative” organs that, over time, lose their moisture and become more “earthy.” Smaller animals “dry out” or age more quickly because they more rapidly lose their vital heat; larger animals with spongy lungs hold moisture longer, but still slowly breathe away vital heat. Species that are sweet, like bees, or oily and fatty, like date palm trees, also live longer because they do not easily dry out. The lifespan of human beings is comparatively longer than most animals because our erect carriages place our “refrigerative” organs (our lungs and heart) upright in relation to the whole universe. For Aristotle, this configuration means human beings have more heat (and a higher form of soul) and it takes longer for our organs to dry out.10 Although aging is a natural decline of cooling organs, a deficiency of natural heat can also occur through external disease. In the Generation of Animals, for example, hair can turn grey because certain illnesses cause a deficiency in natural heat that affects the hair; this discoloration due to external illness, however, is reversible if the person recovers.11 In contrast, the greying of hair in old age is caused by the lack of warmth due to the drying out process. By analogy, Aristotle classifies these kinds of external diseases as “acquired old age” (gēras epiktēton) and old age as a kind of “natural disease” (nosos physikē). Importantly, even though old age is analogous to disease, it is not the same as other diseases, because it is a natural process and not “acquired.” As Aristotle puts it in the Nicomachean Ethics, aging is neither voluntary nor involuntary, but “naturally comes into being.”12 Thus, old age is the result of a natural progressive decline in vital heat and the cooling organs. Eventually, this decline results in a “natural” death that occurs not from violent or other external causes, but from the internal condition of the organism that was present from the beginning. Therefore, as opposed to the “hot and moist” vitality of youth, Aristotle defines old age as “cold and dry.”13 The longevity of each species depends on factors contributing to how long it takes to dry out. There is also individual variation within species depending on gender, environment, and lifestyle. He thinks male animals, for example, generally live longer because they are naturally warmer. Animals living in warmer climates also retain more vital heat and take longer to become cold. Importantly, those of the same gender or living in the same environment still age differently depending on their lifestyle. Men who are overly sexual age more rapidly, because ejaculation causes them to dry out.14 Similarly, individuals whose job requires a great deal of toil lose moisture and age more rapidly. Hence, due to environment and lifestyle factors, a specific living being can live a longer or shorter life than others of their species.

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52  Marlene K. Sokolon This natural drying out process explains Aristotle’s controversial discussion in On the Soul regarding the imperishability of our minds (nous).15 Unlike the broader term psychē (soul), which describes the living state that even plants possess, nous refers to the human mind’s capacity to reason, think, or understand. Nous cannot be destroyed, even by the natural and inevitable aging of bodies. What “dries up” as we age is not our mind, but our sense organs. Hence, the reason why older adults do not see as well is not a problem with their mind’s ability to see, but with their eyes. As he puts in the Generation of Animals, cataracts occur in older people because the skin thickens on their eyes due to the process of drying out.16 Predicting modern cornea transplants, Aristotle suggests that if an old man could acquire new young eyes, he could see more like a young man. Similarly, Aristotle suggests that the capacity to think declines as we age, but not because there is a decline in our mind but due to the drying up of the organs of thinking and understanding where mind resides. As environment and lifestyle affect the aging process, this decline varies individually, but eventually, since the organs of thinking dry up, reasoning is affected.

Happy Old Age and Grumpy Old Men In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle defines happiness as an activity of the soul according to the best and highest virtue over an “entire life.”17 As he puts it, no one is considered happy because of the events of a single day. The idea that happiness concerns one’s whole life underscores his understanding of virtue as the habituation of the mean. Famously, the virtuous mean is the right emotion and action situated between two extreme vices; hence, courage is the mean between rashness and cowardice. Since a truly courageous man may die in battle, by an “entire life” Aristotle is not implying people have to be old before they can be happy.18 In contrast, because virtue is a habit, no one is considered virtuous by simply performing one virtuous action; instead, a virtuous person must choose over and over again, the right action, at the right time, and in the right manner. Most significantly, virtue requires life experience and rational deliberative capacity. Therefore, children are not considered happy, since their deliberative capacity is still underdeveloped and they lack the experience of choosing virtue. Aristotle does not associate a specific age with happiness, because each stage of life is incomplete and happiness is a complete whole.19 Hence, Aristotle reiterates Solon’s famous statement that no one should be called happy until they are dead (although Aristotle is less convinced the dead can be called happy). One reason to reserve judgment is because certain external goods, such as friends, wealth, and power, are useful for performing virtuous actions. The lack or loss of other external things, such as good birth, good children, and physical beauty, are associated with unhappiness. For this reason, it seems as if King Priam, who lost fifty sons and his city to the Greeks during the Trojan War, could not be considered happy. Yet, the truly happy man could even bear Priam’s misfortunes in the noblest manner.20 Thus, Priam is certainly not blessed, but if he were truly virtuous, he could not be considered miserable. In both the Nicomachean and Eudemian Ethics, Aristotle understands happiness as the activity of habitual virtue, which requires experience and can be aided by the possession of external goods but is distinct from these goods. Aristotle returns to the idea of external goods associated with happiness in the Rhetoric.21 Unlike the theoretical exploration of happiness in his ethical works, the Rhetoric provides speakers with adequate knowledge of persuasive oratory in public settings. Here Aristotle argues that understanding happiness is crucial for rhetoricians since all men strive to be happy. Unlike the ethical discussion that focuses on what happiness really is, for the purposes of rhetoric, Aristotle emphasizes what most people believe is happiness, such as equating happiness with a pleasurable life or having many possessions. He further breaks down happiness into commonly accepted “parts” that constitute a self-​sufficient and pleasurable

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Aristotle  53 life.22 Some “parts” are identical to the external goods instrumental for virtuous action, such as noble birth, good friends, wealth, and physical beauty. The Rhetoric, however, goes further and includes other “parts” of happiness: not only good children and good friends, but many children and many friends; not only beauty, but health, strength, height, and athletic prowess. Most importantly, Aristotle also lists “good old age” (eugēria) as a separate “part” that most people believe contributes to happiness. “Good old age” consists of two key characteristics.23 First, old age is good, if it comes upon us slowly and without pain. Those who age slowly usually possess the bodily excellences of health and strength. Although Aristotle does not develop this point, presumably, by participating in the things he describes associated with bodily excellence, such as physical exercise, we would age more slowly and with less pain. In certain cases, Aristotle also suggests that some people have a “capacity (dunamis) for longevity” and experience good old age even without the typical excellences of health and strength. Second, “good old age” requires the “good luck” to possess enviable things either by nature, such as beauty and stature, or as the result of an art, such as health. Earlier in the text, he noted that characteristics such as beauty vary with different ages: young men are beautiful if they possess an athletic body; men in their prime are beautiful if they are adapted for war; and, old men’s beauty consists in being able to deal with toils without complaint. Luck also contributes to “good old age” as it includes surviving random events, like not being hit by an arrow aimed at you or being absent from a place you frequent when it is attacked. No one, Aristotle stresses, can live a long and painless life without some measure of good fortune. The inclusion of “good old age” in his list of “parts” of happiness echoes Solon’s suggestion that no one is happy until they die. In this case, happy old age is a part of happiness because like good friends, many children, or wealth, nearly everyone would consider Priam’s bad luck as destructive to his happiness. Yet, Aristotle’s inclusion of “good old age” as a discrete “part” appears somewhat unnecessary. First, the two main aspects of a happy old age—​bodily excellences (health and strength) and luck—​are already listed as distinctive or separate “parts” of happiness. No young man, for example, would be happy if he were painfully sick and men in their prime would also suffer if they experienced the bad luck of being hit by an arrow. Second, other than bodily excellences, Aristotle does not include or repeat other “parts” from his primary list that one might expect to be connected to a “good old age.” Although good fortune includes those things which incite envy, in his elaboration of “good old age” there is no specific mention of the necessity of wealth, friendship, or many and good children, despite the cultural norm in ancient Greece that children care for their elderly parents.24 Therefore, unlike health, strength, or good luck which are parts of happiness at any age, what appears to be the unique characteristic of a “good old age” is a slow, non-​painful aging process or what he calls the “capacity for longevity.” Unfortunately, Aristotle fails to elaborate on this capacity, dismissing it as “not useful for the present discussion.”25 We do know, however, from his physiological works that longevity varies by species, gender differences, and environmental or lifestyle factors. In this case, since he mentions the capacity for longevity in the context of luck without typical bodily excellences, it is possible Aristotle views it as a kind of capacity determined solely by chance. Crucially, in this advice to rhetoricians on what “most people think,” Aristotle stresses that aging slowly and painlessly is “part” of what makes us happy.

The Dispositions of Old Men Also in the Rhetoric, Aristotle examines the dispositions or personality characteristics associated with his three-​stage lifespan model.26 Importantly, this discussion is part of

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54  Marlene K. Sokolon a larger context analyzing how various political emotions, from anger to emulation, can contribute to changing the audience’s judgment. This knowledge is crucial as it allows rhetoricians to tailor their speeches to particular audiences as a way to influence political decision making. With this in mind, Aristotle examines how different ages, wealth, and luck influence the listener’s disposition. Again, Aristotle’s discussion is a generalizable approach that focuses on how “the many” or most people are disposed to act in each life stage.27 Aristotle is fully aware that individual dispositions can differ from the many and what holds “for the most part” does not hold in all cases. Aristotle originally treats the distinction of youth and old age as opposing dispositional states, reflecting his earlier discussion in Book II of pairs of emotions, such as fear and confidence; for example, Aristotle thinks people become fearful when they imagine a painful destruction near at hand, but their fear turns to confidence, if they imagine safety is nearby or that dreadful things are far off.28 Similarly, Aristotle is interested in the opposing state of mind and emotional reactions of different life stages. Importantly, Aristotle highlights two specific causes of the divergent dispositions of young and old men. First, the characters of young and old men are influenced by their life experience. Young men, for instance, are overly trusting and easily deceived because they have not yet experienced the extent of human wickedness, nor the repeated failures of their plans. Thus, the young are particularly hopeful, because their life lies before them and hope belongs to the future. In contrast, old men are more negative, suspicious, and small-​minded because in their life experience they often have been deceived and have made many mistakes. Since most of their time is in the past, old men also have little to hope for in the future. The influence of time also explains why both young and old men are inclined to pity, but for different reasons: the young feel pity because they are hopeful and think all suffering is undeserved; older men feel pity because their experience has taught them that they might suffer similar things.29 Second, the dispositions of the young and old are also affected by their natural physiological differences. As noted earlier, since “refrigerative” organs are more vigorous in youth, young men still maintain their “hot and moist” vital heat. This causes them to be passionate, quick to anger, and indignant at even small slights. These dispositions are not surprising since vital heat is located in the heart and anger is a “boiling of the heat and blood around the heart.”30 This natural hot-​bloodedness also disposes young men to bodily desires, especially sensual pleasures, as well as their fondness for witty laughter. Hence, in the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes the disposition of the young as “resembling intoxication.”31 In contrast, due to the natural process of drying and cooling, old men are the opposite. They are not as passionate and appear to be moderate, but this is not due to deliberate choice but because their bodily desires have weakened or ceased altogether. With less heat, they neither love nor hate strongly; instead, due to their relative “coldness,” their predominant emotion is fear, which is characterized by “chilliness.”32 Thus, the heat of young men inclines them to the virtue of courage (or, potentially, the excessive vice of rashness), but chilled by fear, old men are more likely to act with the deficiency of cowardice. Although these two explanatory factors, life experience and vital heat, contribute to differences in life-​stage dispositions, they are not discrete but interconnected. Aristotle describes young men as hopeful because they have experienced fewer disappointments and are hot-​blooded; or, old men are more concerned with money due to experience with past losses and their chilly fearfulness inclines them towards what is useful. Due to both explanatory factors, Aristotle suggests young men are fickle and more impulsive, but love honor, victory, and superiority more than wealth or utility. They worry more about their reputation and are overly sensitive to shame, but also more inclined to magnanimity. In contrast, because of their experience and increased chilly fearfulness, old men are more distrustful and grumpier. They are more shameless and less concerned with honor, because they no longer

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Aristotle  55 care what other people think of them. As they are motivated more by what is useful than what is pleasant, they are also less concerned with any kind of pleasure, including laughter. This distinction between the old and young echoes Aristotle’s elaboration of friendship and the three-​stage lifespan in the Nicomachean Ethics.33 In this text, he describes different types of friendship, but suggests that no one would choose to live without friends. Young men are mostly invested in friendships based on pleasure, because of their overall enjoyment of spending time with others in witty conversation. Although friends can be helpful, because old men tend to be more querulous and no longer enjoy the pleasure of another’s company, they mostly pursue the mutual advantage of friendships of utility.34 Yet, because they can be unpleasant, similar to anyone with a gloomy character, Aristotle also suggests old men are avoided and have few friends. Although his descriptions of youth and old age reflect the analysis of states of mind connected to opposing emotions, Aristotle introduces a third disposition of those in their prime. He describes the prime disposition as a “mean” between the excesses of the other two life stages.35 Hence, men in their prime are neither rash nor fearful but hold both correctly; they are neither too trusting nor distrusting, neither too passionate nor insensible, rather they preserve the due mean with moderation and courage. Men in their prime can achieve this “mean” because they have enough experience to avoid the excesses of youth, but not so much as to have lost hope for the future. The prime of life also has a mean of vital heat that avoids the excesses of hot and cold. Importantly, this description of the prime of life as a “mean” between the extremes of youth and old age parallels Aristotle’s famous description of virtue as a “mean” between two extremes of excess and deficiency.36 It is tempting to interpret this parallel between the ethical mean and the prime of life as a moral judgment on those in their youth or, especially, in old age. Yet, despite the fact that virtue and prime of life are both described as third dispositions “in-​between” two extremes, the prime of life is not the same as an ethical disposition.37 First, Aristotle consistently describes the ethical mean as a deliberative choice, with knowledge of virtuous action for its own sake, deriving from a “firm and immovable” disposition.38 In contrast, in the Rhetoric, prime of life develops out of experience and the natural bodily process of aging, not from knowledge or deliberate choice. In addition, life-​stage dispositions are clearly not fixed but alter with age. Second, although experience is required for ethical habituation, the experience of most men in their prime does not necessarily contribute to wisdom and ethical virtue.39 As they age, for example, most men become more disappointed than virtuous. Third, Aristotle explicitly states that the emotions associated with each life stage, and not the age itself, are the cause of action.40 Thus, young men may perform a courageous act, but they are not courageous if the cause of their action is not habituated deliberate choice, but anger and love of the noble. Finally, although young men are mostly influenced by their emotions, Aristotle suggests old men act more out of calculation (logistikon) than emotion.41 Even though their organs of thinking are declining, old men still possess mind (nous) and their capacity for calculative thinking.42 Yet again, calculation is not the same thing as a habitual, deliberate choice of action. Thus, old men do not act cowardly out of deliberate choice; instead, the cause of their action may be fear or, more likely, a calculation of utility. Therefore, Aristotle’s description of prime as the “mean” life stage does not imply that all men in their prime are virtuous, nor that all old men are vicious and unjust. All human beings, whether they be vicious or virtuous, experience the vicissitudes of life as their body naturally ages. Although the Rhetoric describes group-​level age dispositions, individual dispositions vary due to different rates of physiological aging, lifestyle differences, climate, resources, chance, and political regimes.43 A lucky old man who never experienced great

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56  Marlene K. Sokolon disappointment would be more hopeful than is typical; those who age more slowly, either due to health or luck, would be less “chilly” and, hence, less cowardly. Such old men would not reflect the typical disposition of their life stage. Most importantly, as noted above, the truly virtuous would have a firmer disposition and be less influenced by despair. Thus, virtuous old men could nobly endure even Priam’s misfortunes.

Conclusion Aristotle’s comments on old age, especially the Rhetoric’s generalizations that older men are stingy, shameless, and cowardly, certainly reinforce the stereotypical views of old age both in Aristotle’s time and our own. Aristotle presents such views as useful for rhetoricians because they represent what “most people” think. Importantly, this discussion of old age is more than a caricature but reveals several crucial ideas concerning aging and its relevance for his ethical and political theory. First, Aristotle thinks aging varies by individual because we are affected by our environment, experience, and even luck. It is probably for this reason that he never provides a definite date for when old age begins. Nevertheless, Aristotle argues that aging is a natural physiological process of “cooling and drying,” which may happen to each individual at a slower or faster rate but is still inevitable. This natural drying process affects our organs, including the organs where thinking resides. This means that even the most virtuous old man would eventually experience a decline in mental acuity.44 It is for this reason that Aristotle criticizes Spartan gerontocracy that chooses governing elders based solely on age, while praising Carthage’s appointment of experienced elders based still on merit.45 What matters is not age, but capacity for good leadership. Aristotle’s description of typical life-​stage dispositions also highlights the relevance of the aging process for understanding his account of habitual virtue. In the prime of life, each individual has sufficient experience (always necessary for ethical virtue) and a physiology that is inclined neither to the excessive passions of the young, nor the chilliness of older adults. This means that in our prime, our physiology and experience allow us to most easily choose the mean of action and emotion. In contrast, because older people experience more deficiency and excess of certain emotions, it becomes increasingly difficult to choose the virtuous mean. This could suggest that old age represents “a decline in moral capability” which leads us away from the good and flourishing life.46 This loss of moral capability is only true if the “refrigerative” organs of thinking have dried up to the point where the older person can no longer deliberately choose virtue. In this case, however, it is not age, but deficiency of reasoning organs that hinders virtuous action.47 Another person of the same age who possesses greater longevity would still be capable of virtue, and a much younger person whose organs of reasoning declined because of disease, also would be deficient in choosing virtue. Aristotle’s analysis, however, still points to the importance of recognizing aging as a contributing factor in living a virtuous life. Even though the virtuous man’s disposition is “firm and immovable,” continuous virtuous action requires attentiveness to the physiological changes and life experience associated with different life stages and requires continually updating our knowledge of our aging selves. Aristotle’s ethics suggests that “virtue is a continuous process that unfolds over a complete lifetime.”48 In other words, the virtuous man cannot simply “coast” on his fixed disposition. The virtuous man must recognize how life’s disappointments and the natural aging process can influence his disposition; he then uses this knowledge to continue to pursue a flourishing life. Finally, Aristotle’s inclusion of “good old age” in the list of “parts” of happiness in the Rhetoric underscores the continuing relevance of this assumption in contemporary political

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Aristotle  57 and policy debates. Although Aristotle discusses the instrumental use of external goods, such as wealth and children, for happiness in his ethical works, it is only in the context of what is useful for rhetoricians that Aristotle introduces “good old age” as a component of happiness. The most unique aspect of his definition of a “good old age” is aging slowly without pain. The slow aging process can occur by some “capacity,” sheer luck, or attention to health and strength. Despite all the contemporary advances in understanding the physiological aging process that go far beyond Aristotle’s idea that we “dry out,” contemporary politicians have not departed significantly from this ancient view of good aging held by “most people.” The dominant approach to policymaking for older adults still focuses on understanding aging through a biomedical lens of “healthy aging.”49 “Good old age” is still understood as aging slowly without pain. Whatever Aristotle may have meant by a “capacity for longevity” remains salient, especially in our contemporary celebration of “super-​ agers,” or people over the age of 70 who have the cognitive or physical functioning of those decades younger.50 Although it is easy to be dismissive of Aristotle’s comments on old age, in many ways, we have not come such a long way.

Notes 1 The Art of Rhetoric, 1389b. All translations are the author’s from the Loeb editions. 2 Beauvoir, 119–​23, suggests that, unlike Plato who values old age, Aristotle thinks the character of old men makes them ineligible for governing. See also Small, xviii, 28–​9. 3 The existing manuscript uses the word kalōs (beautifully) which implies a rejection of the ten-​stage division. Most translators are convinced the text is corrupt and replace kalōs with kakōs (badly). Rackham’s translation from Aristotle, The Politics, 1336b35–​1337a1. 4 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1390b. 5 Aristotle, Generation of Animals, 784a10–​25. 6 See Carr, Biggs, and Kimberley, 12–​17. 7 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1390b; Politics, 1335a1–​35; Parva Naturalia, 479a25–​b10. 8 Aristotle, Parva Naturalia, 466a15–​30. 9 Aristotle, Parva Naturalia, 478a25–​479b10, 477a10–​30. 10 Aristotle, Parva Naturalia, 468a1–​15. 11 Aristotle, Generation of Animals, 784a25–​785a. For discussion see Wortley, 168–​73. 12 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1135b1–​10. 13 Aristotle, Parva Naturalia, 466a15–​467b10; Generation of Animals, 784a30–​5. 14 He also suggests that excessive ejaculation causes male baldness because ejaculation cools the brain. Aristotle, Generation of Animals, 783b–​785a. 15 Aristotle, On the Soul, 408b20–​35; also 413a20–​30. For further debate see Cohoe. 16 Aristotle, Generation of Animals, 780a15–​35. 17 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1198a5–​ 35, 1100a1–​ 1101a10, 1142a1–​ 20. See also Politics, 1260a1–​20. 18 See Lear, 127-​45. 19 Aristotle, Eudemian Ehtics, 1290b1–​10; Nicomachean Ethics, 1099b1–​10, 1100a1–​1101a15. 20 For further discussion see Small, 57–​60; Cashen, 10–​12. 21 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1360b1, 1355a, 1357b, 1361b. 22 For discussion of how the “parts” of happiness in his rhetorical discussion do not lead to a inclusivist conception of happiness, see Lear, 130–​2. 23 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1361b. 24 For ancient Greek elder care, see Fossheim, 125. 25 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1362b. 26 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1388b–​1391a. 27 For discussion see Nussbaum, 14–​22. 28 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1382a–​b.

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58  Marlene K. Sokolon 29 Aristotle defines pity as a kind of pain at the sight of undeserved bad things happening to another person which can be imagined happening to oneself. Rhetoric, 1385b. 30 Aristotle, On the Soul, 403a20–​b5. 31 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1153b5–​20. 32 See also Fossheim, 118–​21. 33 In this passage Aristotle also suggests that all three life stages require friends: the young in order to be guided; the old in order to be assisted; and prime for noble actions. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1115a1–​20, 1156a1–​b10, 1157b15–​20. 34 For further discussion see Mole, 446–​50; Fossheim, 124–​6. 35 Aristotle, Rhetoric,1390a–​b. 36 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1106b20–​35. 37 Robinson, 14–​15. 38 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1105a30–​b30. 39 Fossheim, 114–​16. 40 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1369a. 41 The seven causes of action are chance, nature, force, habituation, calculation, anger, and appetite. Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1369a. 42 Aristotle, On the Soul, 408b20–​35. 43 Aristotle, Parva Naturalia, 466a15–​467b10; Politics, 1360a–​b. 44 Aristotle, On the Soul, 408b20–​35; Politics, 1329a5–​40. 45 Aristotle, Politics, 1270b20–​1271a10, 1273a1–​10. Cf. Beauvoir, 121–​3. 46 Small, 67. 47 Aristotle, Politics, 1254b20–​5. 48 Cottingham, 580. See also Lear, 143–​5. 49 Kaufman, Shim, and Russ, 731–​38. 50 Yu et al., 1–​7.

References Aristotle. Eudemian Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952. —​—​—​ On the Generation of Animals. Translated by A. L. Peck. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942. —​—​—​ On the Soul. Translated by W. S. Hett. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957. —​—​—​ Parva Naturalia. Translated by W. S. Hett. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957. —​—​—​ The Art of Rhetoric. Translated by J. H. Freese. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926. —​—​—​ The Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934. —​—​—​ The Politics. Translated by H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1944. Beauvoir, Simone de. La Vieillesse. Paris: Gallimard, 1970. Carr, Ashley, Simon Biggs, and Helen Kimberley. “Ageing, Diversity and the Meaning(s) of Later Life.” Contemporary Reading in Law and Social Justice 7, no. 1 (2015): 7–​60. Cashen, Matthew. “The Ugly, the Lonely, and the Lowly.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 29, no. 1 (2012): 1–​19. Cohoe, Caleb. “Why the View of the Intellect in De Anima 1.4 Is Not Aristotle’s Own.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 26, no. 2 (2018): 241–​54. Cottingham, John. “The Question of Ageing.” Philosophic Papers 41, no. 3 (2012): 371–​96. Fossheim, Hallvard. “Aristotle on Happiness and Old Age.” In The Quest for the Good Life, edited by Oyvind Rabbas, Eyjolfur K. Emilsson, Hallvard Fossheim, and Miira Tuominen, 113–​26. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Kaufman, Sharon R., Janet K. Shim, and Ann J. Russ. “Revisiting the Biomedicalization of Aging.” The Gerontologist 44, no. 6 (2004): 731–​8.

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Aristotle  59 Lear, Gabriel Richardson. “Aristotle on Happiness and Long Life.” In The Quest for the Good Life, edited by Oyvind Rabbas, Eyjolfur K. Emilsson, Hallvard Fossheim, and Miira Tuominen, 127–​45. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Mole, Christopher. “The Good of Friendship at the End of Life.” International Journal of Philosophical Studies 23, no. 4 (2015): 445–​59. Nussbaum, Martha C. “Aging and Control in King Lear.” In Aging Thoughtfully, edited by Martha C. Nussbaum and Saul Levmore, 8–​23. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Payne, Tom. The Ancient Art of Growing Old. London: Vintage, 2015. Robinson, Daniel N. “Rhetoric and Character in Aristotle.” Review of Metaphysics 60, no. 1 (2006): 3–​15. Small, Helen. The Long Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Wortley, John. “Geriatric Pathology à L’ancienne.” International Journal of Aging and Human Development 53, no. 3 (2001): 167–​79. Yu, Junhong, Simon L. Collinson, Tau Ming Liew, Tze-​Pin Ng, Rathi Mahendran, Ee-​Heok Kua, and Lei Feng. “Super-​Cognition in Aging: Cognitive Profiles and Associated Lifestyle Factors.” Applied Neuropsychology: Adult 27, no. 6 (2019): 1–​7.

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6  The Buddha, Death, and Taxes Matthew J. Moore

Now I too am subject to old age and decay … I too am subject to disease … I too am subject to death. —​Sukhamala Sutta (AN 3.38; The Book of the Gradual Sayings, Vol. I, 129)

The story of the Four Sights is an important episode in the semi-​mythical life of Siddhattha Gotama, the historical Buddha (c. 500–​300 BCE ). In the oldest layer of texts, the Pāli Canon, the story is told by Siddhattha Gotama in the Mahâpadāna Sutta about a previous Buddha (there have been many) named Prince Vipassī, and his comments about his own life are simpler and more direct, as recounted in the Sukhamala Sutta. Later texts turn the Vipassī story into a story about Siddhattha Gotama himself.1 Both versions aim at the same point: part of the transition from childhood to adulthood, or from ignorance to awareness, is the recognition of old age, illness, and death as real and inevitable facts of human life. This recognition leads some thoughtful people to pursue a life of serenity and kindness, and in particular led Siddhattha to seek enlightenment as a way to escape a life filled with suffering. According to this interpretation, old age, sickness, and death are what gave rise to Buddhism as a religion/​philosophy/​body of practices.

Introduction Although the Buddha discusses old age and sickness in many places, death plays a special role in Buddhism, particularly when we consider the significance of death for Buddhist political thought. Speaking very generally, we find death playing (at least) the following five roles in Buddhism: 1 Death as the ultimate source of political power (power = coercion = violence = threat of death); 2 Death as the moment of moral reckoning (and thus as a kind of equalizer, the time when justice is done to all); 3 Death as the symbol or fact of human finitude (there are limits to what we can do, and an inherent impermanence in our individual identities); 4 Death as the source of meaning (given finitude, all choices are tragic, and we are defined by what we choose); 5 Death as the moment of transition to the next life, afterlife, or next incarnation, and possibly an opportunity to make choices. We might say that these roles are “structural,” in the sense that the real significance of death is filled in by the particular views of each Buddhist/​political thinker. Thus many DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-7

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Buddha  61 thinkers may agree that death is the ultimate source of political power, but some might celebrate that fact, while others might accept it as true but normatively neutral, and yet others might lament it. The Buddha more or less explicitly comments on all of these roles or functions of death in his teachings. His views arise from his unique set of underlying beliefs, particularly his belief in a kind of reincarnation, his denial that there is a self,2 and his view (on my reading) that morality is hypothetical rather than categorical—​in other words, that moral truths represent advice about how to achieve an optional goal, not duties to be fulfilled regardless of the consequences.3 Thus his ideas about death, and particularly the political significance of death, are, on the one hand, similar to those of Western thinkers—​Thomas Hobbes agrees that fear of death is the ultimate source of political power; nearly all Christian thinkers believe that death is the moment of moral reckoning; Friedrich Nietzsche emphasizes the idea that death is both the symbol and the fact of human finitude (though he rebels against that finitude); many Western thinkers see death as the source of meaning in life; and Plato also sees death as one final opportunity to choose (as discussed below). Yet the Buddha’s ideas about death are also profoundly different from those of Western thinkers—​death is the ultimate source of political power, but the Buddha does not see that resulting in the war of all against all, nor does he see the creation of an absolute monarch as the solution to this situation; death is a moment of moral reckoning, but because the Buddha believes in reincarnation, it is not the final moment of moral reckoning, but merely one in a numberless chain; similarly, although death does (usually) represent the end of personality and identity, it is not the end of existence; further, since existence recurs after death, life is given meaning by death, but it can be given new meanings by new births, and its ultimate meaning comes from escaping both birth and death; finally, for some Buddhists, death represents not merely another chance to choose, but one last chance to change.

Summary of the Buddha’s Key Teachings As a preliminary comment, I should note that Buddhism is a large and complex intellectual tradition. This chapter is influenced most strongly by the Theravāda school of Buddhism, most common in southern Asia; occasions when I borrow elements from other schools are acknowledged in the chapter. The aspects of Buddhism that I discuss would be familiar to any Buddhist, though some might see them as more or less important than I do, and might emphasize other aspects that I have omitted. It is also true that the oldest layer of texts in the Buddhist tradition, the Pāli Canon, was compiled roughly 2,000 years ago in a society very different from the contemporary United States, and I am reading these texts in translation.4 Thus, although the interpretation of Buddhism that I put forward is, I believe, reasonably derivable from the ancient texts, and thus is a Buddhist view on the issues I consider, it is certainly not the only Buddhist view, and I do not claim to be expressing the views of the historical Buddha, which are today unknowable. Siddhattha Gotama, the historical Buddha (the title means “awakened one”) inherited some basic concepts from the Vedic tradition that preceded him (and which ultimately became modern Hinduism)—​that all beings are trapped in a cycle of birth–​death–​rebirth (saṃsāra); that one’s intentional, desire-​ driven actions accrue kamma (karma),5 which then determines one’s future incarnations; that it is possible to escape saṃsāra and achieve nibbāna (nirvana), through exhausting accrued kamma and acting with equanimity, which does not accrue additional kamma. But the Buddha also appears to reject some elements that are typically seen as essential parts of the Vedic system: that there are supernatural beings who created the universe (or its current order); that what moves from incarnation to

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62  Matthew J. Moore incarnation is an immortal soul or a fragment of an immortal godhead; that there is a self or essence at the core of beings and other phenomena.6 At the age of 29, the Buddha left his home, wife, and child to pursue spiritual enlightenment as a wandering ascetic. After several years of strenuous effort, the Buddha adopted what he called the middle way—​a path between luxuriating in the senses and the self-​ mortification that many ascetics practiced—​and soon achieved his goal. He then began what ultimately became a 45-​year career as a teacher. In what is recorded as his very first teaching, given to five ascetics whom he had befriended,7 the Buddha explained some central ideas that became the basis of the religion: the Four Noble Truths, of which the fourth is the Noble Eightfold Path. The Four Noble Truths are: Dukkha (suffering)—​that life is persistently unsatisfactory; that there is no way to prevent life from including unhappiness and pain. Samudaya (origin)—​that dukkha arises because of a conflict between what our minds want and what the world gives us. We want x but get y, and are resentful. We don’t want z but get z anyway, and are angry. We want y and get y, but eventually lose it again and are broken-​hearted, or waste our limited time with it by having anxiety about losing it. Niroda (cessation)—​that we could avoid dukkha if we could accept what the world gives us and not cling to what our minds want or flee from what they don’t want. In other words, while pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Magga (path)—​that we could learn to stop clinging to expectations by following the Noble Eightfold Path, which is cultivating: (1) right understanding; (2) right intention; (3) right speech; (4) right action; (5) right livelihood; (6) right effort; (7) right mindfulness; (8) right concentration. When applying these ideas to social and political analysis, I find it helpful to reframe them somewhat. From this perspective, the Buddha is telling us that life will inevitably involve pain, and that most of us will turn that pain into suffering. Every kind of suffering, from the irksome to the cataclysmic, has the same cause: the world gives us something different than what our mind wants, and the mind resists. There are only three possible responses: keep suffering; change the world; change your mind. Most of us just keep suffering, because we don’t even see that there is a choice. If we do see the choice, the Buddha implies, we are free to keep suffering, but only a fool would choose that path willingly. Further, on the vast majority of occasions, it will be difficult or impossible for us to change the world, and so our only practical option will be to change our minds. Meditation, for which Buddhism is usually best known to non-​Buddhists, is concentrated training in how to change our minds. Because the Buddha teaches that both kamma and rebirth are real, avoiding suffering takes on an ethical dimension. Actions that impose suffering on others are desire-​driven and intentional, and will thus accrue (negative) kamma. Kamma, on this view, is the natural consequences of action, a kind of self-​conditioning by which we lead ourselves to have certain desires or habits. Kamma will determine our next incarnation, with negative kamma leading to less pleasant incarnations in which enlightenment is (relatively) harder to achieve, and positive kamma leading to more pleasant incarnations in which enlightenment is (relatively) easier to achieve (though some rare, super-​human incarnations are so pleasant that they distract beings from enlightenment). Thus, every action that increases someone else’s suffering will also increase the actor’s suffering, and every action that relieves someone else’s suffering will lessen the actor’s suffering, in the long run. The universe ensures, as a matter of laws of nature rather than moral judgment, that everyone reaps what they sow, and in

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Buddha  63 this way death, along with the attendant reincarnation (for the unenlightened), acts as the moment of moral reckoning, and as a moral equalizer. Similarly, when faced with a policy or ethical choice, the implicit message seems clear: choose that option which results in the least suffering. Whether that makes the Buddha a kind of consequentialist is the subject of ongoing debate, which I do not pretend to resolve here.8 Rather, I propose that we take this principle as the Buddha’s pragmatic advice on how to make choices. This point overlaps with my claim that the Buddha’s ethical views are hypothetical (if you want x, do y) rather than categorical (you have a duty to do y). When the Buddha encourages us to act to avoid suffering, this is cast as advice: if you wish to suffer less and ultimately escape saṃsāra, then act to minimize everyone’s suffering, and yours will be lessened apace. But if you prefer to continue suffering, you are free to act otherwise. In effect, kamma and reincarnation, along with the impermanence of personal identity, make self-​interest and the interests of others identical, and thus turn what other ethical systems treat as a duty (treat others well) into obvious, good advice (reduce your own suffering through reducing the suffering of others).9 In a handful of passages in the ancient texts, the Buddha can be read to offer a normative theory of politics.10 This theory can be summarized in the following claims: 1 Politics, understood as creating institutions with the explicit authority and duty to legislate and adjudicate, will inevitably emerge due to human selfishness and conflict. Such a society is preferable to a social system in which politics does not exist, because it will lead to less suffering. 2 Political power can be exercised in two ways: through coercion, and through enlightened policymaking. The latter, which consists of minimizing sources of social conflict like poverty and violence, is always the better way to rule, but in essence only an enlightened ruler can pull it off, and most political power will be rooted in coercion (and thus the threat of death). 3 Thoughtful people will engage with politics as little as possible, since it can neither lead to enlightenment nor prevent one from reaching enlightenment. One should obey (just) laws and otherwise fulfill one’s civic duties, but active engagement with politics is most likely to be a hindrance to spiritual progress, since it will both occupy one’s time and encourage one to focus on the wrong things. 4 Among relatively enlightened people government can be directly democratic or even absent, since there will be little or no disagreement or misbehavior. But in a polity that governs ordinary people, government is necessary, and monarchy is the only plausible regime type.

Death, Finitude, and Tragedy Since I have already explained the way in which the Buddha sees death as the moment of moral reckoning, and as the basis (via coercion and violence) of politics, in the summary of his basic views above, I now turn to the issues of finitude and tragedy. One main reason that life inevitably includes suffering is the fact of impermanence—​as the Buddha repeatedly says, everything that comes into existence will eventually go out of existence.11 Thus clinging will always be a futile strategy for securing happiness, because anything we could cling to will eventually change, and particularly in the case of other living beings, will die. We may not personally witness this outcome, but once we know that it is inevitable, the knowledge will spoil our happiness even when the object of our clinging is still present. One might think that reincarnation partially resolves this problem, since all beings will be reincarnated in some way (and thus no one is ever really “gone”), and since “I” will persist

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64  Matthew J. Moore from incarnation to incarnation (and thus am perhaps a stable object for clinging). My interpretation of the Buddha’s response to these ideas is complex, and requires unpacking. First, on the idea that no one is ever really gone, the Buddha might accept that claim, but only if we accept that they never existed in the first place. What gives us pleasure, and what we cling to, are sensory experiences—​sensation and the objects that cause it. All objects of the senses came to be through prior causes, and will themselves cause other objects to arise in the future, but they do not have any self or essence. Thus my lover’s beauty may give me great pleasure, but it is merely a passing phenomenon, and after the lover’s death, that particular beauty will not exist again. If I cling to the beauty, I will suffer when it goes out of existence. What remains of my lover is what preceded them—​matter and energy—​which will become part of other beings, but none of them will be that same person. In this sense, personality or identity is a phenomenon, not an essence. A helpful simile is to think of people as being similar to hurricanes. Like hurricanes, we are organized compositions of matter and energy that come together for a limited period of time and have various effects on the world around us. At the end of our lives, our particular composition of matter and energy will fall apart, but both the matter and the energy are preserved and available to become parts of new compositions. Further, our environment will bear the effects of our passage, and thus we will help to determine what new compositions are possible and likely. Indeed, hurricanes are so similar to people that we give them names, but no one asks where the hurricane’s self goes when it blows itself out, and if some of the matter and energy that constituted one hurricane help to make up another, no one is tempted to say that the two hurricanes are the same hurricane, or that some essence has been transmitted between them. On my interpretation, the Buddha’s response to the second idea, that “I” exist from incarnation to incarnation and thus might be a stable object for clinging, is also complex. In a way, he again might agree that this is true, though he would turn it around to say that the experience of “I” is what causes us to enter into a new incarnation, and thus keeps us trapped in saṃsāra. The feeling of being a continuous self arises from the fact that our sense experiences are linked—​at every moment there is some sensation or thought that occupies my mind, and from that continuity of experiences I impute the existence of a continuous subject to experience them. A better understanding would be that human beings are systems of matter and energy that are capable of conscious reflection on experience, of memory, and of anticipation. Our natural condition, like that of all animals, is to be driven by appetite and aversion based on our sense experiences. Each moment of our lives, we experience a complex set of sensory and mental stimuli, some caused by external objects and some caused by our own previous mental states. Our belief that there must be an “experiencer” who experiences our experience is false, though perhaps understandable and possibly even necessary for our survival as animals. The belief in a self gives rise to a kind of mental momentum, which unites the experiences into an apparently single subjectivity. But sometimes we can see the falsity of that idea. For example, think of some time that you walked into another room, only to realize when you got there that you couldn’t remember what had prompted you to go in the first place. You started walking on the assumption that the intention that started the trip would still be present in your mind when you arrived, but the discontinuity of your experience got in the way, and you kept moving only due to momentum. That momentum is what links moment-​by-​moment experience into the belief in a self. It is also what makes reincarnation both possible and inevitable for the unenlightened. Desires and mental intentions (craving, clinging) create the momentum, even at the moment of the death of the body. The momentum has to go somewhere, and so it goes into the body of a new being and brings it to life. In contrast, someone who has learned to live and act with

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Buddha  65 dispassionate equanimity may not have any such desire or mind-​driven momentum at the moment of death (they have no kamma, either good or bad) and thus when the body dies there is nothing to spark a new being into existence. They have achieved nibbāna, about which the Buddha was remarkably vague, refusing to classify it as life or death, existence or non-​existence.12 The momentum that sparks a new incarnation to life (the same momentum that had previously unified experience into an “I”) appears to bring with it some degree of memory and personality, but not all of either—​thus, one is typically not aware of one’s previous incarnations, and one’s personal characteristics (gender, class, caste, species, temperament) can vary dramatically among incarnations. What determines the particulars of the new incarnation is the complex combination of desire and intention that the momentum represents (i.e., kamma). To return to the example, when we go into another room and then can’t remember why, we often have a clear sense that our destination was this particular room (the kitchen, the garage), even if we can’t recall what it was we wanted in that room. Roughly the same thing is true with the momentum that sparks a new incarnation: we desire something and thus are drawn to an incarnation that seems likely to fulfill the desire. But, of course, we typically “wake up” in our new incarnation with no recollection of what had brought us here, and then get on with the business of living, which is endlessly fascinating and distracting. Thus every person alive today has had many previous incarnations, about which they typically know nothing, but the kamma of which still affects them. Despite the fact that most of us have no recollection of our previous lives, the enlightened are said to be able to remember their previous incarnations. Thus there are many stories in the ancient texts about the Buddha’s previous incarnations,13 and other arahants (people who have achieved enlightenment before death) are depicted as having some memories of previous lives. This suggests that some degree of personality and memory are preserved from incarnation to incarnation, but also that it requires the development of substantial spiritual powers to access them in any direct or conscious way. For the vast majority of us, death really is the end of the particular phenomenon that is you, as your thoughts, hopes, and aspirations die with you, though your accumulated kamma kindles another composition of matter and energy into life. Thus although “you” may be part of a long succession of incarnations, this does not have the effect of giving you infinite choices or infinite opportunities for experience. For the Buddha, on this reading, in almost all cases, death signifies finality for personality, and thus real finitude for human life. It also signifies the end of an excellent opportunity to achieve enlightenment. Beings in super-​human incarnations (gods, though they are neither immortal nor the creators of anything) tend to lose sight of the goal of developing the ability to act dispassionately, largely because life as a god is so pleasant and lasts so long. Conversely, beings in lower incarnations are usually too preoccupied with eating and avoiding being eaten to spare much thought toward spiritual improvement.14 A human birth allows the best opportunity for making progress toward enlightenment, because we have the ability to choose, and because we are not blinded by either pain or pleasure. For this reason, death has urgency for the Buddha—​you are unlikely to be reincarnated as a human being,15 so you should seize this chance to make progress. Thus, in any human life, choices are tragic—​choosing x is always also not choosing y—​and our lives are shaped and given meaning by these choices. For almost everyone, choosing to become a doctor means choosing not to become a pirate, and that choice will affect all one’s future choices. Perhaps kamma and reincarnation make our choices doubly tragic, since the choices themselves are partially determined by choices made in prior incarnations, and thus our choices are typically at least partly out of our immediate, conscious control.

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66  Matthew J. Moore This is a good place to note one of the most controversial issues about kamma: do people deserve what they experience in life, since it is the fruit of their own prior actions? This is a difficult question for any system of thought that involves reincarnation (either bodily or spiritual) determined by prior choices. The Buddha’s answer appears to reject the question as unhelpful. Thus when he discusses the Vedic conception of caste, the Buddha rejects the idea that human social hierarchy is deserved or kammically inevitable, and instead depicts it as functional and arbitrary.16 This position is reinforced by the Buddha’s personal disregard for caste distinctions, evidenced by numerous ancient texts.17 Yet the Buddha clearly does teach that each incarnation is conditioned by one’s previous incarnations, and thus on some level one has chosen who and what one is. This is another place where the Buddha’s pragmatism cuts through what might otherwise be a logical dilemma. His attitude seems to be that there is nothing to be gained from treating one’s current condition as fated or unchangeable, and instead he encourages people of every caste to seek enlightenment in this incarnation.18

Death as Opportunity Plato’s Republic ends with the Myth of Er, a parable in which souls are permitted to choose their next incarnation.19 The wise choose thoughtfully, and have happy next lives, while the foolish choose rashly, and suffer the consequences of their short-​sightedness. Some schools of Buddhism envision a similar phenomenon, perhaps best known in its Tibetan incarnation as the Bardo, which is a period of awareness and personality that lasts for a time after death, before one’s next incarnation.20 During this period, one may be able to attain new spiritual insights by reflecting on one’s life and choices. Whereas for Plato one had already made all the progress one could during one’s life, for the Tibetan Buddhists one has a last chance to improve after death. The Bardo is also strikingly different from mainstream interpretations of Christianity and Islam, where one gets one lifetime to get things right and an eternity to regret having gotten them wrong, but no opportunity for meaningful growth and redemption.

Conclusion So what is the political significance of illness, old age, and death in the teachings of the Buddha? First, as the narrative in my prelude reveals, it is the existence of these three things—​ illness, old age, and death—​that gives rise to Buddhism itself, since they are what prompted the historical Buddha to seek enlightenment. Mortality is the impetus for philosophy. Within the teachings of the Buddha, death in particular plays several additional roles. First, death is the ultimate basis of political power, since most power will rest on coercion and thus on the threat of death. Second, death is a moment of moral equalization, when everyone gets what they deserve through the laws of kamma. Third, although the enlightened are apparently an exception, for the vast majority of us death is the end of memory and personality, and thus represents the fact of finitude for human beings. Fourth, because death imposes finitude, human choices are tragic—​we can’t do everything, what we do defines us and gives our lives meaning, and our choices are largely determined by choices in prior incarnations. Fifth, at least for some Buddhists, death represents a final opportunity to make spiritual progress before reincarnation. How do these views affect the Buddha’s ideas about the typical concerns of political theory—​ power, authority, individual rights, natural freedoms, human nature, justice, equality and inequality? The key to understanding the application of his teachings to these

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Buddha  67 issues, in my view, is to keep the focus on minimizing suffering. Thus the exercise of political power is justified by the fact that there will be less suffering with power than without it. Authority derives from knowledge of truth (dhammā), though that knowledge does not justify additional exercises of power, and in fact overall moves in the opposite direction, creating an obligation to rule through non-​coercive policymaking. There is a large literature and scholarly disagreement on the Buddha’s view on individual rights.21 Due to limitations of space, here I will simply state my interpretation without extensive argument: there are no individual rights, both because there are no individuals and because there are no deontological moral rights or duties. But, people all suffer in similar ways and for similar reasons, and making others suffer will ultimately make you suffer, while reducing their suffering will also reduce yours, so acting in the way that rights theories suggest is ultimately powerfully in your self-​interest. Roughly the same justification applies to natural freedoms—​they don’t exist, but the law of kamma makes acting as if they existed by far the best strategy. Justice is another hotly debated topic, and I will again simply state my own view: kamma ensures that justice is always done in the end, because everyone gets what they have chosen. Equality and inequality are significant only to the extent that they exacerbate or alleviate suffering, and kamma ensures that everyone’s interests and actions are weighed equally. Finally, we come to the question of human nature. As mentioned above, our nature is to be driven by greed (desire for), hatred (desire against), and ignorance. As long as our actions are driven by this unreflective nature, we are trapped in saṃsāra. If we are able to develop equanimity, and to act from equanimity and reflection rather than desire, we may cease to generate kamma and slowly make our way toward enlightenment and nibbāna. Politics and government can help us or hinder us on this path, though they cannot ultimately either ensure our enlightenment or prevent it. The wise will not fear death or taxes, but rather will only fear saṃsāra.22

Notes 1 See brief discussion at Siderits, 17. 2 This interpretation, while widespread, is not universally accepted: for two contemporary, thorough explications of a contrary view, see Albahari and Pérez Remón. For a critical overview of earlier literature, see the Introduction to Collins. 3 See Moore, esp. Ch. 6. 4 A note on translations: the Pāli Text Society (PTS) published the first complete Pāli edition of these texts in the West, and also the first English translations of most of them. The PTS edition is invaluable, and the pagination of its volumes is a standard way to refer to parts of the texts, like Stephanus numbering for the works of Plato. For some texts, the PTS edition remains the only complete translation, or the most reliable. For others, newer translations have been made, building from the pioneering work of the PTS. Where they are available and have been well received by scholars, I tend to use these newer, somewhat more readable, and in places apparently more accurate, translations. 5 Technically they accrue the fruits of kamma, which itself simply means “action.” 6 See Dhamma-​niyama Sutta (AN 3.134), Book of the Gradual Sayings, 264–​5. 7 The Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta; see Bodhi, SN 56.11, 1843–​7. 8 See Goodman. 9 Some contemporary Buddhists, especially in the West, see reincarnation as metaphorical rather than literal (see Coleman, 122). It isn’t clear whether this view supports the identification of interests that I am arguing for here. 10 The early texts that are relevant to normative political theory are the Aggañña-​Sutta (Walshe, DN 27, 407–​15), the Cakkavatti-​Sīhanāda Sutta (Walshe, DN 26, 395–​405), the Mahāsudassana Sutta (Walshe, DN 17, 279–​90), the beginning of the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta (Walshe, DN 16, 231–​77), and various discussions in the Jātaka Tales about the ten duties of the righteous king (the

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68  Matthew J. Moore Rajādhamma), such as in Jātaka 385 (Cowell, 174). For a more in-​depth explanation of these texts and their political significance, see Moore, esp. Ch. 1. 11 The Buddha’s last words were “Now, monks, I declare to you: all conditioned things are of a nature to decay—​strive on untiringly” (Walshe, DN 16, 270). 12 For a compendium of the Buddha’s teachings on nibbāna, see Pasanno and Amaro. 13 The Jātaka tales. 14 “Because here … there is no conduct guided by the Dhamma, no righteous conduct, no meritorious activity. Here there prevails mutual devouring, the devouring of the weak” (Bodhi, SN 56.47, 1871). 15   [S]‌uppose a man would throw a yoke with a single hole into the great ocean, and there was a blind turtle which would come to the surface once every hundred years … Sooner, I say, would that blind turtle … insert its neck into that yoke … than the fool who has gone once to the nether world [would regain] the human state (Bodhi, SN 56.47, 1871) 16 See the Aggañña-​Sutta at Walshe, DN 27, 407–​15. 17 For example, see the Assalayana Sutta (MN 93). 18   Now since both dark and bright qualities, which are blamed and praised by the wise, are scattered indiscriminately among the four castes, the wise do not recognise the claim about the Brahmin caste being the highest [… because] anyone from the four castes who becomes a monk, an Arahant who has destroyed the corruptions, who has lived the life, done what had to be done, laid down the burden, reached the highest goal, destroyed the fetter of becoming, and become emancipated through super-​knowledge—​he is proclaimed supreme … (Walshe, DN 27, 408). 19 20 21 22

See Plato, 614b–​621d, 838–​44. See Lopez. See Keown, Prebish, and Husted. In the Mahāyāna and Vajrayāna schools of Buddhism, enlightened beings (bodhisattvas) voluntarily choose rebirth out of a commitment to helping all beings escape from saṃsāra.

References Albahari, Miri. “Against No-​Ātman Theories of Anattā.” Asian Philosophy 12, no. 1 (2002): 5–​20. Assalayana Sutta. Translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu. (MN 93.) www.accesstoinsight.org/​tipitaka/​ mn/​mn.093.than.html, 2010. Bodhi, Bhikkhu. The Connected Discourses of the Buddha: A Translation of the Saṃyutta Nikāya. Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2000. Coleman, James W. The New Buddhism: The Western Transformation of an Ancient Tradition. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Collins, Steven. Selfless Persons: Imagery and Thought in Theravāda Buddhism. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Cowell, E. B. (ed.). The Jataka: Or, Stories of the Buddha’s Former Births. 6 vols. Vol. III. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1897. Goodman, Charles. Consequences of Compassion: An Interpretation and Defense of Buddhist Ethics. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Keown, Damien V., Charles S. Prebish, and Wayne R. Husted. Buddhism and Human Rights. Curzon Critical Studies in Buddhism. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 1998. Lopez, Donald S. “The Tibetan Book of the Dead”: A Biography. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011. Moore, Matthew J. Buddhism and Political Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Pasanno, Ajahn, and Ajahn Amaro. The Island: An Anthology of the Buddha’s Teachings on Nibbāna. Redwood Valley, CA: Abhayagiri Monastic Foundation, 2009. Pérez Remón, Joaquín. Self and Non-​Self in Early Buddhism. The Hague: Mouton Publishers, 1980.

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Buddha  69 Plato. The Collected Dialogues of Plato. Edited by Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961. Siderits, Mark. Buddhism as Philosophy: An Introduction. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2007. The Book of the Gradual Sayings (Anguttara-​Nikāya) or More-​Numbered Sayings. Translated by F.L. Woodward. 5 vols. Vol. I. Oxford: Pali Text Society, 1935. Walshe, Maurice. The Long Discourses of the Buddha: A Translation of the Dīgha Nikāya. Boston: Wisdom Publications, 1995.

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7  Flourishing toward Dissolution Epicurus on the Resilience of Tranquility Alex R Gillham

Epicurus (341–​271 B C E ) founded Epicureanism, one of the three most prominent philosophical schools in the Hellenistic period, which begins with the death of Alexander the Great in 322 B C E . The Epicureans are atomists and tranquilists; they think, respectively, that everything is composed of atoms, and that freedom from bodily and mental pain is the ultimate purpose of life. Epicurus wrote prolifically but unfortunately very little of his work survives. Diogenes Laertius, a biographer of Greek philosophers who lived in the third century C E , copied three of Epicurus’ personal letters that summarize Epicurus’ views. One of these letters contains forty mantras that Epicureans used to buttress ethical teachings, which later commentators named The Principal Doctrines. There is also another set of mantras summarizing Epicurean views that were latter named the Vatican Sayings, so called because they were discovered in a fourteenth-​century Vatican manuscript. In this chapter, I reconstruct Epicurus’ accounts of death and dying (and the attitudes he thinks we should adopt in the face of mortality) from the personal letters, Principal Doctrines, and Vatican Sayings.1 With some exception, most scholars take these texts to reflect Epicurus’ own views fairly.2 Epicurus’ accounts of death and dying follow from his atomism and tranquilism, so I begin the chapter with a discussion of why he thinks that everything is composed of atoms and that freedom from bodily and mental pain is the ultimate purpose of human life. Epicurus argues that death is the cessation of vital functions that results in nonexistence and that dying is the gradual loss of these vital functions. In turn, he goes on to argue that our own deaths cannot be good or bad for us, so we ought to be indifferent toward them. Dying could be bad for us, but we can make ourselves immune to its potential harms to the extent that we develop a resilient tranquility, one that makes us practically invulnerable to almost all bodily and mental pain.

Epicurean Metaphysics and Ethics In order to understand what death and dying are for a human, we must first understand what a human is. Epicurus argues that everything is composed of two kinds of bodies, atoms and compounds of atoms.3 Atoms are unchangeable bits of matter. They vary only in their shapes weights, and sizes. Compounds are arrangements of atoms. Humans are arrangements of atoms and thus compounds. Most of the phenomena that humans experience are compounds of atoms. The books on my desk are compounds of atoms, the desk itself is a compound of atoms, and so is the building in which I am writing this. According to Epicurus, the way that compounds behave depends on the properties and arrangement of the atoms composing them. For example, one book on my desk is red because of the properties and arrangement of its constituent atoms.4 DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-8

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Epicurus  71 In order to understand which attitude we should adopt toward death and dying, we must first understand what Epicurus thinks the good is. A telos is an end or a goal. For example, writing this chapter is a telos of mine. Most telē are worth pursuing for the sake of something else. I am writing this chapter, for example, because it helps me to accomplish my goal of understanding Epicureanism and teaching others about it. A final telos, on the other hand, is worth pursuing for its own sake. According to Epicurus, eudaimonia is the final telos; “if [eudaimonia] is present we have everything and if it is absent we do everything in order to have it.”5 According to Epicurus, we do everything for the sake of accomplishing this final telos, and when we achieve it, we have done everything worth doing. Stated differently, for Epicurus living and faring well is our ultimate aim in life, our main objective, and an end that is not a stepping stone to another. For Epicurus, faring well is living a pleasant life. In this respect, Epicurus is a hedonist. He writes that, “pleasure is the starting-​point and goal of living blessedly. For we recognized this as our first innate good, and this is our starting point for every choice and avoidance.”6 All of our choices should aim for pleasure. Pleasure comes in two basic kinds: kinetic and katastematic. Kinetic pleasures are the good feelings we experience while satisfying some desire, e.g., eating while hungry. Katastematic pleasures are the good feelings that result from satisfying some desire, e.g., not being hungry after eating. Epicurus recommends aiming for tranquility, which is the complete freedom from bodily and mental pain. Thus Epicurus writes, “So when we say that pleasure is the goal we do not mean the pleasures of the profligate or the pleasures of consumption … but rather the lack of pain in the body and disturbance in the soul.”7 The human telos is freedom from bodily and mental pain. Therefore Epicurus endorses tranquilism as a subspecies of hedonism. For we do everything for the sake of being neither in pain nor in terror. As soon as we achieve this state every storm in the soul is dispelled, since the animal is not in a position to go after some need nor to seek something else to complete the good of the body and the soul.8 Eudaimonia is the final telos, but eudaimonia just is tranquility, or the freedom from bodily and mental pain. This means that although kinetic and katastematic pleasures are worth pursuing, we ought to focus our efforts on achieving this final telos.

Epicurus on Death Death only happens to living substances. Living substances are animate because they have souls. For Epicurus, soul is “body made of up of fine parts distributed throughout the entire aggregate, and most closely resembling breath and in another way resembling heat.”9 Soul is a hot and airy substance distributed throughout an animal, giving it powers that non-​ animate substances lack. Epicurus is thus a functionalist about soul; he believes that souls are what make compounds possessing them perform various functions. The way in which soul is distributed throughout the aggregate awards it with certain powers. As Epicurus puts it: “All of this is revealed by the abilities of soul, its feelings, its ease of motion, its thought processes, and the things whose removal leads to our death.”10 Soul gives organisms their various powers (sentience, locomotion, and thinking) but not to all organisms equally. Many living things can move, but some can also feel, and of those who can feel, some can also think. Humans can do all three.11 In Ep. Hdt. 63, Epicurus defines death as the loss of abilities awarded by soul to the compound entity or aggregate, which happens when, “the entire aggregate is destroyed, [and]

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72  Alex R Gillham the soul is scattered and no longer has the same powers, nor can it move.”12 Once the soul departs, the aggregate loses the animation and powers it previously possessed. This provides a criterion for determining when death has occurred. We can conclude that an organism has died when it can no longer perform its vital functions facilitated by the soul. For Epicurus, then, death occurs when an organism loses its capacity to perform its vital functions, whatever these might be. Death, in the case of humans, results immediately in their nonexistence. Parts constituting what was that human remain for a while, including her body and the non-​scattered remnants of her soul. Eventually all of the matter composing that human aggregate dissolves. However, Epicurus seems to think that the moment of death brings about the end of one’s existence as an integrated whole. In fact, we might understand death for Epicurus simply as the event by which we as living aggregates cease to exist due to the loss of our ability to perform our vital functions. Understanding death as such puts us in a position to make sense of why Epicurus thinks that we should be indifferent toward our own deaths. Epicurus instructs Menoeceus to Get used to believing that death is nothing to us. For all good and bad consists in sense-​experience, and death is the privation of sense-​experience … So death, the most frightening of bad things, is nothing to us; since when we exist, death is not yet present, and when death is present, then we do not exist. Therefore, it is relevant neither to the living nor to the dead, since it does not affect the former, and the latter do not exist.13 Epicurus sees that many fear death. In Ep. Men. 124–​5 Epicurus uses hedonism to explain why they should not. If my death is bad for me, it must cause a painful sensation for me. Death cannot cause a painful sensation because there is no time at which our deaths are painful for us. Our deaths cannot be painful for us before they occur because they have not happened yet, and if they have not happened yet, then they cannot affect us.14 They cannot be painful for us after our deaths because death results in nonexistence. Once our deaths occur, we no longer are, and if we no longer are, then there is no sense in which something can be either good or bad for us. Another way to put this is that death cannot be bad for me after my death because there is no longer any subject of predication. Once my death happens, there is no me anymore, and if there is no me anymore, then nothing can be good or bad for me. Commentators sometimes call this Epicurus’ No Subject Argument (NSA). While I am still a subject, my death cannot be predicated of me as good or bad, for it has not happened yet. Once my death occurs, nothing can be predicated of me as good or bad, for I am no longer a subject. Epicurus captures the thrust of NSA succinctly: “when we exist, death is not yet present, and when death is present, then we do not exist.”15 Something must affect us to be good or bad for us, but death simply cannot affect us.16 The fact that my own death cannot be good or bad for me explains which attitude I should adopt toward my mortality.17 Since tranquility is the telos, we should build a life as devoid of bodily and mental pain as possible, although some pain is inevitable and even advisable. I discuss these qualifications later in the chapter. Fear of death causes mental pain for us, so we should eliminate it. For this reason, Epicurus writes in Ep. Hdt. that one must also conceive that the worst disturbance occurs in human souls [1]‌because of the opinion that these things [the heavenly phenomena] are blessed and indestructible and that they have wishes and undertake actions and exert causality in a manner inconsistent with those attributes, and [2] because of the eternal expectation and suspicion that something dreadful [might happen] such as the myths tell about, or [3] even because they fear that very lack of sense-​perception which occurs in death, as though it were relevant to them, and [4] because they are not in this state as a result of their

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Epicurus  73 opinions but because of some irrational condition; hence, not setting a limit on their dread, they suffer a disturbance equal to or even greater than what they would suffer if they actually held these opinions. And freedom from disturbance is a release from all of this and involves a continuous recollection of the general and most important points [of the system].18 In order to achieve tranquility, I must realize that everything has a naturalistic explanation, that the gods are not out to get me, that my death cannot affect me, and that my beliefs are up to me. Thus, tranquility requires that we adopt an attitude of indifference toward death. The NSA helps us achieve this stance, reminding us that death cannot be good or bad for us, thereby increasing our tranquility.

Objections and Responses Many recent philosophers reject Epicureanism because they think it obvious that death is sometimes bad for those who die. Deprivationists, for example, believe that death is bad for those who die because, and to the extent that, it deprives them of goods that they would have experienced if they lived longer.19 On the other hand, death is good for those who die because, and to the extent that, it prevents them from suffering evils that they would have experienced if they lived longer. Thus, from this perspective, we can determine whether a person’s actual death was good or bad for her (and to what extent), by considering what probably would have happened to that person if she had not died. Travis Timmerman offers a helpful explanation of how we go about doing this. “By looking at the most likely counterfactual alternative where an individual does not die, we can see exactly what death deprives its victims of and, consequently, we can measure how bad each person’s death is for them.”20 Whether and how bad my death is for me depends on how my life would have gone if I had continued to live. The better my life would have gone, the worse my death was for me. If living longer would have meant becoming far worse off, then my death was good for me. Epicurus has a reply to the deprivationist argument. Since tranquility is the limit of pleasure and pleasure is the only intrinsic good, death cannot deprive the truly tranquil person of any goods.21 As KD III explains, “The removal of all feeling of pain is the limit of the magnitude of pleasure.” Once we remove all bodily and mental pain, there is no further pleasure to pursue. However, pleasure is the only intrinsic good, so once we eliminate all bodily and mental pain, our lives cannot get any better. Thus Epicurus concludes in Ep. Men. 128 that we do everything for the sake of being neither in pain nor terror, and that once we achieve this state, there is nothing to pursue, nothing to seek, nothing to complete the good of the body and soul. Life cannot improve beyond tranquility, so death does not deprive the tranquil of any goods. One might take this to imply that suicide is advisable after achieving tranquility. After all, if life cannot improve beyond tranquility, and death is not bad for us, then perhaps we ought to choose to exit life after achieving the telos. Epicurus rejects this. He writes that, the many sometimes flee death as the greatest of bad things and sometimes choose it as a relief from the bad things in life. But the wise man neither rejects life nor fears death. For living does not offend him, nor does he believe not living to be something bad.22 Consequently, Epicureans go on living even after achieving the limit and magnitude of pleasure because there is nothing offensive in life, so that even if deprivationism were true, death would not be bad for Epicureans who achieve tranquility insofar as it cannot deprive them of any goods they do not already enjoy.

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74  Alex R Gillham The deprivationist might further respond to this line of argument that death is bad even for the tranquil because it deprives them of a longer life of tranquility. KD XIX has a response to this claim as well: “Unlimited time and limited time contain equal [amounts of] pleasure, if one measures its limits by reasoning.” Suppose I enjoy tranquility for two days and my friend enjoys it for three. If my friend’s tranquility is better than mine, there must be some reason to prefer it. Since the Epicureans are hedonists, they could only prefer one over the other if it were more pleasant, but three tranquil days is no more pleasant than two. Since tranquility consists in the absence of bodily and mental pain, and my friend and I both experience no bodily or mental pain, it follows that she has no greater share of pleasure than me, even if hers lasts longer. After all, she cannot possess a greater amount of an absence of something. This is why KD XX concludes that “the intellect … provided us with the perfect way of life and had no further need of unlimited time.” Since pleasure is freedom from bodily and mental pain, unlimited time is no better than limited time. The task of living the best life is achievable in a finite period of time, even a short one. Once we understand that we can live a maximally good life in a short period of time and that greater duration is irrelevant, we realize that death cannot deprive us of anything that would have made our lives better. As a consequence of this knowledge, there simply are no further goods for us to enjoy beyond tranquility, and more time does not improve the lives of the tranquil.23

Epicurus on Dying Epicurus defines dying nowhere in the extant writings. In our treatment of his account of death, we saw that humans are awarded certain powers (locomotion, sentience, and rationality) by their material souls, and that death is a ceasing to exist because of the loss of these powers.24 This happens when the soul is removed from the aggregate it animated.25 Consequently, we can infer that dying must be the aggregate’s gradual loss of vital powers due to the soul’s departure from the body. On this definition, dying is a process that results in the event of death. Epicurus never explains why dying happens. Since he is an atomist, the departure of our souls from the aggregates that we are, and the consequent loss of the vital powers that our souls award us, probably occur because of degeneration in our atomic structure. A healthy aggregate is one that functions normally because all of its parts work together to enable the aggregate to perform the functions typical of its kind. As we near our deaths, we lose the capacity to perform these functions because our bodies break down. According to Epicurus, everything in the cosmos is made of body and void. Everything dissolves. All existing things are just temporary configurations of atomic stuff that, when compounded in the right ways, can perform various functions. We continue to perform these functions until dissolution adequately takes its toll on us. Dying is the gradual loss of vital functions due to degeneration in atomic structure. The event of death completes this process. The soul departs the aggregate, which ceases to exist. As we have already seen, Epicurus mostly recommends an attitude of indifference toward dying.26 As a tranquilist, he is committed to the claim that something is bad for us only if it detracts from our freedom from bodily and mental pain. Thus, dying is only bad if it causes such pain. But dying will not cause mental pain for Epicureans. Since our own deaths cannot cause any mental pain for us, then neither should dying, at least not for those who fear dying because they mistakenly believe that their own deaths can be bad for them. After all, dying causes mental pain for most people because they know it results in death. However, since death cannot cause any mental pain for Epicureans, neither should dying. Whether dying causes bodily pain is another matter. To be clear: Epicurus does not think that tranquility requires absolute freedom from all bodily and mental pain. The embodiment

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Epicurus  75 of Epicurean teachings is the Sage. The Sage achieves tranquility, but if the Sage stubs her toe, it will certainly hurt. But the tranquil life is the best life, and the best life consists in experiencing as little pain as possible. Nevertheless, the best life is compatible with experiencing some of each. After all, Epicurus tells us that “even if the wise man is tortured on the rack, he is happy.”27 And if being tortured is compatible with being happy, then the lesser pains of dying are certainly compatible with being happy. Our happiness depends on whether we learn to manage pain appropriately, which requires accepting Epicurean doctrines and cultivating a resilient disposition. The Sage learns to maintain her tranquility amidst pains. Insofar as we learn to do so, we make ourselves immune to any harm that dying could do to us. As a result, we are able to adopt an attitude of indifference toward dying. Even though it might involve considerable pain, we can cultivate a tranquility that is resilient to the harm that dying is capable of doing to us. Consequently, whether dying is bad for us depends on how well we learn to manage its pains. To this effect, KD IV reminds us that “the feeling of pain does not linger continuously in the flesh; rather the sharpest is present for the shortest time.” Intense pain is short-​lived, and long-​lived pain is not very intense. If this is true, then pain is manageable. If pain is manageable, then our tranquility is maintainable. Epicurus purports to have proven this in his own life: I write this to you while experiencing a blessedly happy day, and at the same time the last day of my life. Urinary blockages and dysenteric comforts afflict me which could not be surpassed for their intensity. But against all these things are ranged the joy in my soul produced by recollections of the discussions we have had.28 Epicurus dies in what he considers the worst pain possible. Nevertheless, he claims to be having a blessedly happy day. As a therapeutic strategy, he combats physical pain by remembering conversations with friends. After an illness of 14 days, Epicurus gets in a bath, tosses back some strong wine, tells his friends to remember his teachings, and dies.29 Toward the end of life, the maintenance of tranquility calls for more than memories of friends. Epicurus needs something stronger to manage his pain. Nevertheless, we are left with the portrait of someone who dies with dignity, albeit a very Epicurean notion of dignity. Dying poses obstacles for Epicurus’ tranquility, but he responds to them in a way that allows for its maintenance. Epicurus thus thinks that we can equip ourselves to deal with the bodily and mental pain caused by dying so that it does not detract from our tranquility. Since something can only be bad for us insofar as it detracts from our tranquility, and since tranquility is a condition of freedom that we can cultivate, it follows that we can make ourselves rather immune to the harm that dying could do to us. So far in this chapter, we have focused on what those who are dying can do to manage their pains. We must also consider how others play a vital role in this regard.

Epicurus on Friendship Epicurus develops a robust account of friendship to address this issue. Friendship is indispensable for eudaimonia. KD XXVII says that “Of the things which wisdom provides for the blessedness of one’s whole life, by far the greatest is the possession of friendship.” The reason that friendship is so indispensable for eudaimonia is that friends help us to feel secure. KD XXVIII tells us that “The same understanding produces confidence about there being nothing terrible which is eternal or [even] long-​lasting and has also realized that security amid even those limited [bad things] is most easily achieved

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76  Alex R Gillham through friendship.” Here we are reminded that nothing bad is very long-​lasting, and we are told that we can feel secure in the face of these bad things with the help of friends. All of these examples speak to the same point: even when we achieve tranquility, we remain liable to bodily and mental pain. The main reason to have friends is that they can help us to manage these and thus maintain our tranquility. At the very least, our friends are there to sympathize with us. VS 66 instructs us thusly: “Let us share our friends’ suffering not with laments but with thoughtful concern.” Our friends offer sympathy to us when we experience bodily and mental pain. Even further, they will comfort us when this happens. This is why VS 34 tells us that “We do not need utility from our friends so much as we need confidence concerning that utility.” The value of having friends is derived not only from the fact that they help us out, but also from the comfort we feel knowing that our friends will be there for us during difficult times. With this help and knowledge, we are equipped to face the future and whatever bodily and mental pain it might involve, steadfast in our tranquility.30 We have a reciprocal obligation to help our friends. Although we derive incredible benefits from having friends, friendship requires us to return these favors. If we were unwilling to return the favor, the friendship would cease to exist, and we would no longer enjoy its benefits. Some of these obligations, including our capacity for sympathy, will be rather demanding. VS 56–​7 tell us that “The wise man feels no more pain when he is tortured 31 his friend, his entire life will be confounded and utterly upset because of a lack of confidence.” We must treat the pain of our friends as if it were our own, even to the point where we feel agony when they are tortured. We must be willing to die for our friends in certain circumstances. As such, the demands of friendship are incredibly strong. The strength of our friends’ commitment to us has consequences for how we can approach dying. Epicureans can die serenely. They have trained themselves to eliminate all sources of mental pain and to endure physical agony with grace. In turn, any pain that dying might cause is unlikely to unnerve them. In the rare event that they are unable to manage the pains of dying, their friends are there to comfort them, and even when they are not, the knowledge of the relationship is comforting. Because of their own resilience and the palliative assistance of friends, Epicureans build lives of tranquility resilient to nearly all harm, making themselves invulnerable to dying. In fact, beyond developing supportive friendships, Epicurus thinks that whole communities ought to be structured in a way that enables its members to succeed in their pursuit and maintenance of tranquility. For this reason, the Epicureans lived among one another in small communities apart from non-​Epicureans. Most of these communities were probably modeled after the society of Epicureans that Epicurus himself established on the outskirts of Athens, which he called The Garden. The aim of these communities was to enjoy the security that comes from withdrawal from the masses. As I explain below, Epicureans just found it easier to live among those who share a common telos and rejected popular convention. Withdrawal from mainstream society pays additional dividends. KD XIV says that “The purest security is that which comes from a quiet life and withdrawal from the many, although a certain degree of security from other men does come by means of the power to repel [attacks] and by means of prosperity.” In order to achieve tranquility, one must feel secure. In order to feel secure, one must be safe from threats and have the means to take care of oneself. What security requires most, however, is a quiet and simple life that can be lived most easily apart from the masses. The Epicureans considered baseless social conventions largely responsible for our lack of tranquility. Tranquility requires freedom from mental pain, but the pressures of society

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Epicurus  77 create many anxieties and fears that pose unnecessary obstacles for our eudaimonia. KD XXI reminds us that He who has learned the limits of life knows that it is easy to provide that which removes the feeling of pain owing to want and make one’s whole life perfect. So there is no need for things which involve struggle. All that we need to do to achieve eudaimonia is free ourselves from bodily and mental pain. This is easy to do once we realize how much pain results from having undertaken projects that are completely unnecessary for our happiness. We rid ourselves of the anxieties caused by the desires that society inculcates within us for wealth, honor, power, etc. by fleeing the masses and living among those who share our vision of how to flourish. We therefore choose to spend our lives doing Epicurean philosophy among fellow Epicureans, all of whom are our friends. Given the robust demands of Epicurean friendship, we can live out our days in total security, knowing that our friends will care for us through whatever pain arises. To sum up, Epicurus certainly sees that dying can be painful. Since pain detracts from tranquility, and tranquility is the telos, painful dying could detract from the goodness of life. In response, Epicurus develops strategies that, if followed, give us the capacity to maintain our eudaimonia through even intense physical and mental pain. First, we must remember that pain is manageable, since intense pain is usually short-​lived and long-​lasting pain is typically not intense. Second, even if the pains of dying are intense and long-​lasting, there are palliative measures to be taken. Epicurus himself tosses back some strong wine. Friends, however, do the heavy lifting. The sympathy and comfort that our friends provide to us make the pains of dying manageable. This is not to say that because of friends we do not experience pain. On the contrary, our friends help us to remain tranquil despite these pains. In turn, Epicureans isolate themselves from the pains that society may cause by living apart from the masses. The result is a community of individuals willing to go to great lengths for one another, a Garden of friends who help one another to continue living and faring well. Because they isolate themselves from the pains of living in society and have friends who are so dedicated to helping them, Epicureans develop a tranquility that is resilient to disruption. With Epicurus’ teachings and the help of friends, Epicureans die tranquilly, and so dying does not harm them. Epicurus’ arguments aim to show that death and dying cannot be bad for the person who dies. But he seems to think that our own death and dying could be bad for others, especially those close to us. Our deaths might be bad for our friends, and their deaths might be bad for us. We miss our friends who die, and our friends miss us when we die, and this can be rather painful. Since friends help one another to combat their own pains and worries, when we die our friends lose a resource in us for maintaining their own tranquility, and when our friends die we lose such a resource. Here again we must remember that tranquility is compatible with experiencing some pain. So long as we can weather the death of our friends and vice versa, death poses no insurmountable obstacles to the tranquility of those close to the deceased. The same goes for dying. Since Epicureans are willing to share their friends’ pains as intensely as their own, then my friends will willingly share in any pain associated with my dying, and the reverse. Nevertheless, the Sage maintains her tranquility in the face of whatever pain she and her friends experience, whether separately or jointly. The whole point of practicing Epicureanism is to cultivate this level of resilience. Consequently, while the death and dying of friends might be painful for one another, Epicureans train themselves to manage these pains in a way that enables them to maintain their grasp on life’s ultimate prize: tranquility.

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Notes 1 All references to primary texts use the following abbreviations: Ep. Hdt. (Letter to Herodotus); Ep. Men. (Letter to Menoeceus); DL (Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of Eminent Philosophers); VS (Vatican Sayings); KD (Principal Doctrines). All translations of primary texts are from The Epicurus Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia. 2 Occasionally scholars dispute whether particular mantras from KD or VS reflect Epicurus’ own views because they pose contradictions. Brown, for example, attributes VS 23 to a later Epicurean because VS 23 says that “Every friendship is worth choosing for its own sake,” whereas Epicurus argues that only one’s own pleasure is worth choosing for its own sake. 3 Ep. Hdt. 40. 4 For an overview of Epicurean metaphysics, see Morel, “Epicurean Atomism.” 5 Ep. Men. 122. 6 Ep. Men. 128–​9. 7 Ep. Men. 131. 8 Ep. Men. 128. 9 Ep. Hdt. 63. 10 Ep. Hdt. 63. 11 See Annas. 12 Ep. Hdt. 65. 13 Ep. Men. 124–​5. 14 This is not to say that we have no reason to fear or avoid something that has not happened yet. It is only to say that we only have reason to fear something that can affect us negatively now or in the future, but death is not like this, since when we are alive death does not affect us and death cannot affect us when we are not alive. 15 Ep. Men. 125. 16 For more on NSA, see O’Keefe, “Epicurus.” 17 It is important to note that Epicurus is arguing that your death cannot be good or bad for you. Your death might be good or bad for your friends or loved ones, in which case they are justified in taking a negative attitude toward it. 18 Ep. Hdt. 81–​2. 19 Some clear explorations of deprivationism include Nagel, Silverstein, Bradley “How Bad” and “When is Death,” and Kagan. 20 Timmerman, 19. 21 My death might deprive my loved ones of certain goods, e.g., a relationship with me. In such cases, my death might be good or bad for others, but Epicurus’ aim is to liberate you from the fear of your own death. 22 Ep. Men. 125–​6. 23 This has the surprising implication that we should not allocate resources to extend the lives of those who have already achieved tranquility. 24 Ep. Hdt. 63. 25 Ep. Hdt. 65. 26 I should be indifferent toward dying myself, but loved ones might have reasons to lament (or celebrate) my dying. 27 DL 10.118. 28 DL 10.22. 29 DL 10.15. 30 For more on how friends help us feel secure, see O’Keefe, “Altruistic”; Evans; and Rossi. 31 The brackets denote that there is a lacuna in the original text that commentators have filled in.

References Annas, Julia. “The Epicureans.” In Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, 123–​201. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992.

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Epicurus  79 Bradley, Ben. “How Bad is Death?” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 37, no. 1 (2007): 111–​27. —​—​—​“When Is Death Bad for the One Who Dies?” Nous 38, no. 1 (2004): 1–​28. Brown, Eric. “Epicurus on the Value of Friendship (Sententia Vaticana 23).” Classical Philology 97, no. 1 (2002): 68–​80. Epicurus. The Epicurus Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia. Translated and Edited by Brad Inwood and Lloyd P. Gerson. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994. Evans, Matt. “Can Epicureans Be Friends?” Ancient Philosophy 24, no. 2 (2004): 407–​24. Kagan, Shelly. Death. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012. Morel, Pierre-​Marie. “Epicurean Atomism.” In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism. Edited by James Warren, 65–​83. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. —​—​—​ “Psychology.” In The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism. Edited by James Warren, 125–​ 141. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Nagel, Thomas. “Death.” Nous 4, no. 1 (1970): 73–​80. O’Keefe, Tim. “Epicurus. Section G: Death.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Accessed February 24, 2020. https://​www.iep.utm.edu/​epicur/​#SH5g. —​—​—​“Is Epicurean Friendship Altruistic?” Apeiron 34, no. 4 (2001): 269–​305. Rossi, Benjamin. “Squaring the Epicurean Circle: Friendship and Happiness in the Garden.” Ancient Philosophy 37, no. 1 (Spring 2017): 153–​68. Silverstein, Harry. “The Evil of Death.” Journal of Philosophy 77, no. 7 (1980): 401–​24. Timmerman, Travis. “Your Death Might Be the Worst Thing to Ever Happen to You (But Maybe You Shouldn’t Care).” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 46, no. 1 (2016): 18–​37.

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8  The Political Philosophy of Death in Laozi Peng Yu

Laozi (often referred to as Daode Jing) has been considered one of the most important texts of Daoism, a prominent philosophical school originated in China, since the third century BC E . The textual history of Laozi is complex and nearly untraceable. While the authorship is usually ascribed to Laozi, a deified and semi-​legendary figure who is said to be the “Old Master” of Daoism, it is generally accepted that Laozi includes contributions from multiple traditions in the historical shaping of the text. The mythical author(s) notwithstanding, Laozi presents a profound albeit cryptic political philosophy despite its incredible brevity (the book consists of only 5,000 Chinese characters). Many of its core doctrines emerged in the midst of an era known as the Warring States Period (403–​221 B C E ) in which consolidation of statehood, constant warfare, military buildup, and the pursuit of empire dominated politics. As a result, “Cities were walled and fortified only to be breached; borders were drawn up only to be redrawn; alliances were formed only to be betrayed; treaties were signed only to be reneged upon.”1 Read in this context, Laozi can be understood as a response to the violent era caused by the states’ failure to guarantee life and social stability. The political philosophy of Laozi, like the teachings of other Chinese philosophies during this period, focuses on how enduring order can be achieved. Nevertheless, while philosophers such as Confucius underscore moral integrity for social restoration, Laozi provides a different prism through which order is conceived. In fact, much of Laozi’s teaching consists of criticisms of how moral hierarchy tends to produce narrowly self-​interested societies in which people forsake their authentic nature in pursuit of socially sanctioned goods such as prestige, power, beauty, and fame. Instead of endorsing a hierarchical society that celebrates socio-​moral statuses, Laozi argues that we should return to a primal state, one that allows all to grow on their own without socially ranked distinctions. For Laozi, this is an all-​encompassing state in which “the ten thousand things”—​humans and nonhumans—​form an indistinguishable oneness where they follow their unimpeded nature and do not succumb to the regime of morality.2 To Laozi, this Daoist state is natural, primitive, and embraces all. To be sure, Laozi does not negate difference. In understanding death, Laozi recognizes the natural difference between life and death. Being alive is qualitatively different from being dead. And yet, the difference does not concern superiority vis-​à-​vis inferiority. Rather, it only manifests the varying modalities of being natural where life and death are equally valued. Laozi’s conceptualization of death is grounded in the notion of Dao (the Way)—​a term defined by Laozi as the fundamental principle that accounts for the underlying patterns, development, and processes of all things in their natural course. Dao denotes an ideal and continuing oneness in which natural differences do not lead to social distinctions that hold one against another. When Laozi speaks of death, it underscores the mutual constitution of life and death that does not separate one from the other. In Laozi’s ideal state, life and death are two phases of a circle in which the two alternate ceaselessly without disruption. For DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-9

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Laozi  81 Laozi, death is defined as that which follows life naturally after the latter is lived fully. Seen in this way, the mortality of the body is not to be feared and avoided as something terrifying or repulsive; rather, it is accepted as an integral part of the natural circle. Laozi uses the term ziran (naturalness) to describe the circle. Ziran is the manifestation of Dao; it demonstrates the emptiness and impartiality of Dao that allows everything to be born, grow, and die in a timely manner. Following ziran, death is the natural ending of life. Laozi’s political philosophy of death extends from these ideas and is characterized by the assumption that in a well-​governed society, people live their lives naturally and die of old age. In such a society, the ruler is noninterventionist and leaves people to their own course of development. For Laozi, this is a rule of wuwei (nonaction)—​a governance that rules with the people rather than above the people. Nevertheless, Laozi is also concerned with unnatural death, an abrupt and premature end to life triggered by acts that disrupt the natural circle of life and death. For example, those who are preoccupied with immortality essentially abandon Dao’s impartiality toward death, according to Laozi, and are cut off from perceiving the oneness of life and death. Moreover, Laozi critiques the unnatural death as being grounded in a human society marked by deeply held socio-​moral distinctions. Such distinctions teach people false lessons, promote acts that go against naturalness (ziran), and thus violate the rule of Dao. They invite top-​down, coercive, and violent governance that ultimately leads to premature death. Laozi’s purpose is to restore a natural state where people return to the undifferentiated, infinite simplicity of one. In so doing, Laozi envisages an ideal form of governance that does not distinguish and impose—​a rule of nonaction (wuwei) without active ruling. To explore Laozi’s political philosophy of death further, the chapter first looks at the three key concepts in Laozi—​Dao, ziran, wuwei. It then excavates Laozi’s teaching on death by way of examining how the term is conceptualized. The chapter ends by revisiting Laozi’s political critique of premature death, highlighting the social context from which such death arises and how life ought to be lived in a Daoist ideal society.

Dao, Ziran, Wuwei Dao (the Way) is a central concept that forms Laozi’s cosmology. For Laozi, Dao is empty, unspeakable, and mythical; and yet, it is everywhere and unambiguously real. The Way is begetting and brings everything to life: “The Way produces the One. The One produces two. Two produces three. Three produces the myriad creatures.”3 For Laozi, all things come from Dao’s nothingness (wu). Laozi says, “The world and all its creatures arise from what is there (you); What is there arises from what is not there (wu).”4 In nothingness, Dao is all-​ encompassing, and the emptiness is where lives are brought into being: “The Way is like an empty vessel; No use could ever fill it up. Vast and deep! It seems to be the ancestor of the myriad creatures.”5 Robert G. Henricks, a translator of Laozi, likens Laozi’s Dao to a “womb-​like emptiness” as it contains the ‘seeds’ or beginnings/​essence of the ten thousand things. And as the source of material reality, it is an inexhaustible source: at one point it is compared to a bellows (nangyue); a bellows is empty, but when you work it, set it into motion, it is an endless source of air.6 Dao is impartial. It imparts vitality to all indiscriminately and embeds them in its vast oneness. It does not favor one over the other, nor does it impose man-​made distinctions. Throughout Laozi, there is constant reminder of Dao’s impartiality that treats “the ten

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82  Peng Yu thousand things” as equal components of the one. To undo the distinctions, the Way “blunts their sharpness; Untangles their tangles; Softens their glare” and “Merges with their dust,” so much so that things are interdependent and do not stray from the undifferentiated one.7 But when we do stray from Dao and the sense of interdependence, it is because, as Philip J. Ivanhoe, a sinologist and translator of Laozi, points out, we develop an increasingly rational and self-​conscious picture of the world such that “one comes to see oneself as cut off from and independent of the greater patterns and processes of the dao.”8 Our “complex intellectualization” and sophisticated knowledge separate us from the simplicity of Dao, bringing “hypocrisy, deceit, and fraud” as we focus on rigid binary social distinctions (e.g. moral vs. immoral, beautiful vs. ugly, noble vs. base). Laozi harshly criticizes social distinctions based on these dualities and instead upholds Dao’s impartial oneness. Laozi calls the oneness an “Enigmatic Unity”—​ an unspeakable and all-​ encompassing inter-​ connectedness that binds all things together equally without distinctions.9 Ziran (naturalness) is another concept central to Laozi. Ziran does not mean the natural environment but describes courses of development and actions that follow the internal propensities of things. It gives “the ten thousand things” their timely, utmost life as well as the proper places to which their natural cycles belong. Ziran is the alternation of the four seasons, the flow of the river, the rise and fall of the sun; it produces the natural vegetation and the movement of all things. Ziran is things as they are, emerging and growing with their natural dispositions. For Laozi, ziran gives Dao a metaphysical grounding: “People model themselves on the Earth. The Earth models itself on Heaven. Heaven models itself on the Way. The Way models itself on what is natural (ziran).”10 Dao is ziran. It is natural, for it does not interrupt the course of things with externally imposed distinctions. Here, Wang Bi, a well-​known annotator of Laozi, offers an instructive comment: “Not violating ziran, Dao obtains its quality. Obeying naturalness, what is square is square, what is round is round. Ziran is that which has no name and speaks with words of boundlessness.”11 In this sense, Dao is unintended, leaving all to their own ground of developing. An expert on Daoism, Isabelle Robinet, offers an insightful reading of ziran that underlines the spontaneous side of the term. For Robinet, ziran in Laozi connotes an assortment of self-​grown, organic actions that do not have presupposed aims. Ziran is spontaneous in the sense that it is intuitive and self-​directed, providing the basis for an empty Dao to give life to, sustain, and proliferate those actions. In Robinet’s words, “The production of the world by the Dao is marked by its own unique mode of action: it is action that is not an action, a ziran (spontaneous) act.”12 Dao’s relation with the spontaneous actions is certainly not one of dominance: “Once its action is accomplished, the Dao recedes, which is to say that it does not interfere.”13 Chapter 23 captures the silent essence of Dao: “To be sparing with words is what comes naturally (ziran).”14 Refraining from speaking, be still. Insofar as speaking distinguishes, produces order, and interferes, Laozi questions speaking as a human-​centered act and turns instead to the silent Dao to avoid human intervention. Thus, without external dominance, Ziran has “taken the sense of self-​creation” to the extent that “The Dao is each thing that has created itself, and ziran designates the absence of any external operator.”15 This brings us to the third concept—​ wuwei. Translated as inaction, nonaction, or nondoing, wuwei is central to Laozi. The term speaks of the great Virtue (de) in Daoism and works as the underlying principle for the Daoist sages to live, act, and engage the world. In Laozi, wuwei is described as that which reflects the natural and spontaneous operation of Dao, and is to be revered as representing the highest Virtue: “The Way does nothing yet nothing is left undone”; “Those of highest Virtue practice nonaction and never act for ulterior motives.”16 These lines conjure Laozi’s understanding of wuwei. Acting out of

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Laozi  83 Virtue, wuwei denotes processes of organic development where Dao’s empty, natural, spontaneous, and generative attributes are demonstrated. Wuwei is the way Dao lives. Dao does not rely on “ulterior motives” to move; rather, it acts without purpose. Dao is wuwei, for it operates at the stillness of nonaction and hence does not impose and interfere. Wuwei lays bare the hidden rule that accounts for the development of all things. To be sure, wuwei should not be read as denoting passivity. Instead, it is characterized by wei (act) that refers to carrying forth actions in a nonstriving manner. As Chapter 63 suggests, “Act, but through nonaction (weiwuwei), Be active, but have no activities.”17 The essence of wuwei is not about strictly doing nothing; rather, it is to act as if no effort or intention is put in action: the fullness of an action is accomplished when it is emptied of intention. Sailing a boat, for example, in the same—​rather than the opposite—​direction the wind blows bears a resemblance to how wuwei works: the boat is allowed to be “self-​so” (ziran) inasmuch as the wind helps it gather momentum. No effort, nonaction brings to the fore full efficacies of “the ten thousand things” without intention. Wuwei has different translations among scholars of Daoism. Roger Ames and David Hall, translators of Laozi (Daode Jing), understand wuwei as “noncoercive action.”18 For Edward Slingerland, an expert on Warring States Period Chinese philosophy, wuwei is “effortless action.”19 Difference in their translations notwithstanding, they all share the view that Laozi’s wuwei is spontaneous, noninterventionist, and effective. Wuwei represents the great Virtue of Dao that produces harmony in the world: “This is why sages abide in the business of nonaction, and practice the teaching that is without words,” for “Sages enact nonaction and everything becomes well ordered.”20

Death in Laozi With Laozi’s three key concepts (Dao, ziran, wuwei) in hand, we can now turn to Laozi’s philosophy of death. Life and death are understood in Laozi as two inseparable phases. In many ways, death is often rendered in Laozi as juxtaposed with the elaboration of life. As mentioned earlier, this approach to life and death is largely ascribed to the fact that even though Laozi treats the two as qualitatively different, the difference does not in any way overwrite the fact that they are two sides of the coin. They are both manifestations of the naturalness (ziran) of Dao. In Chapter 76, Laozi says, “When alive human beings are supple and weak, when dead they are stiff and strong. When alive the myriad creatures, plants, and trees are supple and weak; when dead they are withered and dry.”21 Life and death are apparently different—​life is associated with suppleness and weakness while death is marked by the opposite. Here, Laozi’s reflection does not imply a preference of one over the other; instead, it emphasizes the distinctive characters of the two as well as the places where they belong. Wang Bi’s annotation of “between life and death” (chusheng rusi) sheds light on the properness of their places: “arise from birthplace, enter deathplace.”22 The actual difference between suppleness and stiffness not only attests to how life and death differ qualitatively but how they differ on account of where they reside: they take turns to happen in their proper places as designated by Dao. As Hans-​Georg Moeller, a scholar of Daoism, puts it, life and death are “companions,” and our experience is marked by the alternation of the two: “Life and death substitute one another and thus belong together. A lifetime is followed by a ‘deathtime.’ ”23 Moeller’s reading highlights what is shared by the Daoists in approaching life and death as equally important to all things. In Zhuangzi—​a pivotal work of Daosim believed to be composed by the Daoist philosopher Zhuangzi and his followers between the fifth and third century B C E —​death is similarly associated with the naturalness of life and is to be equally cherished. One of the

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84  Peng Yu most astonishing and yet intriguing anecdotes in Zhuangzi is the death of Zhuangzi’s wife. When Zhuangzi’s wife dies, Zhuangzi is found “sitting with his legs sprawled out, pounding on a tub and singing.”24 When asked if this is going too far, Zhuangzi simply answers that the change between life and death is “just like the progression of the four seasons: spring, summer, fall, winter.”25 Zhuangzi’s delight resonates with Laozi’s assuredness that to die is as just natural as to live. Nurtured by Dao, both life and death follow and manifest the rule of ziran. Dao’s nurturing allows death to come naturally after life is lived to the fullest extent. One should note that Laozi is not seeking immortality; biological mortality is natural, unavoidable, and not to be feared. What Laozi celebrates instead is a kind of “longevity”: “Those who do not lose their place will endure. Those who die without perishing have longevity.”26 For Laozi, to die (si) is to be physically mortal, marking the end of a life circle and the beginning of a death circle. And yet, one does not perish (wang) at death. The way to approach this seemingly paradoxical verse is to understand death as manifesting the continuation of the enduring Dao by being committed to its proper place and time. To die in a timely manner and in the proper place is to accord with the permanence of Dao and ziran. Conversely, one is left to perish (death by unnatural cause) when the properness of time and place is distorted. Moeller’s comment is helpful here: longevity (shou), which has been so highly cherished not only in Daoism but in Chinese culture in general, is not so much understood as simply staying alive for as long as possible, but as a perpetual process of production and reproduction that integrates death rather than excluding it altogether.27 For Moeller, Laozi’s longevity is a life that emerges from its birthplace and enters its deathplace in due time. It is a ceaseless circle of being born, dying, and coming into life again. Insofar as Dao keeps begetting the uninterrupted alternation between life and death, “Those who die a natural death are long-​lived.”28 Laozi, however, is mindful of unnatural death. For Laozi, those who die prematurely find themselves in situations where the naturalness of life and death is confounded. There are numerous examples throughout the book that speak to this misplaced death. In Chapter 50, for example, Laozi notes, “Three out of ten create a place for death. Why is this? Because of their profound desire to live.”29 In Chapter 42, Laozi says, “The violent and overbearing will not die a natural death.”30 In Chapter 67, “Now to be courageous without loving-​ kindness, To be generous without frugality, To put oneself first without putting oneself behind others, These will lead to (unnatural) death.”31 In Chapter 73, Laozi continues, “To be courageous in daring leads to death; To be courageous in not daring leads to life.”32 Reflecting on these lines, we see how disruptions of ziran—​acts that distort the natural dispositions of things and are therefore contrary to Dao (the Way)—​can lead to premature death. These include various forms of living dangerously that amplify personal will, interest, and desire in contravention of Dao. A deathplace is therefore created in advance of one’s actual dying when one is caught in the perilous pursuits perverse to Dao. Another cause of unnatural death is violence; committing violence against others leaves us liable to suffering premature death. The best way to avoid such deaths is returning to ziran—​the naturalness of Dao. As mentioned earlier, those who enjoy a long life are nurtured by Dao, and the latter leads us to identify with the wholeness of the world and avoid being a self-​centered individual. For Laozi, a Daoist sage who lives by the right precepts is one who matures naturally by dodging unwanted death. In what ways can the sage stay away from destructive death? Laozi’s answer: “To preserve what is weak is called ‘strength.’ Use this light and return home

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Laozi  85 to this enlightenment. Do not bring disaster upon yourself.”33 These passages are not to be read as celebrating techniques for achieving immortality; rather, they show how the Daoist sage can survive dangerous circumstances by avoiding being rigid, strong, and violent. An important dimension of death in Laozi concerns the political governance of wuwei, to which I now turn in the next section.

Death as Social Critique For Laozi, there are a number of features that mark a fallen political state. In such a state, Dao is lost, life becomes short, and people die at an early age. The characters of such a state are usually associated with indoctrinations of man-​made moral principles in defense of social hierarchy. Under such a regime, people are taught to follow an externally imposed ethical life and urged to find their resulting positions in society. As a result, people start worrying about the development of their moral qualities corresponding to the social roles they adopt and are therefore no longer following a natural life. For Laozi, this is a serious problem. As one becomes increasingly conscious of one’s intentions (especially when those intentions reflect not the internal naturalness but the external socio-​moral doctrines), one strays from Dao. In this circumstance, one’s natural dispositions are conceded to external orders and Dao is distorted. People are left frustrated and hence vulnerable to elites’ manipulation. Under these conditions, between what is allowed and not allowed, and understood as good and bad, Dao’s impartiality gives way to moral superiority and its harmony is henceforth replaced by hypocrisy, deceit, and violence. Therefore, the rise of such a human-​centered society leads to the fall of Dao, marking the beginning of a falling society. In Chapter 57, Laozi says, The more taboos and prohibitions there are in the world, the poorer the people. The more sharp implements the people have, the more benighted the state. The more clever and skillful the people, the more strange and perverse things arise. The more clear the laws and edicts, the more thieves and robbers.34 Here, Laozi is echoed by Zhuangzi which accuses the externally imposed moral distinctions of contributing to kleptocracy. In Zhuangzi’s dictum: What that ordinary world calls a man of perfect wisdom is in fact someone who piles things up for the benefit of a great thief; what the ordinary world calls a perfect sage is in fact someone who stands guard for the benefit of a great thief.35 The fact that thieves can get away with what they want is precisely a result of social categorizing (of virtue, knowledge, and norms that are all based on moral hierarchy and thus go against Laozi’s nonhierarchical order as well as the equal capacity of all things in their own development). And yet, for Laozi as for Zhuangzi, in fallen or debased states people are deceived into false skills and intelligence; laws are manipulated for personal gain; and politics is ravaged by corruption. Under this type of regime, the state runs counter to the principle of ziran by doing too much interfering in people’s lives. Aleksandar Stamatov, a scholar of Chinese philosophy, uses the term “youwei” to describe this rule: “Youwei is the kind of artificial activity, completely independent of Dao’s natural, that is ziran activity. It is employed by all of the rulers who do not follow Dao’s natural operation.”36 For Laozi, the violent chaos of the Warring States Period—​a time when the states were in vicious battles against one another for dominance—​arises from the rule of youwei by rulers who employed coercive techniques

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86  Peng Yu to maintain their rule. To Laozi, rulers of this kind rule poorly. Not only do they manipulate the moral regime for their privilege, they actively seek repressive policies to maintain their rule. As a consequence, the ruled are willing to turn against the ruler by risking early death in order to survive. Under regimes characterized by youwei, the natural circle of life and death is obstructed. Consider Chapter 75: The people are hungry because those above eat too much in taxes; This is why the people are hungry. The people are difficult to govern because those above engage in action; This is why the people are difficult to govern. People look upon death lightly because those above are obsessed with their own lives; This is why people look upon death lightly.37 To Laozi, the ideal form of governance is wuwei. Laozi’s political philosophy of wuwei aims to restore a noncoercive, nonviolent, and nonrepressive relation between ruler and the ruled. Rulers should embody the spirit of a Daoist sage who lets the people live, become, and transform in their own ways: “I do nothing and the people transform themselves; I prefer stillness and the people correct and regulate themselves; I engage in no activity and the people prosper on their own; I am without desires and the people simplify their lives.”38 Under this rule, people live by their intrinsic qualities rather than the socially imposed moral virtue. In such a society, the government is unintelligent and nonactive. In Chapter 58, Laozi offers insight: “The more dull and dispirited the government, the more honest and agreeable the people. The more active and searching the government, the more deformed and deficient the people.”39 The above contrast highlights the core of governing without governance, which enables the people to thrive under a noninterventionist government whose aim is not to interfere. Wuwei is therefore diametrically opposed to the reign of youwei. Under the rule of wuwei, people value the fullness of life and fear premature death. Chapter 80 famously illustrates Laozi’s perfect states that “reduce the size of the state” and “lessen the population,” with a political order in which “the people look upon death as a weighty matter” but live happy lives and “never move to distant places.”40 In such a state, people are self-​sufficient and self-​reliant, finding contentment in the simplicity of ziran (naturalness). To the extent that people value their lives and have fear for early death, they have no need for weapons and deadly wars. States committed to Dao do not vie against each other and the people are simple and peaceful. Aging in such a state is a natural process leading up to death at an old and ripe age. In this process, the ruler does not enforce a top-​ down system and everything is left in its primal state. Laozi uses the term chizi (newborn children) to describe such a primal state: “Those who are steeped in Virtue are like newborn children; Poisonous creatures will not strike them; Fierce beasts will not seize them; Birds of prey will not snatch them away.”41 In this condition, they grow wholly and maturely, giving no room to danger. The opposite, of course, is early death: When the heart-​mind is used to guide the vital energies, this is called ‘forcing things.’ For after a period of vigor there is old age. To rely on such practices is said to be contrary to the Way. And what is contrary to the Way will come to an early end.42 However, Laozi is cautious about transgressions that may disrupt the order. Those who threaten to derail the order of ziran will be punished and fear for their own death. And yet, the state itself must not wield these deadly measures. The measures must follow the rule of wuwei and hide in the nonaction of Dao. Consider capital punishment as a good example:

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Laozi  87 If the people are not afraid of death, why threaten them with death? ‘But what if I could keep the people always afraid of death, And seize and put to death those who dare to act in strange or perverse ways? Who then would dare to act in such a manner?’ There is always the killing done by the Chief Executioner. The Chief Executioner is the greatest carver among carpenters.43 Obviously, one will meet early death if one is led astray. But who is the Chief Executioner who executes them? In interpreting this passage, I slightly disagree with Moeller’s view which suggests that it is the state who does it, and it does so for preventative purpose: The death penalty is established by the Daoist ruler because of the fear of possible harm. This then causes fear among the ruled, who want to avoid an early death. In this way, the death penalty is supposed to eliminate itself: it will never have to be applied because the mechanism of fear will prevent wrongdoing.44 Insofar as such punishment makes people take premature death seriously, Moeller is right that it is preventative. Nevertheless, so long as this understanding implies that (1) such a penal system involves state sanction, and (2) the state is the executioner, we can argue otherwise. After all, state-​sanctioned execution will contradict the rule of wuwei when it happens, for Dao’s nonaction does not allow the state’s involvement in such punishment. In fact, the state is comparable to the hangman who will be harmed by doing the execution. Laozi says, “Those who would do the work of the greatest carver among carpenters, rarely avoid wounding their own hands.”45 Since the punishment cannot be eliminated, Moeller cannot account for the compatibility of state execution and wuwei. Seen in this way, the Chief Executioner can only be Dao—​not any individual or state but the various arrangements of untimely death on behalf of Dao (disease, war, etc.). In enacting the punishment, Dao ensures the execution’s legitimacy with its impartiality. It carries out capital punishment by causing premature death to those who defy wuwei and ziran without involving any observable person or institution as the executioner. The punishment is not institutionalized, nor can it be materialized into rituals; instead, it arises from the nowhere-​ness of Dao and a Daoist sage-​ruler never enforces it personally.

Conclusion To summarize, Laozi seeks an order that is not built on social hierarchy. It does so by proposing a return to the primitive nature of all things rather than engaging socio-​moral rectifications of the nature. Laozi underscores the balance of all in their own unimpeded development and distrusts any interventionist approach that aims to replace this natural order with an externally constructed one. For Laozi, social order is derived from—​not prior to—​the natural order. The latter is the precondition of the former and its balance is the bedrock of a functioning society. In a properly ordered society, all are allowed the equal opportunity to flourish in their own ways. This is, however, not to say that Laozi does not concern the human world. Laozi deeply concerns the human world, but its advice is rooted in a more holistic world that can only be obtained under a nonhumanist framework—​one that embeds social cohesion and development in the order of nature as a whole. Such an order follows the rules of Dao, ziran, and wuwei. For Laozi, the natural forms of life—​human and nonhuman included—​reflect the naturalness and nonaction of Dao (the Way). Their births, deaths, and everywhere in between constitute the inseparable parts of a natural circle that does not distinguish lives or people based on social hierarchy. In this

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88  Peng Yu regard, Laozi’s political philosophy of death is a reflection of the order: a society where people live long and meet their timely death is one that places rulership in the hands of Dao; in it, political order is aligned with the order of nature and people remain in the wholeness of the one, live or dead. Conversely, a society will unavoidably face a downward spiral and the people will be plagued by premature deaths when the natural order is superseded by man-​made order—​a harmful and unwanted state Laozi endeavors to lead us out of.

Notes

1 Ames and Hall, 1. 2 In Laozi, “the ten thousand things” (wanwu) refers to all things in nature. 3 Ivanhoe, 45. 4 Ivanhoe, 43. 5 Ivanhoe, 4. 6 Henricks, 163. Here, Henricks echoes Chapter 5 of Laozi in which Laozi praises the empty and inexhaustible Dao that fills the vast space between the Heaven and Earth. 7 Ivanhoe, 4, 59. 8 Ivanhoe, xxi. 9 Ivanhoe, 59. 10 Ivanhoe, 25. 11 Wang, 66. Translation is mine. 12 Robinet, 143. 13 Robinet, 144. 14 Ivanhoe, 23. 15 Robinet, 144. 16 Ivanhoe, 37, 41. 17 Ivanhoe, 66. 18 Ames and Hall, 67. 19 Slingerland. 20 Ivanhoe, 2, 3. 21 Ivanhoe, 79. 22 Wang, 139. Translation is mine. 23 Moeller, 123. 24 Watson, 140. 25 Watson, 141. 26 For the second verse, Ivanhoe’s translation is “Those who die a natural death are long-​lived.” My translation is more literally rendered, but I concur with Ivanhoe whose philosophical translation underscores the naturalness of death. See Ivanhoe, 33. 27 Moeller, 122. 28 Ivanhoe, 33. 29 Ivanhoe, 53. 30 Ivanhoe, 45. 31 Ivanhoe, 70. 32 Ivanhoe, 76. 33 Ivanhoe, 55. 34 Ivanhoe, 60. 35 Watson, 69. 36 Stamatov, 130. 37 Ivanhoe, 78. 38 Ivanhoe, 60. 39 Ivanhoe, 61. 40 Ivanhoe, 83. 41 Ivanhoe, 58.

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Laozi  89 42 43 44 45

Ivanhoe, 58. Ivanhoe, 77. Moeller, 127. Ivanhoe, 77.

References Ames, Roger T. and David L. Hall. Daodejing: A Philosophical Translation. Translated by Roger T. Ames and David L. Hall. New York: Ballantine Books, 2003. Henricks, Robert G. “Re-​ exploring the Analogy of the Dao and the Field.” In Religious and Philosophical Aspects of the Laozi. Edited by Mark Csikszentmihalyi and Philip J. Ivanhoe, 161–​ 73. New York: SUNY Press, 1999. Ivanhoe, Philip J. (trans.). The Daodejing of Laozi. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2003. Moeller, Hans-​Georg. The Philosophy of the Daodejing. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006. Robinet, Isabelle. “The Diverse Interpretations of the Laozi.” In Religious and Philosophical Aspects of the Laozi. Edited by Mark Csikszentmihalyi and Philip J. Ivanhoe, 127–​59. New York: SUNY Press, 1999. Slingerland, Edward. Effortless Action: Wu-​Wei as Conceptual Metaphor and Spiritual Ideal in Early China. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Stamatov, Aleksandar. “The Laozi’s Criticism of Government and Society and a Daoist Criticism of the Modern State.” Asian Philosophy 27, no. 2 (2017): 127–​49. Wang Bi. Annotation of Laozi Daodejing (Laozi Daodejing Zhu). Beijing: Zhonghua Book Co., 2011. Watson, Burton (trans.) The Complete Works of Zhuangzi. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013.

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9  The Bhagavad Gītā and Paradox of Death Stuart Gray

Composed in the centuries leading up to the Common Era, the Indian classic Bhagavad-​Gītā (hereafter, Gītā) is a conversation between the avatar of the Supreme Being, Kṛṣṇa, and warrior-​hero Arjuna, on a battlefield called Kurukṣetra.1 Translated “Song of the Lord,” the text constitutes a small portion of the sixth book of the larger epic, Mahābhārata (first or second century CE ). Over the course of the dialogue, Kṛṣṇa provides Arjuna with an array of philosophical, theological, and cosmological justifications for overcoming Arjuna’s hesitancy to engage in a cataclysmic war with his cousins, former teachers, and their allies over political control of a kingdom, Hāstinapura. According to the text, the coming war will result in the death of millions and signal the beginning of the dark Kaliyuga, which is the final age in a much longer four-​age cycle (mahāyuga) that ends in complete cosmic dissolution, thus setting the stage for a new cosmic creation beginning with a new “golden age,” or Kṛtayuga. While themes of death and physical destruction play central roles in the dialogue, Kṛṣṇa paradoxically explains that Arjuna should not fear killing his adversaries, nor should he fear his own death should he lose the battle. As I will explain below, Kṛṣṇa claims that Arjuna puts too much stake in his physical existence, the importance of which pales in comparison to the state of his deepest inner self, or ātman. In broader political context, long-​standing familial enmities, bouts of political exile, and the resulting competition for control of a kingdom have led to this dire situation in which Arjuna and his elder brother, Yudhiṣṭhira, are responsible for leading the Pāṇḍavas and their allies in battle against their enemies. The evil Kauravas stand on the opposing side, led by Yudhiṣṭhira’s cousin, Duryodhana, and Arjuna’s eminent grand-​uncle, Bhīṣma. In sum, while politics is central, death and dying are deeply interwoven themes in the Gītā. This chapter examines these themes by first providing a conceptual and philosophical context for understanding the Gītā’s stance on death. I explain how the physical phenomenon of death motivates one to act according to one’s moral and social duty (dharma), which further requires renouncing the consequences of one’s actions so as to escape the cycle of death and rebirth (saṃsāra) to achieve liberation (mokṣa). While death remains significant in a political and moral sense, Kṛṣṇa’s broader metaphysical perspective reveals that physical aging and the body’s passing are, on a deeper level, ultimately illusory and rather insignificant.2 Human beings therefore live a paradoxical double existence that pivots around the theme of death: one existence is immaterial, immune from perishing and difficult to cognize, while the other embodied, physical existence is material, ephemeral, and quite familiar to the human condition. I conclude by reflecting on the tensions this double existence presents, highlighting the importance of cultivating a sense of equanimity and non-​egoistic disinterestedness while simultaneously acting to preserve the structures of self, politics, and broader earthly integrity. DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-10

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Bhagavad Gītā  91

(Im)mortality and the Ontology of the Self Standing in his chariot situated between the Pāṇḍava and Kaurava armies, Arjuna becomes utterly despondent with the idea of slaughtering his kith and kin. As he laments to his charioteer and dear friend Kṛṣṇa: When I see all my family poised for war, my limbs falter and my mouth goes dry … I am not able to hold my ground and my mind seems to whirl … I see no good to come from killing my family in battle.3 As a divine incarnation of the Supreme Being, Kṛṣṇa advises Arjuna to dispel his doubts and engage in battle,4 explaining that Arjuna misunderstands the very nature of death and dying. Arjuna’s misapprehension, according to Kṛṣṇa, begins with an ontological distinction lying at the heart of one of the text’s expressed philosophical systems, Sāṃkhyan dualism, which enumerates a number of complex concepts predicated on a fundamental distinction between spirit and physical matter. Along these lines, one of the central concepts in the Gītā, dehin, denotes an “embodied one that does not perish.” The term denotes a deha, or physical body, and an ātman, an inner spirit or self that inhabits this body. In one of many passages that explain the relationship between the ātman, its physical body, and the process of aging and death, Kṛṣṇa explains: Never was there a time when I did not exist, or you, or these kings, nor shall any of us cease to exist hereafter. Just as creatures with bodies [dehinaḥ, “possessing a body”] pass through childhood, youth, and old age in their bodies, so there is a passage to another body, and a wise man is not confused about it.5 The first part of this passage needs unpacking, as it refers to the ātman, and then I will turn to the second part, which pertains to aging. Kṛṣṇa begins by telling Arjuna that the two of them have always existed. While this is quite jarring for Arjuna to hear, elsewhere Kṛṣṇa explains that the ātman does not perish but rather persists over time and survives the body: “Our bodies are known to end, but the embodied self is enduring, indestructible and immeasurable; therefore, Arjuna, fight the battle!”6 He also explains to Arjuna that what constitutes his deepest form of existence—​ the imperishable ātman—​passes from one body to another, shedding bodies like a person acquires and discards old clothing: “As a man discards his worn-​out clothes and puts on different ones that are new, so the one in the body discards aged bodies, and joins with other ones that are new.”7 Hence, the body ages but the ātman, the embodied one (dehin), does not. In these verses one also notes a cyclical process, wherein aging denotes an entirely acceptable, natural process that begins with childhood and progresses toward old age. According to Kṛṣṇa, there is nothing to lament about this progression within a lifetime, which is paralleled by a longer progression of the ātman passing from one body to the next. The cycle is inevitable and thus should not be lamented: Suppose you hold that he is constantly born and constantly dead, you still have no cause to grieve over him, strong-​armed prince, for to the born, death is assured, and birth is assured to the dead; therefore there is no cause for grief, if the matter is inevitable.8 This idea would purportedly alleviate the attachment Arjuna feels to his and others’ bodily existences, which supplies the first step in convincing Arjuna that he is foolhardy for not

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92  Stuart Gray engaging in battle and endangering his bodily existence, along with the physical existence of others. The ontological relationship between the ātman and physical body is also significant, as one might ask: are these two entities completely distinct and disconnected from one another, or is there some level of attachment that would explain Arjuna’s reticence to kill another person, let alone family and friends? What’s causing his delusion? To answer these questions, one must understand the ontology of the self expressed in the Gītā. The ātman may be immaterial and imperishable, but ignorance of its existence as the deepest layer of Arjuna’s selfhood arises because he is deluded by its apparent connection to prakṛti (primal, material nature). To begin with, prakṛti consists of the material, phenomenal world accessible through our sense faculties (indriyas). According to Kṛṣṇa, due to our tangible connection with this aspect of the world, including the sensations and desires it produces, we are easily led to believe that it constitutes our true, albeit fleeting, reality: The contacts of the senses with their objects, which produces sensations of cold and heat, comfort and discomfort, come and go without staying … When a man thinks about sense objects, an interest in them develops. From this interest grows desire, from desire anger.9 Hence, the senses connect and have a tendency to bind us to the material world, producing destructive emotions that do us harm. However, higher faculties exist, and we can ultimately discern the following hierarchical schema within one’s self. Above the sense faculties lie the manas (lower mind), buddhi (higher mind and intellect), and ultimately the ātman and puruṣa (pure, immaterial substrate of our being and selfhood). The manas is a cognitive faculty allowing us to process thoughts and physical sense impressions. Above this stands the buddhi, which allows us to discriminate between these impressions and make judgments about them, but it also supplies us with the capacity to ascertain the deeper ontological entity that is one’s ātman and the pure consciousness of puruṣa. Puruṣa is a passive spectator standing beyond prakṛti, existing as a sentient entity that constitutes an aspect of the Supreme Being’s higher nature. The being’s reality is independent of and transcends the properties of material nature. Importantly, each of the aforementioned faculties—​indriya, manas, and buddhi—​exists in the ontological realm of prakṛti, giving us access to and helping us make sense of the material, phenomenal world. Through the proper training in one of three paths to liberation (mokṣa)—​knowledge (jñāna), disciplined action (yoga), or devotion (bhakti)—​one can cross over the ontological divide between material prakṛti and immaterial puruṣa to cognize the deeper reality of the imperishable ātman.10 As Kṛṣṇa summarizes: “The senses, they say, are superior to their objects; the mind [manas] is higher than the senses; the spirit [buddhi] is higher than the mind; and beyond the spirit is he [ātman].”11 At this stage in the dialogue, Arjuna has not fully cognized this truth and continues to think that he, through his physical self, will be the causal actor in the death of his enemies. However, according to the ontology outlined above, causal action all takes place within the realm of prakṛti governed by three distinct material forces or guṇas,12 and Kṛṣṇa ultimately stands above and beyond all prakṛti. As he explains to Arjuna, “Know that all conditions of being, whether influenced by sattva, rajas, or tamas, come from me; but I am not in them: they are in me.”13 Hierarchically aligned and serving as the chief properties or characteristics of all existent material things, the forces (guṇas) of sattva (lucidity, purity, goodness), rajas (passion, emotion), and tamas (darkness, ignorance, illusion) drive causal relations in the physical world and help constitute a person’s nature.14 Kṛṣṇa thus claims that he, as the Supreme Being, exists as the causal totality within which these material forces

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Bhagavad Gītā  93 operate. Kṛṣṇa also explains how the preponderance of a particular guṇa at one’s death will dictate how one is reborn: If the embodied soul dies when sattva reigns, he attains to the pure worlds of those who have the highest knowledge. The one dying in rajas is reborn among people who are given to action; while one expiring in tamas is born among the witless.15 These guṇa-​forces are all part of Kṛṣṇa’s creative, illusory power, called māyā. In fact, Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna that he must “create himself ” in avatar form in the realm of prakṛti from eon to eon, using his māyā, in order to reestablish dharmic order.16 Although I will discuss the topic of transcending the cycle of rebirth at greater length in the next section, the guṇas play a role here as well: When a man of insight perceives that no one but the guṇas acts and knows the one who transcends the guṇas, he ascends to my being [i.e., ātman merging with its source, brahman, the unmanifest absolute]. By transcending these three guṇas, which are the sources of the body, the embodied soul rids himself of the miseries of birth, death, and old age and becomes immortal.17 Arjuna can thus achieve mokṣa through a proper understanding of ontological truths that would release him from disillusioned attachment to the material realm. In sum, Arjuna’s charioteer reveals himself as the causal force behind everything. As the supreme reality lying beyond all material creation, Kṛṣṇa is not only the efficient cause of everything at the level of ātman/​puruṣa, but also the material cause of things through his māyā in the form of prakṛti and the three guṇas. The final cause is dharmic order of the cosmos. So, what does all this mean for Arjuna, especially as it concerns the nature of death? Categorically speaking, this means that Arjuna’s imperishable ātman cannot technically act in the phenomenal world because an ontological divide separates the material or phenomenal and immaterial realms. It follows that the true self, the ātman, cannot kill or be killed. Arjuna’s delusion thus stems from his misapprehension of this ontological reality, whereby the lower parts of Arjuna’s self that exist in the material world—​the buddhi, manas, and indriyas, in descending order—​mistakenly draw him toward and bind him to prakṛti, thus making him think that he is the true killer. Ontologically, this could never be the case. Rather, death is part of yet another changing, cyclical state of prakṛti in which illusory aspects of a phenomenal world inevitably come and go, like new clothes and stages of a life cycle come to pass. Aging and death thus constitute what Kṛṣṇa explains as illusory modes of a deeper reality and agency that remain immune from material destruction. Along these lines, Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna two important things. First, he claims, “At any rate, actions are performed by the three forces of nature, but, deluded by self-​attribution, one thinks: ‘I did it!’,” thus failing to “see that all actions are performed by Prakṛti alone and that the self [ātman] does not act at all.”18 Second, he explains, “For whenever Law [dharma] languishes, Bhārata [Arjuna], and lawlessness flourishes, I create myself. I take on existence from eon to eon, for the rescue of the good and the destruction of the evil, in order to reestablish the Law.”19 Therefore, Kṛṣṇa is the ultimate cause of death and all righteous order, including political order. Nevertheless, for dharmic order to be attained, Arjuna must perform his duty and engage in this battle, doing so in a particular state of consciousness.

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Dharmic Disinterestedness Armed with the ontological knowledge that he is not the cause of death and that his innermost self does not die, Arjuna must now play his part and follow his dharma as a warrior (kṣatriya). As mentioned above, the ultimate goal in human life is mokṣa, or liberation from the endless cycle of death and rebirth (saṃsāra). Now the theory of karma reveals its significance for this chapter’s argument. One important Sanskrit term for action is karman, and every act accrues karmic residue for one’s ātman. This means that people find themselves born into their current state due to actions in their past lives. Cosmic justice is thus served through self-​inflicted rewards or punishments based on one’s actions over numerous lifetimes, and if Arjuna’s actions follow dharma, he will inch ever closer to liberation from rebirth. To climb the ontological scale to superior births and gain ever-​greater capacities to achieve liberation, one must follow one’s respective dharmas, collectively noted as one’s proper duty (svadharma), which is associated with family (kula-​dharma), life stage (āśrama-​ dharma), and social group (varṇa-​dharma). However, in the context of the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna that his socio-​political duty as a warrior supersedes his family duty, the latter of which would prevent him from fighting and killing family members. If family duties were to supersede his broader socio-​political duty, he would not be allowed to engage in battle, his side would lose, and the evil Kauravas would retain political power as rulers of Hāstinapura. Both earthly and cosmic harmony would suffer. Hence, his svadharma is to follow injunctions according to the duties of his kṣatriya-​ varṇa. As Kṛṣṇa reminds him: The embodied being [ātman] is in anybody’s body forever beyond killing … therefore you have no cause to sorrow over any creatures. Look at your svadharma and do not waver, for there is nothing more salutary for a kṣatriya than war that is lawful. It is an open door to heaven, happily happened upon; and blessed are the warriors, Pārtha [Arjuna], who find a war like that!20 Therefore, his duty is to fight heroically as a kṣatriya, to defeat the evil Kaurava forces, and to help his brothers reestablish a righteous political order. To fail to engage in battle would incur dishonor and shame, which is worse than physical death according to Kṛṣṇa.21 Moreover, Kṛṣṇa explains that following his kṣatriya-​dharma results in a ‘win-​win’ situation: “Either you are killed and will then attain to heaven, or you triumph and will enjoy the earth.”22 Nevertheless, action alone is not enough, and Arjuna needs the correct mindset while fulfilling his kṣatriya-​dharma. One of the most important teachings in the Gītā concerns non-​attachment to the consequences or “fruits” (phala) of one’s actions. In light of the knowledge that the ātman is an interconnected aspect of the Supreme Being, “Puruṣottama” (i.e., Kṛṣṇa in his unmanifest, absolute form), one must relinquish credit for one’s actions. In a passage that captures a number of Kṛṣṇa’s teachings discussed thus far, Kṛṣṇa states that results of one’s actions must be given up to Kṛṣṇa as a form of sacrifice: But he who curbs his senses [indriyas] with his mind [manas], Arjuna, and then disinterestedly undertakes the discipline of action with his active faculties, stands out. All  the world is in bondage to the karmic consequences of action, except for action for the purposes of sacrifice: therefore, engage in action for that purpose, disinterestedly.23

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Bhagavad Gītā  95 Intentionality thus plays a central role in the Gītā’s theory of action. As Kṛṣṇa states, The wise call that man a sage all of whose undertakings are devoid of intention to achieve an object of desire, for his karman [consequences of the act] has been burned off by the fire of insight. If one engages in an act while forgetting about its fruit … one does not incur any karman [negative karmic residue] at all.24 Assuming responsibility for the fruits of one’s actions binds the person to prakṛti, thus preventing liberation. Arjuna can only progress toward escaping the cycle of death and rebirth by performing his dharmic duty in a disinterested fashion, without any regard to the consequences. This is the well-​known idea of “desireless action,” or niṣkāma-​karma. Performing one’s svadharma upholds social and cosmic structure, and this applies to Kṛṣṇa as well: I have created the society of the four classes with due regard for the various distribution of the guṇas … know that I am its author, and that I am forever without karman. Actions do not stick to me, for I have no yearning for the fruits of my actions —​that is, not in any egoistic sense.25 Attachment to the consequences of action, following the false belief that the senses and our material bodies put us in contact with what is most real about us, is what binds us to the world and the cycle of saṃsāra. Liberation (mokṣa) requires following Kṛṣṇa’s example, which entails engaging in dutiful action that maintains the integrity and harmony of what could be viewed as a three-​tiered cosmic structure: the micro-​level of the self, the meso-​level of society, and the macro-​level of the cosmos. Escaping one’s material death requires familiarity with a deep organizing principle of the Gītā, what one might call “dharmic disinterestedness.” At the micro-​level of the self, one must understand how the ātman does not act and stands as a disinterested spectator of prakṛti and the body, the latter of which the Gītā describes as a “nine-​gated fortress” within which the ātman dwells peacefully and stands watch.26 At the meso-​level of society, fulfilling one’s svadharma entails disinterestedly acting out one’s dharmic duties associated with family, life stage, and social group, which maintain the social order in a manner that parallels self-​order at the micro-​level. Finally, at the macro-​level of the cosmos, Kṛṣṇa explains that he disinterestedly stands watch over the cosmos, creating himself when necessary in order to reestablish dharmic order. The theme of cyclical creation and destruction also plays a role at each level of dharmic disinterestedness. Because the body, socio-​ political order, and cosmos find themselves entwined in an entropic cycle spiraling toward degradation and physical destruction, the logic of disinterestedness would appear to make sense because it would alleviate the anxiety and pain one suffers in experiencing processes of aging, dying, and death. Interestingly, the macro-​temporal four-​age cycle referenced in the Gītā also exhibits a gradual moral decline, paralleling the physical decline and language of “age-​ing” at the individual level over the course of a lifetime.27 This parallel decline returns us to the paradox of human beings’ double existence. On the one hand, human beings must not be so disinterested in the fleeting existence of the self or the political and cosmic structures that they fail to act altogether and do nothing to maintain the integrity of each material structure, extending from the self to the cosmos. One must act and fulfill various duties that maintain these structures and harmonious relations among their respective parts. On the other hand, if one gets too caught up in the aging and dying process, this signals over-​attachment to passing things and subsequent suffering. The Gītā addresses this tension by outlining a principle of dharmic disinterestedness, or action

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96  Stuart Gray that reflects a deeper knowledge of a reality (or belief thereof) that does not perish and that, if we were to cognize properly, would liberate us from the anxiety and pain associated with material or physical degradation over time. According to the Gītā, human beings live a double existence, which elucidates the paradox of death: aging, degradation, and death must be taken seriously to some extent and require that we fulfill various duties through disinterested action, yet we must engage in disciplined action (karma-​yoga), meditative-​ epistemological (jñāna-​yoga), or devotional (bhakti-​yoga) practices that lead us to deeper truths and may liberate us from over-​attachment to the material world, allowing us to better connect and relate to what is immaterial and potentially immune from death. What the Gītā offers, then, is an ontology that alleviates the anxieties and pains associated with our mortal existence and commits us to our respective socio-​political duties.

Conclusion: Equanimity, Conscience, and Earthly Preservation Cultivating an ethic of dharmic disinterestedness may push mortal humans to better preserve personal and earthly well-​being while resisting overattachment to our physical bodies and the material world. The enduring political ideas and questions that the Gītā holds for a contemporary audience begin with observations about the Gītā’s stance on the micro-​level of a “body politics” and cultivating an ethic of equanimity. From the text’s perspective, a fundamental layer of politics begins at the bodily level and concerns the personal, physical struggles and battles people wage throughout their lives that pertain to physical suffering, aging, and death. The Gītā teaches that mortal human beings exist within an inevitable condition of cyclic entropy, whereby every material entity results from an initial creative moment and then moves toward material disorder and eventual destruction, all while new material entities simultaneously emerge. In turn, our personal duties constitute forms of action that help to structure and to provide order and peace from the personal to socio-​political levels. The anxiety and pain that result from the aging and dying process may be alleviated through cultivating a sense of equanimity through dharmic disinterestedness, providing a partial solution to what I have called the paradox of death: heroically confronting the reality that we will perish, while also seeking some balance between acting in the world with purpose and not getting overly attached to the consequences of our actions. Such attachment tends to increase anxieties associated with processes of aging and death. In short, dharmic disinterestedness may provide a sense of equanimity and momentary stability in an entropic world and human life. Cultivating such a sensibility would also entail relinquishing a significant degree of material control and detachment. The Gītā suggests that, in the contemporary West, many suffer hardships from overattachment to their physical bodies. Overattachment to our bodies, outward physical appearances, and material desires should alert us to the value of engaging more deeply with the subtle, internal parts of our material selves, which the Gītā explains are essential aspects of prakṛti. Because the inner parts of ourselves are often viewed as more abstract and less tangible, they can be conceived as less important than the more physical or visible aspects of our selfhood. Myriad issues and dangers arise from overattachment to material objects, which often lead to greater anxiety and suffering. Learning how to better attend to the inner parts of ourselves and loosening our attachment to the material outcomes of our actions may result in a self-​disciplinary disposition that allows us to become less dependent on the external objects of our desires, which are often less under our individual control than we would like to think. Drawing on passages from Book 6 of the Gītā, Farah Godrej explains: “The application of self-​discipline to the senses requires the dispassionate observation of sense processes, cultivating awareness of and detachment from the logic of

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Bhagavad Gītā  97 materiality and from the content of one’s own mind when ensnared in the grasp of materiality.”28 As the material world tends to ensnare our minds in things that are often out of our control and can lead to greater suffering, the Gītā suggests we practice methods of subtle mental control and detachment, cultivating an alternative disposition of inner peace that contrasts with a materialist disposition that may view happiness and contentment as the successful attainment of one material desire after another. Kṛṣṇa can be interpreted as a form of “higher conscience” that models the lessons outlined above regarding equanimity and disinterestedness. Philosophically, at the deepest metaphysical and ontological levels the dialogue between Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna is actually a monologue: a conversation between the higher aspects of Kṛṣṇa as the non-​manifest absolute and an aspect of himself in the form of Arjuna’s unmanifest ātman in embodied form on the battlefield. When Kṛṣṇa reveals his supreme cosmic identity, he reminds Arjuna that everything is strung on Kṛṣṇa as “pearls on a thread”—​that is, the Supreme Being underlies and connects everything in the cosmos. On this reading, one could interpret the Gītā as an internal dialogue between different aspects of the Supreme Being in an attempt to convince the lower parts of itself to act in the world out of a sense of detached duty. Such action is necessary, I have argued, to establish some degree of order in an inevitably entropic world. In this regard we can read the Gītā as a lesson to all of us concerning the ongoing necessity and willingness to engage in such internal reflection and recognize that death—​and aging as a physical process ending in death—​is inevitable but must not prevent someone from making difficult choices in the face of physical challenges one may confront. Following Kṛṣṇa’s advice to Arjuna as an aspect of his higher self, the first challenge is not being addicted to prakṛti and its material seductions, including the illusion that death is the worst thing that can happen to us. One should engage in neither full ascetic rejection of action and physical life, nor overattachment to life in the form of individual physical desire and the fruits of our actions. The second major challenge confronting us entails fulfilling the duties and actions necessary for preserving the world and its structural integrity. In the Gītā, Arjuna’s duty to act as a kṣatriya reflects this challenge because he must act as a necessary instrument in preserving the world by annihilating the Kauravas, who represent a destructive earthly force. Since the fear of death is the result of succumbing to externally driven desire, the Gītā invites us to place greater emphasis on our inner self and its micro-​politics, which are important to consider when thinking about what it means to live a well-​lived life. These micro-​politics consist of contending forces stemming from desire, hope, imagination, and reasoning processes in the mind at various levels of consciousness. There may be deeper truths about us, which, if properly recognized, would lead people to dodge self-​destructive attachment to objects that fuel egoism, greed, and selfishness. This recognition may have further cathartic psychological effects, helping reduce not only the amount of physical desire we possess but also unhealthy over-​attachment to the fruit of our actions. This interpretation finds further support when Kṛṣṇa explains that he reincarnates himself when adharma (injustice) spikes and the wicked are abusing the earth, thus fulfilling a disinterested dharmic duty that Ranchor Prime, who has also drawn on the Gītā, views as a model for each human being.29 The broader epic narrative justifies this overarching idea. Highlighting an important portion of Kṛṣṇa’s argument, a warrior’s kṣatriya-​dharma involves fighting and destroying adharmic forces that inhibit earthly well-​being. Much earlier in the Mahābhārata, the sage narrating the story explains how, at a particular juncture in the historical past, the devas (gods) had just defeated the asuras (demons) at the start of a golden age or Kṛta Yuga. The asuras were then reborn as prideful, abusive rulers on earth.30 In response, Earth (mahī) supplicated the creator divinity Brahmā for assistance in eradicating them, and Brahmā subsequently ordered all of the gods to incarnate a part of themselves

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98  Stuart Gray on earth to eradicate the evil kṣatriya rulers.31 The political message is clear: individuals should not endanger the integrity of the earth’s well-​being, and those who find themselves in positions of rule have a duty to prevent any abuse of the earth and the straining of her resources. As intimated above, our ability to overcome the fear of death also bears broader significance for ecological concerns in contemporary politics. The Gītā’s ontology provides reasons for increasingly relinquishing egoistic action in favor of broader socio-​political duties, and the principle of dharmic disinterestedness invites us to consider the value of activity that may be disinterested in advancing personal interests and be more concerned with advancing common goods and interests. Taking broader socio-​political obligations seriously and diminishing egoistic concerns might also help justify forms of dutiful action that address ecological and environmental problems. For example, because all living things possess an ātman in the Gītā’s philosophy, greater reason and impetus exist to respect all living things and the earth that supports them, since living things share the same ontological and metaphysical “core.” Karmic residue may differentiate things in various physical ways, as Kṛṣṇa explains to Arjuna on two separate occasions regarding the most subtle levels of reality: Wise are they who see no difference between a learned, well-​mannered brahmin, a cow, an elephant, a dog, and an eater of dogs. In this very world they have conquered creation whose minds are rooted in disinterest [i.e., avoidance of egoistic self-​advancement and taking credit for the fruits of one’s actions]. For brahman is without flaws and indifferent, and therefore they [who regard these different entitites with equanimity] are rooted in brahman. He is deemed the ultimate yogin, Arjuna, who, by comparing everything with himself, sees the same in everything, whether it be blissful or wretched.32 In this quotation, we see the intersection of the principle of disinterested equanimity and grounds for recognizing dignity in all living things. As I explained earlier in the chapter, the ātman is the disinterested spectator of the body’s actions in the realm of prakṛti, and the ātman is a component of the broader, underlying reality of brahman. Since everything shares the same fundamental ontological basis, human beings could work toward disentangling themselves from and placing less stock in physical differentiations in the various levels of material creation (prakṛti). This philosophical position would give us good reason to treat other living things with greater levels of respect. For similar political and philosophical reasons, this micro-​level stance poses pertinent connections to resource scarcity and environmental degradation.33 First, an underlying brahman connects not only living things but living and nonliving things. The latter category would include diverse elements of our worldly ecosystem and environment. One can also connect this stance to the Gītā’s political position on dharma and svadharma. In Sanskrit, the term dharma is derived from the verb root dhṛ-​, meaning “to uphold or maintain.” Therefore, one of dharma’s meanings amounts to actions that uphold worldly, physical manifestations in the realm of prakṛti because there is no inherent reason to privilege immediate human desires at the cost of nonhuman things that share a deeper identity at the level of brahman. This position carries clear eco-​environmental applications, some of which have been powerfully applied in a modern Indian political context. For example, Lance Nelson has explained how the Gītā has offered some particularly valuable ecological ideas.34 Nelson illustrates how the Chipko forest conservation movement has consistently appealed to the Gītā as a source of inspiration and support for its political aims.35 Citing Ramachandra Guha’s study of this movement, Nelson notes how its leader, Sunderlal Bahuguna, “speaks of his struggle to save the forests of the Himalaya as

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Bhagavad Gītā  99 a dharma-​yuddha (righteous battle), echoing Gītā 2.31.”36 A corresponding ethical-​political battle must be waged, according to Bahuguna, to combat the ills stemming from deforestation. Both Nelson and Guha thus highlight how the Gītā has inspired a form of ecological activism, including an eco-​friendly approach to consumption through its ascetic self-​control in resisting “egocentrism, possessiveness, and selfish desire.”37 As explained earlier, curbing the power of our material desires by controlling our senses with the higher parts of our immaterial selves could facilitate an environmentally sustainable sensibility toward the material world. In conclusion, the Gītā, with its emphasis on themes of death and destruction and its exploration of the dualism of existence, gives rise to a political ethic of conscientious self-​ restraint that may help address destructive, over-​reaching forms of material consumption in the contemporary world. The greater stake we place in our physical existence, the more anxious we may become about the natural phenomenon of aging and death. In contrast, the Gītā suggests we place greater emphasis on the more subtle material or immaterial parts of ourselves, such as our minds and inner dispositions or character. Self-​control and efforts to reduce infatuation with our bodies and maximizing our physical pleasure may help open greater space and time to address more impersonal duties to others, both human and nonhuman.

Notes 1 I thank Thomas Hughes for his very thoughtful comments and suggestions on previous drafts. 2 For the purposes of this chapter, politics refers to relations of rule while morality refers to dharmic relationships. 3 BG 6.23.29–​31. Transl. J. A. B. van Buitenen. 4 BG 6.24.3. 5 BG 6.24.11–​13. 6 BG 6.24.18. 7 BG 6.24.22. 8 BG 6.24.26–​7. 9 BG 6.24.14/​62. 10 The distinction between puruṣa and ātman is aspectual in nature. One could view them as two sides of the same coin: puruṣa refers more to the pluralized, immaterial aspects of the Supreme Being, while ātman refers to the immaterial aspect of a distinct self that is connected to a particular buddhi-​manas-​indriya construct that extends into the realm of prakṛti. 11 BG 6.25.42. 12 BG 6.25.27–​9. 13 BG 6.29.12. 14 See BG 6.36.1–​27. 15 BG 6.36.14–​15. 16 BG 6.26.5–​9. 17 BG 6.36.9–​10. 18 BG 6.25.27, 6.35.29. 19 BG 6.26.7–​9. 20 BG 6.24.30–​2. 21 BG 6.24.34–​5. 22 BG 6.24.37. 23 BG 6.25.7/​9. 24 BG 6.26.19–​20. 25 BG 6.26.13–​14. 26 BG 6.27.13. The nine gates refer to the body’s orifices: eyes, ears, mouth, nostrils, and the genital and alimentary orifices.

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100  Stuart Gray 27 The Kṛta Yuga is the first, perfect age, which descends respectively into the cyle of Dvāpara, Tretā, and Kali Yugas, with dharma and the length of each Age decreasing from one to the next. 28 Godrej, 787. 29 Prime. Prime also derives a theory of sustainability through an interpretation of the Gītā per the model of Kṛṣṇa as an avatar of the Supreme Being. 30 MBh 1.58.25–​34. 31 MBh 1.58.45–​50. 32 BG 6.5.18–​19, 6.6.32. 33 On the Gītā as a source for environmental or ecological insights, see also Nelson. 34 Nelson. 35 Nelson, 130. 36 Nelson, 132; Guha, 162, 166, 170. 37 Nelson, 133; Guha, 171–​2.

References Godrej, Farah. “The Neoliberal Yogi and the Politics of Yoga.” Political Theory 45, no. 6 (2017): 772–​800. Guha, Ramachandra. The Unquiet Woods: Ecological Change and Peasant Resistance in the Himalaya. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990. Nelson, Lance. “Reading the Bhagavadgītā from an Ecological Perspective.” In Hinduism and Ecology: The Intersection of Earth, Sky and Water, 127–​64. Edited by Christopher Key Chapple and Mary Evelyn Tucker. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000. Prime, Ranchor. Vedic Ecology: Practical Wisdom for Surviving the 21st Century. Novato: Mandala, 2002. The Bhagavadgītā in the Mahābhārata. Translated by J. A. B. van Buitenen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981.

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10  Life and Death as a Political Act Cicero and the Stoics Carly T. Herold

The Roman philosopher and statesman Cicero (106–​43 B C E ) lived during a time of great political turmoil.1 In this period, the Roman empire exerted an immense outward force, but suffered a series of internal upheavals that threatened—​and ultimately succeeded in overturning—​its republican institutions. Cicero, a staunch defender of the republic, devoted himself deeply to the political life of his regime. He is perhaps most famous to us now for his orations against Catiline for the conspiracy to overthrow the republic and against Marc Antony, following the death of Julius Caesar in 44 B C E . In addition to his political activities, Cicero maintained an equal devotion to political philosophy. He understood himself to be a student of Socrates, who “was the first to call philosophy down from heaven and set her in the cities and bring her also into homes.”2 Approximately 350 years after Socrates’ execution, Cicero recognized the influence philosophy had begun to have in Rome on ordinary opinions about the value of civic life and the significance of human mortality through the popularization of various and divergent philosophical schools, such as Stoicism and Epicureanism. One key work in which he investigates this development is De Finibus, a dialogue presenting a series of conversations first between Cicero and a young student of Epicureanism, next with the renowned statesman Cato the Younger—​an adherent of the Stoic school of philosophy—​and finally with a young man seeking guidance from Cicero and his friends. In the dialogue, Cicero indicates that Stoicism comes to light as the most politically healthy of these increasingly widespread schools. This chapter thus focuses on Cicero’s dialogue with Cato, and their discussion about Stoicism’s teachings on death and life.3 Stoicism, as compared to the other popular philosophic schools of thought, presents itself—​in Cicero’s day as well as our own—​as a refined devotion to the noblest virtues of human life. By teaching that by nature virtue is the sole good for human beings, Stoicism counsels that the length of one’s life is so unimportant as to play no part in the happiness of a wise individual. It promises a self-​sufficient happiness that transcends the human vulnerability to pain and death. These stern and impressive teachings have appealed to many, from Cato the Younger and Brutus (the assassin of Julius Caesar), to James Stockdale, former Admiral in the United States Navy, who wrote and spoke at length of the influence Stoicism had not only on his moral thinking but also on his ability to withstand torture as a prisoner of war in Vietnam.4 By questioning Cato, however, Cicero reveals not only the deep attraction of Stoicism’s attitude toward human mortality and its promise that our vulnerability to pain and suffering can be overcome by true virtue, but also fundamental confusions at the heart of the Stoic teaching. Ultimately, Cicero offers a crucial corrective to Stoicism as exemplified by Cato, and points the way toward a capacious understanding that seeks to reconcile us to human nature rather than attempt to transcend it. Cicero shows that one effect of Stoicism’s increasing popularity was a transformation in the way citizens conceived of human mortality and, as a result, in their understanding of DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-11

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102  Carly T. Herold public and private obligations. This transformation most famously manifested itself in the noble but grisly suicide of Cato the Younger in 46 B C E .5 Cato’s refusal to live under the yoke of Caesar’s rule reveals perhaps the courage made possible by the Stoic deprecation of the significance of death. Cicero shows, nevertheless, that this same deprecation affected the soundness of Cato’s own political judgment and threatens to weaken the bonds that tie citizens to their regimes, families, and associations. A certain awareness of the fact of our mortality is, for Cicero, a crucial component of healthy civic life. We will therefore benefit from examining Cicero’s appraisal and critique of Stoicism’s tendency to deprecate our mortality, coupled though that teaching is with a view of nature and virtue that cuts against the predominant opinions about human excellence in the modern West.

Virtue and the Good for Mortal Beings On one hand, Cicero sees in Stoicism a potential support for moral and political virtue. Stoicism offers a particularly high-​minded and impressive example of popular philosophy. It is not difficult to envision that the primary doctrine of the Stoic school—​the defense of moral virtue as the only human good and the perfection of human reason as the result of possessing that virtue—​cultivates an admirable and stern self-​reliance. It is, for example, this pure devotion to virtue that gave Cato his reputation as an incorruptible moral authority.6 But, on the other hand, although the Stoics encourage noble deeds and moral steadfastness in certain respects, their teaching that moral virtue is the only good requires an uncompromising pursuit of virtue that rejects the prudence and compromises necessary in politics, as well as the significance of such goods as peace, familial life, friendship, and civic participation, which are safeguarded by the regime. After all, as Cato insists almost from the beginning of the conversation, unless it is maintained that what is honorable is the only good, there is no way of establishing that it is virtue that brings about the happy life … If it were possible for a wise person to be unhappy, I fear I would set little value on glorious and wonderful virtue.7 Cato thus indicates that the central promise of Stoic philosophy is an unchanging happiness for the wise or virtuous individual.8 Wisdom, argues Cato, is the possession of the completely virtuous soul. But virtue would lose its place as an object of admiration as well as its value to human beings if it were not both the necessary and sufficient condition for complete happiness. If sickness or even death might tarnish or diminish the true happiness attained through virtue, there would be little point in devoting oneself to it. Cicero reveals, then, that Cato’s devotion to virtue’s promise precedes and colors his understanding.9 For Cato, the claim that honorableness is sufficient for happiness is the foundational premise of his analysis of human nature, rather than a conclusion arrived at on the basis of reason and evidence. In an account he offers of the nature of animals, Cato argues that all animals desire self-​ preservation. This desire is rooted in a self-​love that leads us to seek the good and avoid the bad. These goods are called by Cato “the primary objects of desire.” Nevertheless, pleasure—​ even the pleasure of being alive—​cannot be counted among these objects.10 Here Cato’s argument echoes his initial defense of virtue’s self-​sufficiency: “if nature were thought to have included pleasure amongst the primary objects of desire, then many base things would follow.”11 If pleasure is accepted as a natural good, it must be included among the standards by which we judge our choices. But virtue, as Cato seems now to realize, often requires the denial of pleasure. Self-​restraint or self-​sacrifice is often at the heart of the deeds we admire as virtuous. If pleasure is naturally good, there would be no shame in preferring what is

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Marcus Tullius Cicero  103 pleasing to ourselves instead of what is right. Perhaps Cato fears that the pull of pleasure is so strong that if it were admitted to be good it would not fail to outweigh the desire to act nobly. Cicero, having earlier called on “virtue herself ” to pronounce who she believes to be happiest, states that she would “not hesitate to rank Marcus Regulus,” who allowed himself to be tortured in captivity by the Carthaginians in order to keep a promise, above anyone who counts pleasure as the good.12 The indication that not he, but virtue, declares Regulus happiest of all, requires us to wonder whether Cicero agrees with virtue’s—​or Cato’s—​assessment. Indeed, Cicero intimates his disagreement by declaring that he “dare[s]‌ not say” whom he would name.13 If his estimation of Regulus were the same as virtue’s, he would have no reason to remain silent. Perhaps there is something base in admitting that Regulus’ happiness, in spite of his uncompromising virtue, was truly limited by the painful death he suffered. Perhaps human nature does not admit of perfect nobility. Whereas Cicero seems open to this possibility, Cato rejects pleasure as a natural good because such noble but self-​sacrificial actions as Regulus’ would no longer be commanded by nature if it were. Cato is thus not quite sincere in his desire to understand or live according to human nature. He wishes, Cicero shows, to be moral above all, to hold on to the possibility of a fully thriving human life so self-​sufficient as to be invulnerable to chance and unmoved by pain or death. Or, to put it another way, Cato wishes to live the life according to nature only if that life is the perfectly moral one. It is only on these grounds that wisdom, the perfection of human reason and judgment, can be understood as the life of perfect virtue for Cato.14 The natural self-​love and desire for preservation in all human beings develops, according to Cato, into a duty “to preserve oneself in one’s natural constitution.”15 And yet, Stoicism, according to Cicero, calls threats to our self-​preservation, such as “disease, poverty, and pain not evil, but … worthy of rejection.” A Stoic “speaks not of seeking but of selecting, not of wishing for but of adopting” those things which have value.16 These things, the Stoics insist, are “actually ‘preferred,’ not good … [and] are to be ‘adopted’ rather than ‘sought.’ ”17 To speak of something in this way not only lessens its significance, but also suggests that one has a great degree of control over its selection or rejection. The Stoic attempts through this shift in vocabulary to show his desires to be free from the pull of the passions and the concerns of the body. He especially underscores the freedom that is achievable through this control over one’s vulnerability to changes in circumstance and, as Cato’s discussion of suicide will show, above all to death. Still, this insistence on virtue as the sole good ultimately compels Cato to admit that wisdom and virtue depend on a recognition that “all things are indifferent and indistinguishable from one another except for virtue and vice,” a position he initially attempts to reject.18 Cato thus unintentionally reveals a tension at the heart of the Stoic doctrine. Stoicism must allow for a way to rank and differentiate better and worse things, while also insisting upon their total insignificance for human thriving. Cato recognizes that without such differentiation, there would be no grounds upon which to prefer one thing to another. But if such differentiation results in finally attributing true goodness to some of these objects, then virtue loses its status as the sole good for human beings. If Cato were to concede that other objects of desire are good, objects that one cannot be sure of attaining, he would also have to concede that the wise man’s happiness is not wholly within his own control. The beauty of virtue would be significantly diminished.19 Stoicism attempts to square this circle by calling certain things “valuable” or “preferable,” such that one would choose to have them if possible, but denying that these have any effect on our virtue and thus, on our happiness.20 Cicero shows that this solution ultimately forces Cato and the Stoics to mislead themselves in crucial ways. Those who are wise, says Cato, live “happy, perfect, and blessed lives, with no impediment or obstacle, lacking nothing.”21 At the same time, however, Cato argues that the happy and moral life is not only that which is praiseworthy, but one that actually

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104  Carly T. Herold “wins praise.” Underneath Cato’s portrait of the happy life as perfect and sufficient unto itself is revealed a deeper desire for honor and recognition and, therefore, a dependence upon others to provide them. Happiness, to Cato, requires that one’s life be “marked out” on account of its moral excellence.22 In spite of this revelation, Cato insists that “good reputation … aside from any instrumental benefit it may have … [is] not worth lifting a finger for.”23 Thus, Cato claims that happiness both requires and is indifferent to praise. If, as Cato suggests, wisdom consists in—​or at least includes—​knowledge of human nature (a suggestion with which, we may suspect, Cicero would agree), then Cato’s confusion about the extent to which our happiness is dependent upon others is a severe impediment to his attaining that wisdom. His lack of clarity about the desire for praise is a stumbling block in his pursuit of self-​sufficiency.

The Moral and Political Implications of Mortality As a corollary to the view that nothing can be added to virtue that could enhance its goodness or the wise man’s happiness, Cato adds that “one who has made some progress towards the acquisition of virtue is just as unhappy as the one who has made no progress at all.” For Cato, either virtue is complete, or it is completely lacking. He recognizes that this view “seems strange,” for it appears not to accord at all with how excellence is ordinarily understood.24 It would require us to hold that there is no middle ground between the perfection of virtue and vice. If one lacks perfect virtue—​or if one is animated by any concern other than virtue itself—​he is indistinguishable from a tyrant or a thug, no matter how well-​intentioned or just his aims.25 Thus, the admirable but imperfect Brutus or Abraham Lincoln must be classed alongside Julius Caesar or Stalin. Cato acknowledges this to be the logical consequence of his position, but he seems moved to it by the hope that the wise man, having achieved happiness through his wisdom, is always happy. The attainment of virtue may be as rare as it is difficult, but, according to the Stoic teaching, the man of perfect virtue—​the man “we are trying to produce”—​lives in a permanent state of happiness and, above all, is invulnerable to and has a lofty scorn for chance, pain, or anything that might “befall a human being.”26 In response, Cicero emphasizes the confusion that the Stoic doctrine would cause in political life and, moreover, a problem this teaching presents for politics. He describes the difficulty a speaker would have defending criminal punishment or appealing to citizens to defend their city against an approaching enemy in Stoic terms.27 Ordinarily, the success of such a speaker, if he is not simply a demagogue, would turn on his ability to appeal to his audience’s commitment to their community, to their belief that a real injustice and harm occurs when a crime is committed or an enemy conquers. While the scorn for pain may, as Cato argues, enable one to face dangers with steadfastness, the urgency of protecting the community against pain or death would decline to the extent that they are not understood to be truly bad.28 The restraint that law can exercise upon its citizens also requires that they believe the punishments it hands down to those who violate it to be true and justified deprivations. Stoicism’s teaching about virtue has practical and dangerous consequences, shown by Cicero in his speech in defense of Murena, whose election to the consulship sparked the Catilinarian conspiracy. In 63 BCE , Murena stood in the election against Catiline, who, having been defeated, conspired to gain power through a violent coup. While Catiline was organizing forces outside of Rome, Murena was prosecuted, in part by Cato himself, for bribery and electoral corruption unrelated to Catiline’s crimes. In Murena’s defense, Cicero attacks Cato’s adherence to Stoicism’s “fixed pattern of reasoning” that is so uncompromisingly devoted to justice that it “is a little too harsh and hard for truth or nature to endure.”29

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Marcus Tullius Cicero  105 If virtue is the only good—​as Stoicism teaches—​then “all misdeeds are equal,” and we must acknowledge that “the casual killing of a rooster is no less a crime than strangling one’s father.”30 This rigidity, argues Cicero, robs Cato of the prudence that distinguishes between the existential threat of Catiline and the alleged petty crimes of Murena. Cato’s Stoicism blinds him to the fact that his prosecution of Murena serves Catiline’s ends, because it “dislodges from his defense of the city and his protection of the citizen body an uncorrupt consul” while Catiline and his followers plan to “destroy the city, slaughter the citizens, and obliterate the name of Rome.” And while the speech insists that Murena is innocent of the charges brought against him, Cicero implies that because the survival of the regime is at stake—​and not merely “a question of an unjust law, or ruinous bribery, or the sort of plot against the republic with which we are familiar”—​a good leader would maintain Murena in his consulship even if he were guilty, if doing so would preserve the republic.31 In the messy world of politics, Cato’s devotion to the perfection of virtue leads potentially to the success of unjust men. Cato’s Stoicism fails to recognize that “peace, leisure, concord, liberty, and safety” are goods worth protecting because it does not recognize that they make possible the justice that Cato believes he is defending in the trial against Murena.32 Cato is unable to judge what justice requires even though he sincerely wishes to uphold it. Nevertheless, in De Finibus, when Cicero maintains the absurdity of expecting an orator, “with Hannibal at the gates,” to “declare that captivity, enslavement, death, and the loss of one’s homeland are not evils,” he exaggerates the strangeness of the Stoic position.33 The speeches of the finest orators from Pericles to Churchill deprecate the evil of death in times of crisis. Indeed, such deprecation is perhaps a significant component of the belief that it is just to risk death in defense of the common good. In these circumstances, we do believe, in a way, that death is not an evil or, at least, that it is not the worst evil. This belief is, however, inextricably tied to the thought that “captivity, enslavement … and the loss of one’s homeland” are, in fact, evils that we would prefer to die resisting rather than accept. In other words, the willingness to die is deeply connected to a devotion not simply to virtue, but to the political order that makes a virtuous life possible and whose bonds center around family and fellow citizens. Seen through this lens, Cato’s own decision to die rather than submit to Caesar may not reveal Cato’s attainment of self-​sufficient virtue, but that virtue’s deep connection to—​and even dependence upon—​the republic that Caesar sought to overturn.

Suicide as the Manifestation of Self-​Sufficiency Cato declares that the wisdom that results from perfect virtue provides judgment so clear that a person will be able to pick the right time for his own death when it is no longer the case that “most of what one has is in accordance with nature.” Life, it seems, is no longer worth living when one is unable to pursue what nature has marked out as the good for human beings. He reminds us that, for the Stoic, “living happily—​that is, living in harmony with nature—​is a matter of timeliness.” But Cato also surprisingly, although courageously, declares that it may be the case that it is appropriate for “the wise man to depart from life though happy.”34 Happiness, so the thought goes, is independent of the length of one’s life. One should look upon death as nothing bad in comparison with a life inconsistent with the dictates of nature. Moreover, the Stoic would choose death not simply in the latter case, but even as soon as it is merely “envisaged,” that is, it appears to be or may become the case.35 Happiness, as Cato argues, is precisely the life lived according to nature, and he maintains throughout his speech that this can be achieved only through the life of virtue. We recall, however that virtue, once attained, is immune to suffering and impossible to subjugate: “the wise may have their body put in chains, but you will never chain their soul,” Cato declares.36 In what way, then, can the

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106  Carly T. Herold wise individual who possesses virtue permanently ever be said to lack most—​or any—​of the things that are in accordance with nature?37 If the answer to this question involves difficulties of external circumstance or personal suffering, then one must admit that virtue is insufficient for a happy human life. The self-​sufficiency that transcends our mortal nature would be impossible. Nevertheless, Cato claims that “the whole rationale for either remaining in or departing from life is to be measured by reference to those intermediates” he has already discussed.38 Cato had distinguished virtue from intermediate things that should be “selected but not sought.”39 This distinction was made to defend the view that there are many things in life that we might prefer, on balance, to have—​such as health, nourishment, and leisure—​ but that are ultimately in no way necessary for our happiness, which requires only that we live virtuously. Cato now holds that these desirable but unnecessary things are the sole consideration upon which the decision to live or die must be based. Cato’s surprising assertion that it may be appropriate for the wise man to sacrifice his life even when he is happy (because he is wise) presents the additional problem of setting virtue against happiness. Thus, Stoicism’s teaching about suicide undermines its own central promise that the possession of virtue is the sole sufficient condition for a happy life. Cato’s claim also, however, goes some way toward explaining the twists in his understanding of suicide. Suicide, in Cato’s view, is appropriate if circumstances, such as ill health or slavery, lead one to the opinion that a virtuous, and therefore, happy life appears impossible, in spite of his insistence that such things cannot diminish true happiness. What’s more, the duty to sacrifice one’s happiness that Cato mentions in passing contradicts the duty to maintain one’s life when “most of what one has is in accord with nature” and the belief that the demands of virtue and the requirements of happiness are always identical. If sacrificing one’s happiness is indeed fitting, then it must either be the case that sometimes death is most appropriate even when the life according to nature remains available or that sometimes the dictates of virtue are inconsistent with our own happiness. According to Cato, only suicide that includes the element of sacrifice has a place among noble or beautiful deeds.40 Cato’s attraction to the nobility of suicide therefore forces him to call “living happily” that which is actually a transcending or sacrifice of happiness. Thus, although he takes up the discussion of suicide in order to emphasize the ease with which the wise man can relinquish the false goods of fortune, he must, in the end, admit their real goodness (as well as death’s badness) in order to preserve the nobility of giving them up. Cicero replies that if Cato were honest, he would have to admit that he “simply could not bear” the thought “that a morally good life which also had health, reputation, and wealth would thereby be a preferable, better, and more desirable life than one which was equally moral but … was ‘beset on all sides by illness, exile, and poverty.’ ”41 The Stoic terminology, which is meant to clarify the distinction between the truly good and the merely preferable, leads, instead, to confusion. Just as Stoicism’s founder “Zeno was wrong to claim that nothing other than virtue carries any weight in the attainment of the supreme good,” so too is it a mistake to think “that nothing else has any effect on the happy life, yet that other things can affect our desire … as if this desire of ours were not aimed at attaining the supreme good.”42 Cicero challenges the possibility of sustaining this sort of thinking by showing the lengths to which Cato must go to maintain the distinction between the good and the preferable and by Cato’s ultimate failure in this task. According to Cato, “everything that is good”—​namely, virtue alone—​“we say, occupies the first rank.” Next, “what we call advantageous or superior must be what is neither good nor bad,” and is therefore defined as “indifferent,” as it has “no bearing on whether one lives happily or miserably.”43 Cato remains unable to clarify how one thing can be superior to another if neither has any significance for the attainment of our happiness or any choice-​worthy end. Moreover, Cato’s own criteria by which we ought to judge among these secondary objects belie his insistence

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Marcus Tullius Cicero  107 upon their indifference. Virtue, says Cato, can be thought of as a king at court. Our preference should be for those things which, “while lower in order, [approach] nearest to the pre-​ eminence of the king.”44 But if this is the case, then these secondary objects, far from being indifferent, are distinguished precisely by their ability to bring us closer to the good.

Human Imperfection and Human Wisdom The hope for a permanent happiness invulnerable to chance and change leads the Stoics to revere virtue as something exceedingly difficult to achieve, but complete and permanent upon its attainment. Ultimately this teaching is too unconnected to human experience, especially our experience of ourselves as political and social beings, to be maintained. This view, Cicero argues, has “no place in the life of the city … No one could take seriously anyone who spoke like that, and set themselves up as an authority on the wise and dignified conduct of life.”45 By proclaiming all people to be miserable who lack complete virtue, the Stoics detach themselves from crucial civic concerns and attachments: “in declaring what is honorable to be the only good, [they] do away with … the direction of public affairs, the conduct of business, and the duties of life.”46 Thus, according to Cicero, the Stoic understanding of virtue is, perhaps surprisingly, a standard to be adopted neither by serious philosophers nor by serious citizens. As citizens, the pull of our attachments to our community and family undergirds and strengthens the opinion that virtuous activity is worthwhile. The awareness of our mortality, of our vulnerability to chance, and of the need most of us have of others are the foundational elements that give urgency and significance to our social and political obligations. The false denial of the goods sought in service of these obligations upsets the grounds on which good citizenship is built. Cicero’s charge that the Stoics’ devotion to virtue ultimately undermines itself brings to the fore his critique of the Stoics’ disregard for human nature insofar as they disregard the concerns of the body. Cicero asks, “how and where did you suddenly abandon the body and all those things that are in accordance with nature but not in our power, finally discarding duty itself ?”47 Because the Stoics associate especially the passions and pains of the body with the vulnerability to chance, it is not surprising that they attempt to remove bodily concerns from their conception of the good. But, as Cicero now indicates, it is impossible to conceive of the good of any living creature that does not include some cognizance of the continuation of its physical existence. The nature of every animal necessarily includes its body.48 All animal nature is rooted in self-​love and “there is none that ever abandons either itself, or any part of … its nature.”49 Only in the case of human beings, it seems, does our nature attempt to “abandon itself, forgetting the body and placing the highest good not in the whole but in a part of itself ?”50 Cicero thus suggests that while the Stoics are mistaken, there is something peculiar about human nature that invites their particular mistake. Human beings, alone among the animals, are not simply at home in their bodily nature. Human nature alone wishes, in some way, to abandon this part of itself and exist, perhaps, as something more resplendent and lasting. With this acknowledgement, Cicero concedes that there is something inherently and deeply appealing for human beings in the Stoic promise of happiness invulnerable to bodily concerns or external forces. But both the attraction and the promise, as Cicero has already emphasized, are based on a misunderstanding of our natural happiness that acts as an impediment to its attainment. Because their understanding of virtue takes only partial account of human nature, the Stoics “failed to realize that they were undermining the foundations of those beautiful objects of their admiration.”51 This undermining occurs in both a theoretical and a practical sense. Stoicism draws on a powerful attraction to the nobility of moral virtue but, because

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108  Carly T. Herold it promises the attainment of that nobility can be found in a wisdom that is detached from the concerns and desires rooted in the body, it obscures the path to an adequately capacious and honest understanding of the desires and passions of the soul. In addition, the Stoics’ uncompromising quest for perfect virtue ultimately turns them away from the primary arena in which noble deeds are possible. That Cato maintained his deep political involvement may indeed bear witness to his attachment to civic virtue apart from his devotion to the Stoic school.52 But Cicero warns that once virtue is severed from social and political attachments, it loses its foundation and, therefore, its support. Cicero presents his own conception of wisdom to clarify how we might begin to account for the whole of human nature rather than only its most majestic or beautiful aspect. He begins from an analogy of a sculptor who “can start a work from scratch … or can take over an incomplete work from someone and perfect it.” Human wisdom, he says, “corresponds to the latter case. It did not itself create the human race; it took over, incomplete, from nature.”53 In this brief account, Cicero mentions three times that the formation of human nature was left unfinished or imperfect. For this reason, one must ask in what way we were “left incomplete”?54 Whereas the Stoics allow themselves to be carried away by admiration for what they believe is the perfection of our nature, Cicero emphasizes instead its fundamental imperfection. This imperfection, it seems, consists especially in the lack of correspondence between the happiness we long for and the happiness that our nature is capable of attaining.55 To finish the sculpture which nature began requires clarity about the true shape of the sculpture as it exists, and an awareness of what it lacks. Wisdom’s true task is thus the attempt to bring our desires into harmony with, rather than overcome, the happiness our bodily nature makes available to us. This task can be accomplished only, says Cicero, if we “watch nature closely” and do “not hesitate to inquire what has been achieved by the whole of [man’s] nature.”56 Stoicism’s moral teaching prevents it from adequately undertaking this inquiry. Because this teaching holds that “there is nothing to be perfected except a certain operation of the intellect,” it not only discards the body as a concern, but also attends only to a certain part of the soul.57 But only by accounting for the whole of the soul together with the body can we understand what it means to take nature as the guide for how we should live. By neglecting the imperfections of human nature—​our vulnerability to chance, to pain, and to death—​the Stoics must ultimately reject the importance of the specific attachments and obligations at the root of our moral and political concerns. Stoicism’s devotion to virtue thus threatens to undermine virtue itself. When the foundation of virtue is shaken, Cicero concludes, wisdom has “nowhere to put its feet.”58 Just as the strength of our social and political concerns is the foundation of virtue, clarity about these concerns and their roots is the foundation on which wisdom is built. Stoicism’s attempt to solve the problem of death by promising the possibility of transcending it serves neither the civic outlook necessary for healthy politics, nor the clarity necessary for philosophy. Both politics and philosophy, according to Cicero, require in different ways an awareness of the significance of human mortality.

Notes 1 I wish to thank Lorraine Pangle for many years of fruitful conversations about Cicero, and this volume’s editors for excellent comments and suggestions about this chapter. 2 Cicero, TD V.4. Unless otherwise noted, all quotations are from Cicero’s works. They are abbreviated as follows: TD: Tusculan Disputations, DF: De Finibus Bonum et Malorum; DO: De Officiis; PM: Pro Murena; DND: De Natura Deorum. Specific editions used are noted in the References. Translations have been modified on occasion.

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Marcus Tullius Cicero  109 3 Considerations of space require that this essay focus only on Cicero’s reflections on Stoicism, but a full treatment would require examining his analysis of Epicureanism as well, beginning with DF I–​II and DND I. 4 Stockdale, Courage under Fire and Thoughts. 5 Plutarch, 68–​70. 6 Plutarch, 4; see also Cicero’s eulogy of Cato in DO I.112. 7 DF III.11. “Honorable” translates the Latin honestum, a particularly difficult word to render literally. Cicero uses it here and elsewhere similarly to the Greek kalon, especially in its moral sense (cf. DO I.14). 8 The centrality of Cato’s claim for Stoicism as a whole is attested to by other Roman Stoics. Consider Seneca’s “On Providence,” and Letter 124 (7–​46, 256–​61) and Epictetus’ Discourses I.12 “On Contentment” (Epicurus et al., 247–​9). 9 DF III.11; cf. III.17, 29. 10 DF III.17. Cicero offers his own account earlier in the dialogue, which differs from Cato’s in important respects, especially with regard to the status of pleasure (cf. II.33–​4). 11 DF III.17. 12 DF II.65; cf. DO I.39, III.99–​113. 13 DF II.65. 14 DF III.11. 15 DF III.20; cf. III.16. 16 DF IV.72. 17 DF IV.20. 18 DF III.25; cf. III. 12–​14. 19 DF III.11. 20 DF III.20, 43–​4, 50; cf. III.22. 21 DF III.26. 22 DF III.27–​8. 23 DF III.57. 24 DF III.45. 25 DF IV.21. 26 DF ΙΙΙ.29, 25. 27 DF IV.21–​2. 28 DF III.29. 29 PM 3, 60; see also 65. 30 PM 61. 31 PR 79–​80; see also 82–​3. 32 PR 78. 33 DF IV.22. 34 DF III.60–​1; cf. III.22. 35 DF III.60. 36 DF III.75. 37 This contradiction is also apparent in the writings of other Stoics. Compare Seneca’s “On Providence” with his seventieth letter, on the subject of suicide. Cato’s suicide is discussed in each. 38 DF III.61. 39 DF III.22, 52–​4. 40 Cf. DF II.65–​6. 41 DF IV.62. 42 DF IV.47. 43 DF III.53, 50. 44 DF III.52. 45 DF IV.21. 46 DF IV.68. 47 DF IV.26. 48 DF III.26–​9.

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53 54 55 56 57 58

DF IV.32. DF IV.34. DF IV.42. By contrast, Balbus, the Stoic interlocutor in De Natura Deorum, is the only person present at that conversation not explicitly said to be politically active. He is described as “so accomplished a student of Stoicism as to rank with the leading Greek exponents of that system” (DND I.15). DF IV.34. DF IV.35. DF IV.32. DF IV.34, 36. DF IV.35. DF IV.69.

References Cicero, Marcus Tullius. In Catilinam 1-​ 4. Pro Murena. Pro Sulla. Pro Flacco. Translated by C.Macdonald. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976. —​—​—​ On Duties. Translated by Walter Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913. —​—​—​ On Ends. Translated by H Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914. —​—​—​ On Moral Ends. Translated by Raphael Woolf, edited by. Julia Annas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. —​—​—​ On The Nature of The Gods, Academics. Translated by H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933. —​—​—​ The Nature of the Gods. Translated by P. G. Walsh. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997. —​—​—​ Tusculan Disputations. Translated by J. E. King. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927. Epicurus, Epictetus, Lucretius, Marcus Aurelius. The Stoic and Epicurean Philosophers: The Complete Extant Writings. Translated by C. Bailey, H. A. J. Munro, P. E. Matheson, G. Long, edited by Whitney J. Oates. New York: Random House, 1940. Plutarch. Lives VIII: Sertorius and Eumenes. Phocion and Cato the Younger. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919. Seneca. The Stoic Philosophy of Seneca. Translated by Moses Hadas. New York: W. W. Norton, 1958. Stockdale, James B. Courage under Fire: Testing Epictetus’ Doctrines in a Laboratory of Human Behavior. Stanford: Hoover Institution, 1993. —​—​—​ Thoughts of a Philosophical Fighter Pilot. Stanford: Hoover Institution, 1995.

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11  Prenatal and Posthumous Nonexistence Lucretius on the Harmlessness of Death Taylor W. Cyr

One of the most fascinating and continually debated arguments in the philosophical literature on the badness of death comes from the work of Titus Lucretius Carus (99–​55 B C E ), a philosopher and poet who lived in Ancient Rome for much of his life.1 His only extant work is the six-​book-​long epic poem De Rerum Natura (often translated On the Nature of Things), which is meant to instruct its audience in the ways of Epicureanism.2 Named after Epicurus, who lived centuries earlier than Lucretius, Epicureanism is a school of thought with commitments that include (but are not limited to) a materialist view of the world (no supernatural or non-​material entities exist), a hedonistic view of human well-​being (pleasure is the only intrinsic good, and pain the only intrinsic bad), and the view that death is not bad for the one who dies. In support of this last component of the view, Lucretius introduces a new argument, which may be called the Symmetry Argument, which attempts to show that since we were not harmed by not existing before our lives began, so too we will not be harmed by not existing after our lives end. This chapter focuses on Lucretius’s famous Symmetry Argument. In the next section, I will say more about what exactly Epicureanism teaches about death—​and why Epicureans thought it could not be bad. After that, I will provide the passage from Lucretius’s epic poem that includes his reasons for thinking that death cannot be bad and will show how Lucretius’s passage has been regimented into the Symmetry Argument against the badness of death. Next, I will discuss the lasting influence of Lucretius’s argument, summarizing some common ways of responding. Finally, I will turn to two other passages from Lucretius’s poem, both of which suggest that it is actually good (both for us and for the world) that our lives come to an end, and I conclude by considering the implications of Lucretius’s thought for public policy.

The Epicurean View of Death Most people believe (indeed, it seems a matter of common sense) that death is a bad thing for (or a harm to) the one who dies. Indeed, many people fear death more than anything and take it to be the greatest harm of all. Before proceeding, though, two clarifications are in order. First, for the purposes of this essay, I will assume the Epicurean view that, as material beings that will eventually break down, death is an experiential blank. Or, to put this another way, to be dead is to no longer exist.3 Thus, by death I mean both the first moment of nonexistence and the subsequent period of nonexistence. This may be distinguished from the process of dying, which of course can be very painful and involve great suffering. Another point of clarification is that the philosophical issues considered here are concerned with the possibility of death’s badness for the one who dies (i.e., the deceased), not for other people who continue to exist and may suffer as a result of the deceased’s death.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-12

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112  Taylor W. Cyr Now, if death is understood in this somewhat confined way, how could it possibly be bad for the deceased? Of those who think that death can be bad, the nearly universal answer is that it is bad because it prevents (or at least can prevent) us from getting the goods of life. More precisely, according to this deprivation approach, death is bad for the deceased when it deprives her of goods that she would have had if she had not died at that moment.4 For example, death can deprive a person of the chance to experience future pleasures, to develop and enjoy strong relationships, and to complete one’s life projects. When death robs a person of such goods, it thereby harms her, according to the deprivation approach. But while the deprivation approach may seem to be an element of common sense, there are several challenges to the view that death can be bad for the one who dies. Most of these challenges have originated from the Epicurean tradition and attempt to show that there is some confusion in taking death to be bad, since it involves no unpleasant experiences and once it has come the person is no longer around to be harmed by it.5 Typically these Epicurean arguments aim not only to show that death is not bad but also that death is not to be feared (and so philosophizing about death can help the Epicurean to achieve a state of tranquility), but for the purposes of this chapter I will focus only on the issue of whether or not death is bad for (or can harm) the deceased, setting aside the question of whether it is rational to fear death. For our purposes, then, the Epicurean view on death is the view that death is never bad for the one who dies.

Lucretius on Prenatal and Posthumous Nonexistence: The Symmetry Argument Perhaps the most intriguing argument for the Epicurean view of death comes not from Epicurus himself but from Lucretius, his disciple. Here is the famous passage: Look back now and consider how the bygone ages of eternity that elapsed before our birth were nothing to us. Here, then, is a mirror in which nature shows us the time to come after our death. Do you see anything fearful in it? Do you perceive anything grim? Does it not appear more peaceful than the deepest sleep?6 Most of us take death to be bad, and it is not uncommon to see something fearful in it, even if we, like Lucretius, do not anticipate an unpleasant afterlife. Yet Lucretius points out that just as nonexistence comes after our death, so too nonexistence preceded our birth (or perhaps our conception—​the exact moment we came into existence is not relevant). And these two periods of nonexistence, Lucretius says, are mirror images of one another, which is to say that they are alike in relevant respects. Since, as Lucretius’s rhetorical questions at the end of the passage suggest, we do not regard our prenatal nonexistence as bad for us, so too we should not regard our posthumous nonexistence (i.e., our death) as bad either. Less poetically, but more formally, we can state Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument as follows: 1 Prenatal nonexistence is not bad for the person who comes into existence; 2 There is no relevant difference (with respect to badness) between prenatal nonexistence and posthumous nonexistence (death); 3 Thus, death is not bad for the one who dies. The Symmetry Argument is, to use a technical term, a valid argument, which is to say that, necessarily, if the premises are true, then the conclusion is true too. In this sense, the conclusion follows from the premises—​the truth of the latter would guarantee the truth of the former. In order to deny the argument’s conclusion, then, as proponents of the deprivation

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Titus Lucretius Carus  113 approach do, one would need to reject at least one of the argument’s two premises. In the next section of the chapter, I will survey a few recent responses to the argument. Before moving on, though, it is worth pausing to say a bit more about the two premises’ initial plausibility. I have already mentioned that Lucretius supports premise (1), that prenatal nonexistence is not bad for the person who comes into existence, by asking some rhetorical questions: Do you see anything fearful in your prenatal nonexistence? Do you perceive anything grim in that period of time? Does it not appear more peaceful than the deepest sleep? For most people, the obvious answer to all of these questions is no. Some people honestly wish that they had been born earlier, perhaps to be part of some historic event that preceded their actual birth, but I take it that no one feels a sense of dread or terror concerning the period of time before their birth. Even if some regard prenatal nonexistence as bad, almost no one thinks of it as bad in the way that death is (or to the same degree). What can be said in defense of premise (2), that there is no relevant difference (with respect to badness) between prenatal nonexistence and posthumous nonexistence (death)? First, one can point out that the two periods are both periods of nonexistence. Both are periods of time during which, had you been alive, it would have been good for you (assuming happy circumstances). Second, since the only difference between the two periods of time is that one is before your life and the other after, one could challenge those who wish to deny the premise by asking: how could it make a difference (concerning badness) whether a period of time was before your life or after it? As we will see in the next section, the most common response to Lucretius’s argument is to deny this premise and to attempt to meet this challenge.

Responses to the Symmetry Argument In the philosophical literature on the badness of death, Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument remains one of the strongest defenses of the Epicurean view that death is not bad for the one who dies, and it has become more and more widely discussed in the last half-​century, especially in the last decade or so.7 Although the most common response to Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument is to deny premise (2), that there is no relevant difference (with respect to badness) between prenatal nonexistence and posthumous nonexistence (death), some have rejected premise (1), that prenatal nonexistence is not bad for the person who comes into existence, instead.8 Rejecting premise (1) requires “biting the bullet” and accepting what many take to be a counterintuitive view, namely that prenatal nonexistence is bad for the person who comes into existence. In my own estimation, this result is more implausible than the acceptance of the Symmetry Argument’s conclusion, namely the Epicurean view that death is not bad for the one who died, and so I see the denial of premise (2) as the only plausible response to Lucretius and defense of the deprivation approach. To deny premise (2) of the Symmetry Argument, we would need to find some feature of posthumous nonexistence that is not shared by prenatal nonexistence (or vice versa), and that feature must plausibly make a difference with respect to badness. I will discuss two distinct ways of doing this that have become popular in recent years. The first is to argue that, since it is not possible to be born earlier, and since it is possible for a person to die later, death is bad while prenatal nonexistence is not. The second type of response points to an asymmetry in our attitudes toward the past and the future; while we do not regard past deprivations of goods as bad for us, we do regard future deprivations of goods as bad for us (and, as we will see, perhaps this is a rational preference pattern). I will take up these two responses in order.

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114  Taylor W. Cyr In his seminal essay, “Death,” Thomas Nagel suggests that only death (and not prenatal nonexistence) deprives us of something: It is true that both the time before a man’s birth and the time after his death are times when he does not exist. But the time after his death is time of which his death deprives him. It is time in which, had he not died then, he would be alive … But we cannot say that the time prior to a man’s birth is time in which he would have lived had he been born not then but earlier. For aside from the brief margin permitted by premature labor, he could not have been born earlier: anyone born substantially earlier than he was would have been someone else. Therefore the time prior to his birth is not time in which his subsequent birth prevents him from living.9 On this suggestion, death is bad because it deprives the deceased of goods, but prenatal nonexistence does not deprive a person of goods since earlier existence would have been existence enjoyed by a different person. Nagel seems to be relying on a strict version of what is called the “essentiality of origins” thesis, according to which the time that one came into existence is essential to that person (and so beginning to exist at a different time would inevitably result in a different person). But this is a controversial thesis, and here is a case that strongly inclines me to reject it: suppose that a fertilized egg is frozen, stored for several years (perhaps decades), and then thawed; for the person who develops, it was possible for her to be born earlier, since the thawing process could have started earlier.10 But if the strict essentiality of origins thesis is false, then it is unclear why one should think it impossible to be born earlier than we are. Still, you might think that, had you been born significantly earlier, your life would have unfolded remarkably differently than it actually did, and perhaps this makes the idea of being born earlier seem not as attractive as postponing death. In other words, maybe it is false that it is impossible for us to have been born earlier, but it remains true that it is not possible for us to be born earlier than we actually were in the sense that we care about. This development of Nagel’s suggestion is defended in most detail by Frederik Kaufman. Kaufman begins by distinguishing between two senses of the term person. In the “thin” sense of the term, person refers to the metaphysical essence of a human being, whatever that turns out to be—​perhaps it is an immaterial soul, perhaps it is a human being’s body (or some part of the body, such as the brain), or perhaps it is something else. In any case, we can distinguish whatever is essential to a person (the person’s essence) from a person’s subjective sense of self, which includes such psychological features as memories, values, character traits, and so on. We often use the term person to pick out a psychological profile (as when we say of someone that “they aren’t the same person anymore”), and Kaufman calls this the “thick” sense of the term. These two senses of the term can come apart not only in such mundane cases as when someone’s character changes over time but also in more extreme cases, like when a person develops Alzheimer’s Disease. When a person has lost much of what made them them, we rightly feel torn between saying that they are and are not the same person anymore. Now, because a person in the thin sense could have had a very different subjective sense of self, while it is true that a person in the thin sense could have been born earlier—​contrary to Nagel’s suggestion—​being born substantially earlier would nevertheless plausibly result in a different person in the thick sense. And this, Kaufman argues, allows for a response to Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument. The goods that we are concerned about when we talk about death’s badness are the goods that we, psychological profiles included, will be deprived of. But prenatal nonexistence would not deprive us (holding fixed our psychological profiles) of any goods, for any goods we would have enjoyed had we come into

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Titus Lucretius Carus  115 existence earlier would have been enjoyed by different persons in the thick sense. So, while it is true that, with respect to persons in the thin sense, prenatal and posthumous nonexistence are symmetrical, when it comes to persons in the thick sense, the asymmetry fades. And since it is persons in the thick sense that we care about, Kaufman thinks, we should reject premise (2) of Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument, the premise that there is no relevant difference (with respect to badness) between prenatal nonexistence and posthumous nonexistence (death). Kaufman’s proposal is a very plausible development of Nagel’s initial suggestion, and it avoids the objection concerning the strict essentiality of origins thesis that rendered Nagel’s view problematic. The challenge for Kaufman’s view, though, is to defend the claim that it is persons in the thick sense that we care about. Some counterevidence comes from those of us who imagine things going differently for us in ways that would have drastically changed our subjective senses of self, resulting in different thick persons, and yet we regret that things did not go that way instead of how they actually went. Many people wish that they had been born to wealthier parents, or that they had been raised in a more civilized century, even though these differences would inevitably shape a person so differently that they would be a different person in the thick sense.11 If these wishes are reasonable, even if only in some cases, then Kaufman needs to explain why wishing for goods one would have had if born earlier would be relevantly different, or else Lucretius’s symmetry between prenatal and posthumous nonexistence looms large. Let us turn now to the second type of response to premise (2) of Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument. Again, the basic idea is that we have a preference for future goods over past goods, and thus we regard future deprivations as bad for us without regarding past deprivations as bad.12 This idea has been developed in most detail by Anthony Brueckner and John Martin Fischer. Originally, they argued that “Death deprives us of something we care about, whereas prenatal nonexistence deprives us of something to which we are indifferent.” To support this claim, they introduce the following thought experiment: Imagine that you are in some hospital to test a drug. The drug induces intense pleasure for an hour followed by amnesia. You awaken and ask the nurse about your situation. She says that either you tried the drug yesterday (and had an hour of pleasure) or you will try the drug tomorrow (and will have an hour of pleasure). While she checks on your status, it is clear that you prefer to have the pleasure tomorrow.13 Brueckner and Fischer’s example suggests that we have asymmetric attitudes toward past and future goods (such as pleasures). This example, therefore, also explains why we have asymmetric attitudes toward prenatal and posthumous nonexistence: given our current place in time, prenatal nonexistence deprives us of past goods, whereas death deprives us of future goods. If these are our actual attitudes, then it is no surprise that we tend to reject premise (2) of Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument, since the temporal location of the relevant periods of nonexistence makes a difference to what we regard as bad. This approach to responding to the Symmetry Argument has recently generated a substantial discussion in the literature, and I personally find it a very attractive and plausible route to take. That said, a challenge for this approach is to say why our actual preference patterns are rational to have. It is open to Epicureans like Lucretius to agree with Brueckner and Fischer about our having asymmetric attitudes toward the past and the future, but Lucretius would maintain that this is an irrational preference pattern, given his view that prenatal and posthumous nonexistence are not relevantly different. In more recent work, Fischer and Brueckner have started to address this problem, claiming that our actual preference patterns are rational.14 If they are right about this, then it seems there is a relevant

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116  Taylor W. Cyr difference between prenatal and posthumous nonexistence and thus that premise (2) of Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument is false.

Is It Good that We Are Not Immortal? In his widely discussed essay “The Makropulos Case: Reflections on the Tedium of Immortality,” Bernard Williams says that his subject is “what a good thing it is that we are not [immortal].” On Williams’s view, while most deaths come too early and are bad for the deceased, we should not think that it would always be better to go on living. Indeed, he thinks that an immortal life would necessarily be unattractive for beings like us. While Williams has been called an “immortality curmudgeon” (and I am inclined to agree that Williams was unduly pessimistic about the prospects of living forever), there are, to be sure, difficult theoretical and practical problems for the view that immortality is desirable.15 Interestingly, about two millennia before Williams’s diatribe on immortality, Lucretius provided two arguments against the goodness of living forever. Even if the Symmetry Argument is ultimately unsuccessful, then—​and, as we have seen, the debate remains alive and well—​Lucretius’s epic poem contains two further arguments against regarding death as an evil. The first argument focuses on the badness of living forever for the immortal person herself. Here is how Lucretius puts the point: “If your past life has been a boon … why, you fool, do you not retire from the feast of life like a satisfied guest and with equanimity resign yourself to undisturbed rest?”16 As Martha Nussbaum interprets this passage, Lucretius is making an argument—​which we might call the Banquet Argument—​and it “urges us to realize that life is like a banquet: it has a structure in time that reaches a natural and appropriate termination; its value cannot be prolonged far beyond that, without spoiling the value that preceded.”17 Critics may regard Lucretius’s analogy between life and a banquet as failing to take into account that, unlike a meal (even a meal with various courses), life contains a varied range of activities, and we are able to toggle between them in a way that makes each interesting even if we encounter it multiple times. But Lucretius seems aware of this difference and takes himself to be making a point about the need for an ending to provide necessary structure and constraints on a valuable life. This sentiment is echoed in Jason Isbell’s recent song “If We Were Vampires”: If we were vampires and death was a joke We’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke And laugh at all the lovers and their plans I wouldn’t feel the need to hold your hand Maybe time running out is a gift I’ll work hard ’til the end of my shift And give you every second I can find And hope it isn’t me who’s left behind To put the point less poetically, the value of many aspects of our lives (perhaps the most meaningful ones, such as our deepest relationships) depends on the ultimate end of those things. Contemporary philosophers (as well as the creators of the NBC comedy series The Good Place) have picked up on this line of thought, arguing (among other things) that knowing an end is coming is necessary to have the motivation required to engage with what we find valuable in life.18 Optimists about the desirability of immortality cannot avoid tackling these difficult theoretical issues.

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Titus Lucretius Carus  117 But discussion of living forever also gives rise to practical questions, and Lucretius’s second argument against regarding death as an evil raises one such practical question. Just before the famous Symmetry Argument passage, Lucretius says: The old is ever ousted and superseded by the new, and one thing must be repaired from others. No one is consigned to the black abyss of Tartarus: everyone’s component matter is needed to enable succeeding generations to grow—​generations which, when they have completed their term of life, are all destined to follow you. The fate in store for you has already befallen past generations and will befall future generations no less surely. Thus one thing will never cease to rise out of another: life is granted to no one for permanent ownership, to all on lease.19 The concern raised by this Population Argument, as Nussbaum calls it, is about the badness of immortality primarily for future populations (though it would eventually be bad for oneself too, if one were immortal).20 Lucretius’s point is that there is only so much matter to go around, and so each of us must pass on in order to leave some material (the material of which we were made when we were alive) for future generations. Even without accepting all of Lucretius’s assumptions, we might worry that any way we construe an immortal life, it is going to be unpleasant. Of course, many people who desire immortality do not agree with Lucretius’s views that human beings are exclusively material beings and that they cannot survive bodily death. On many religious views, life continues after death, and the afterlife is such that our present conditions are either repaired or superseded by means of some supernatural act. This would certainly avoid the population problem that Lucretius has in mind, and so the Population Argument does not help to support the thesis that immortality would necessarily be unattractive.

Implications for Public Policy Lucretius’s practical concerns about what immortality, or even life-​extension, would require are pertinent and pressing issues when thinking about public policy. If technology permitted us to slow down the aging process significantly—​extending life by a hundred years or more, say—​or to “cure” our mortality altogether, we would immediately face difficult questions about how to deal with an increased demand on finite resources, who (and how many people) would be eligible for life-​extension, and what impact life-​extension would have on extant social institutions like that of marriage. Lucretius does not himself take up these questions, but he nevertheless laid the foundation for asking them. Building on Lucretius’s Population Argument in her more recent work, Nussbaum considers three possible scenarios involving immortality: “(a) Only one person becomes immortal; (b) a relatively small group of people becomes immortal; or (c) everyone becomes immortal.”21 As Nussbaum discusses, none of these possibilities is without troubling political ramifications. Supposing that immortality resulted from some innovative technology, options (a) and (b) raise questions of fairness: on what basis would it be just for only one person, or only one select group, to become immortal (and thus to require far more resources, in total, than mortal citizens)? It is easy to imagine this technology being controlled by the wealthy, or whatever group is in power (a scenario portrayed in the Netflix series Altered Carbon). Even apart from determining how to fairly distribute the technology, one might worry that it would be an injustice simply for some but not all members of society to possess immortality. In other words, even if it was just a matter of luck that some members of society

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118  Taylor W. Cyr had this incredible benefit, it might seem like a benefit that it would be unfair for those who have it to keep, given the radical inequality that would result from their possession of it. Finally, option (c) is the scenario that Lucretius seemed to have in mind. If no one ever dies, and new people continue coming into existence, eventually we will reach a state of overpopulation—​one that is good for no one. The threat of overpopulation is a political problem that we currently face even apart from anyone being immortal, so the continued growth in global population without anyone dying would appear an unmitigated disaster. An alternative would be that everyone is immortal and yet no one is permitted to have any more children. Besides the ethical issues involved in enforcing a “no-​child policy,” this scenario may be bad for other reasons. As Nussbaum says, this scenario “lacks all sorts of valuable activities connected with relations among the generations, and it also lacks a distinctive type of freedom to which we currently attach considerable importance.”22 In order to avoid this unpleasant state of affairs, “one thing must be repaired from others,” as Lucretius says, which is to say that some of us must pass on in order to leave room for others. To long for more would not only be a sort of avarice but would also be to undermine one’s own reason for wanting more. So, even if Lucretius does not establish the curmudgeonly conclusion that living forever would necessarily be unpleasant, Lucretius’s Population Argument raises important questions about the political implications of seeking to greatly extend our lives. And if his Symmetry Argument is successful and thus death is not bad for the deceased, this too would raise significant questions about public policy, much of which seems to presuppose that death is a major evil that should be prevented even at great cost. While some philosophers are convinced by the Symmetry Argument, the Epicurean view remains a minority report, and I do not foresee that enough of us will be convinced by such arguments that we would come to think a radical change to public policy is necessary. Even so, the Symmetry Argument remains one of the most interesting topics in the philosophical literature on death, and the debates about that argument as well as Lucretius’s other arguments are not only alive and well but are in fact flourishing, despite being two thousand years old.

Notes 1 Special thanks to John Fischer for piquing my interest in Lucretius’s Symmetry Argument and to Marcia Cyr for introducing me to the Jason Isbell song quoted in the penultimate section. Thanks also to Erin Dolgoy, Kimberly Hale, and Bruce Peabody for helpful comments on earlier versions of the chapter. 2 I use the standard abbreviation DRN for De Rerum Natura, and throughout the chapter I will be using Martin Ferguson Smith’s translation from 1969, revised and published by Hackett in 2001. 3 If we have non-​physical souls that outlive our bodies, or if there is a bodily resurrection in the future, then perhaps some of the Epicurean challenges to the badness of death are misguided. For a discussion of this issue and the parallel puzzles that arise even assuming that heaven awaits the deceased, see Cyr, “Puzzle.” 4 The locus classicus for the deprivation approach is Thomas Nagel’s influential essay “Death,” reprinted in his Mortal Questions, 1–​10. 5 For a discussion of several Epicurean arguments and some replies from proponents of the deprivation approach, see Cyr, “How Does Death.” 6 DRN 3.972–​7. 7 The resurgence of interest can be traced to Nagel, “Death.” For a more recent summary of the argument, see Sorensen. And for various discussion, see Brueckner and Fischer, 219; Feldman; Fischer; and Kaufman.

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Titus Lucretius Carus  119 8 For example, see Feldman, 223: There are, after all, two ways in which we can rectify the apparently irrational emotional asymmetry. On the one hand, we can follow Lucretius and cease viewing early death as a bad thing for [the deceased]. On the other hand, we can at least try to start viewing late birth as a bad thing. My suggestion is that in the present case, the latter course would be preferable. 9 10 11 12

Nagel, 7–​8. This case is presented in Fischer, 65–​6. These examples are from Fischer, 70. Interestingly, Nagel admits in a footnote that he is not convinced by the first type of reply and says the following: I suspect that [a response to the Symmetry Argument] requires a general treatment of the difference between past and future in our attitudes toward our own lives. Our attitudes toward past and future pain are very different, for example. Derek Parfit’s writings on this topic have revealed its difficulty to me. (Nagel, 9)

13 Brueckner and Fischer, 218–​19. This example is inspired by some of Parfit’s examples from Reasons and Persons. 14 Fischer and Brueckner, “Prenatal and Posthumous.” There, they explain: “Although we originally put our point in terms of what we took to be people’s actual preference patterns, we should have put it in terms of the rationality of such patterns of preference” (3). See also Fischer and Brueckner, “Evil of Death.” 15 For a thorough discussion and critique of Williams’s argument, see Fischer, Ch. 6. 16 DRN 3.935–​9. 17 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 203. 18 See, for example, May; and Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, Ch. 6. For an excellent critical discussion, see Fischer and Mitchell-​Yellin. 19 DRN 3.964–​71. 20 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 203. 21 Nussbaum, “Damage of Death,” 41. 22 Nussbaum, “Damage of Death,” 42.

References Brueckner, Anthony and John Martin Fischer. “Why Is Death Bad?” Philosophical Studies 50 (1986): 213–​21. Cyr, Taylor. “A Puzzle about Death’s Badness: Can Death Be Bad for the Paradise-​ Bound?” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 80 (2016): 145–​62. —​—​—​.“How Does Death Harm the Deceased?” In Ethics at the End of Life: New Issues and Arguments, 37–​54. Edited by J. Davis. New York: Routledge, 2017. Feldman, Fred. “Some Puzzles about the Evil of Death.” Philosophical Review 100 (1991): 205–​27. Fischer, John Martin. Our Stories: Essays on Life, Death, and Free Will. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Fischer, John Martin and Anthony Brueckner. “Prenatal and Posthumous Non-​Existence: A Reply to Johansson.” Journal of Ethics 18 (2014): 1–​9. —​—​—​“The Evil of Death and the Lucretian Symmetry: A Reply to Feldman.” Philosophical Studies 163 (2012): 783–​9. Fischer, John Martin and Benjamin Mitchell-​Yellin. “Immortality and Boredom.” Journal of Ethics 18 (2014): 353–​72. Kaufman, Frederik. “Pre-​Vital and Post-​Mortem Non-​Existence.” American Philosophical Quarterly 36 (1999): 1–​19.

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120  Taylor W. Cyr Lucretius. On the Nature of Things. Translated by Martin Ferguson Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2001 (1st edn 1969). May, Todd. Death. Stocksfield: Acumen Publishing, 2009. Nagel, Thomas Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979. Nussbaum, Martha. “The Damage of Death: Incomplete Arguments and False Consolations.” In The Metaphysics and Ethics of Death: New Essays, 25–​43. Edited by J. S. Taylor. New York: Oxford University Press, 2013. —​—​—​. The Therapy of Desire. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994. Parfit, Derek. Reasons and Persons. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984. Sorensen, Roy. “The Symmetry Problem.” In The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Death, 234–​54. Edited by B. Bradley, F. Feldman, and J. Johansson. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012. Williams, Bernard. Problems of the Self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973.

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12  The Road to Freedom Seneca on Fear, Reason, and Death J. Michael Hoffpauir

“Do you ask what road leads to freedom? Any vein in your body.”1 Sentenced to death by emperor Nero, Lucius Annaeus Seneca the Younger (4 B C E –​65 C E ) cut open his veins, consumed hemlock, took a warm bath, offered a libation to Jupiter, and suffocated in a steam bath in April of 65 C E .2 Nero issued this command because of Seneca’s alleged participation in the Pisonian conspiracy, a plot to kill Nero and replace him with Gaius Calpurnius Piso. Even though Seneca was his teacher and advisor, and even though he “had no proof of Seneca’s complicity” in the plot against him, Nero was delighted by the death of Seneca.3 Some might regard Seneca’s death as the savage fortune of a man subject to “the most notorious, cruel tyrant in the world,”4 but Seneca was unperturbed, showed no fear, and chose death as a rational, free human being, a stance that reflects his philosophical understanding of living—​and dying.5 Seneca was a statesman, philosopher, and dramatist who authored 124 letters, over a dozen essays, and at least nine tragedies. While Seneca’s influence is too extensive to detail here, one should note that he was renowned in his Rome for his wisdom and that his works were read by medieval, renaissance, and modern philosophers, theologians, and scholars. He influenced thinkers from Thomas More to William Shakespeare to René Descartes to Michel Foucault.6 A central task of Seneca’s philosophy is to teach human beings how to die, in particular, to teach that suicide is the preeminent act of a free human being.7 Although one might attempt to isolate the cause of Seneca’s continuous meditation upon death to the political landscape of his Rome or to his health problems, one would do well to look past the particular to the fact that all human beings face death and take up a study of Seneca’s Letters on Ethics: To Lucilius, which address how one ought to live and die; his Consolation to Marcia and Consolation to Polybius, which discuss how one ought to grieve; and his On Providence, which offers an understanding of life and death in light of nature and god. As will be seen, Seneca argues that death can be a great boon, for upon choosing death, one can be liberated from oppressive pain or from oppressive tyrants. He further adduces that dying well is the mark of living well. So long as one faces death with reason, a peaceful death from natural causes or a violent death from one’s own hand equally constitutes dying well. One’s death offers judgment of one’s life, for one’s death reveals the progress one has made away from the passions and towards reason. Happiness is found in freedom, virtue, and a mind in harmony with divine reason, and, for Seneca, rationally chosen suicide is the ultimate expression of happiness.8

Seneca’s Life and the Proximity of Death Born sometime around 4 BCE in Corduba, Spain, Seneca was the son of Helvia and Lucius Annaeus Seneca the Elder, brother to Roman senator Gallio and Marcus Annaeus Mela, and uncle of the poet Lucan.9 He suffered from consumption and asthma throughout his DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-13

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122  J. Michael Hoffpauir life, an illness which doctors called “the rehearsal for death.”10 As a boy, Seneca was brought to Rome, where he was schooled in rhetoric, literature, and philosophy.11 His senatorial career began sometime after 37 CE , when he was elected quaestor.12 Seneca attained distinction for his eloquence, and, while doing so, also gained the attention of emperor Caligula. Upon witnessing Seneca plead a case in the senate in 39 C E , the jealous emperor ordered him to be killed.13 Due to the testimony of one of Caligula’s female associates that Seneca would soon die of consumption, Caligula rescinded his order, and in 41 C E , met his own end through the blades of assassins.14 Shortly thereafter, Seneca was convicted by the senate of “immoral connections.”15 Emperor Claudius commuted Seneca’s execution and exiled him to Corsica. Julia Agrippina the Younger, fourth wife of Claudius and mother of Nero, recalled Seneca in 49 C E , appointed him to a praetorship, and made him tutor of Nero. Claudius died from an assassin’s poison in 54 C E and the 16-​year-​old Nero ascended to the throne. From 54 to 64 C E , Seneca served alongside Sextus Afranius Burrus as Nero’s advisor, even holding the position of suffect consul sometime around 56 CE .16 Yet salad days only last so long. Following Nero’s murder of Julianna Agrippina and the death of Burrus, Seneca was undermined by Nero’s disreputable advisors and fell into disfavor. By 62 CE , Seneca wrote Nero, petitioning the emperor to allow him to retire.17 If there is one characteristic of tyrants, however, it is that they do not allow their friends the freedom of leaving them. Thus, Nero refused Seneca’s request. After the burning of Rome in 64 CE , Seneca again unsuccessfully sought to retire from the emperor’s service. Nero followed his refusal with an order that Seneca be poisoned; however, Seneca survived either because of his simple diet or because the would-​be assassin confessed to the order. Shortly thereafter, Seneca was implicated in the Pisonian conspiracy, leading to his mandated suicide. Through this act, Seneca finally achieved his release from the emperor’s grip. He could not escape Nero through life, but he could escape Nero through death. Seneca exhibited “no signs of fear or sadness in his words or features” upon facing his death because he was prepared to die.18

Seneca’s Stoic Philosophy Along with Cicero, Seneca is the access point for contemporary readers into Stoic philosophic thought. Seneca does not offer a systematic exposition of Stoicism.19 Because he intended “to promote his own and his readers’ moral progress,”20 most of what Seneca wrote is “meant for proficientes, readers on route to wisdom.”21 Seneca’s writings allow readers to ferret through specific examples to arrive at the tenets of Stoicism. This labor is meant to spur self-​reflection and progress by tying general precepts to specific examples that range from the speeches and deeds of nameless men to those of Seneca himself.22 According to Seneca, the reason that animates and shapes the universe is called god, and human reason is a part of divine reason.23 Virtue is living in accord with one’s own nature and with nature itself as determined by reason.24 Passions are as natural to human beings as is reason, but divine reason sets human beings apart from the natural world so that they may understand and control their passions.25 Experiencing and understanding the full range of human emotion through reason moves human beings from beasts up to the divine.26 Virtue constitutes human happiness and rational behavior constitutes virtue. Happiness is living and dying in accord with reason because virtue is found in freedom from disturbing passions, principal among which is the fear of death, and in freedom from the emotional sway of fortune that may reduce human beings from prosperity to misery without a moment’s notice. Happiness and virtue are not found in freedom from all passions, as this would be inhuman. “Philosophy demands self-​restraint, not self-​abnegation,” says Seneca in his Letters.27 In his

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Seneca the Younger  123 Consolation to Marcia, Seneca argues that nature commands even the most resolute minds to feel an “unavoidable stab of pain” upon experiencing the death of a loved one, but not that humans be broken by grief.28 None should be unmoved by the death of a loved one, nor should any grieve the death of a loved one to debilitating excess.29 The variation comes from what the imagination, abetted by infirmities of the mind, adds to experience. Anticipation of the future—​hope—​only exacerbates the unhealthy effect of the passions. Neither time nor age but reason is the appropriate medicine for disturbed passions. And reason offers the understanding that all things are either good, bad, or indifferent.30 According to Seneca, preferred, dispreferred, or absolute indifferents are things that are neither good nor bad in themselves such as poverty, illness, pain, exile, death, power, beauty, strength, and wealth. Death, for example, is an indifferent that becomes honorable and glorious when met with virtue and shameful and base when met with vice; Cato’s reason made his death glorious, while Decimus Brutus’ emotion and fear made his death shameful.31 Perfected reason, which is virtue, is the only human good, and virtue is that whereby all things become good. Those who regard other things as good are ruled by fortune, which reigns over externals.32 In his Letters, Seneca argues that, in contrast with the indifferents, virtue is “true and unshakable judgment, for from this come the impulses of the mind; by this, every impression that stimulates impulse is rendered perfectly clear.”33 The path to such clarity is difficult. Only sages like Socrates and Cato the Younger are said to possess the inner disposition to live in complete harmony with reason.34 Nonetheless, Seneca teaches that the proficientes, those who seek to progress, live according to reason, and attain virtue, must employ reason against fortune, hope, and uncontrolled passions. Most of all, every human being who desires to be happy must strive to overcome fear of death, for of all the torments that humans suffer, the greatest is fear of death.35 Seneca defines emotions as unjustifiable movements of the mind that are abrupt and agitated. When emotions occur regularly and without treatment, they become infirmities of the mind, which are incorrect, persistent judgments regarding what is worth pursuing. The corrupted person who suffers such infirmities mistakes that which is of little or no value for that which is truly valuable.36 If one is capable of moving beyond all infirmities, premier among which are fear of pain and fear of death, and is capable of experiencing emotions correctly, then one might ascend to “the lofty regions above,” wherein one’s mind is tranquil and free.37 Ascension to tranquility of mind therefore depends upon maintaining reason throughout misfortune.38 Seneca advises readers of his Letters not to despise those incapable of ascension, for the sage is rare and there are many categories of progress. Nearest but nonetheless beneath the sage are those who have moved beyond the infirmities of the mind but who still experience emotions. Beneath this category are those who have put aside the worst of their mind’s failings and emotions but are susceptible to relapse. And the lowest category spoken of here has progressed beyond many serious faults but still experiences fear. “They are unconcerned about death but still terrified of pain,” says Seneca.39 These categories clarify not only how distant readers are from the sage but also how distant readers may be from the lowest category, the category Seneca advises readers not to despise. Lest readers take their reading about the sage as sufficient for becoming the sage themselves, Seneca emphasizes the god-​like status of the sage and the difficulty of the task the god lays before all human beings. He reminds his readers of the wrongs, depravities, and misdeeds that surround them every day—​the everyday to which they contribute and of which they are a part. In striving for virtue, one must use reason to reflect upon and recognize one’s own faults. One must then use reason to progress beyond emotion and infirmities of the mind—​beyond fear of death—​to ascend from error to freedom and tranquility of mind.

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124  J. Michael Hoffpauir Tranquility of mind is freedom because freedom is fearing neither man nor god, wanting neither what is base nor excessive, fearing neither pain nor death, and having complete power over oneself.40 Tranquility of mind is freedom because freedom is not being moved by the prosperity and savagery wrought by fortune.41 Freedom is on Seneca’s lips as much as is death; to live reasonably, virtuously, and happily, one must live freely, and to live freely, one must know how to die.42

Fear of Death According to Seneca, all living animals fear death, but knowledge of death is unique to human beings, as are the dispositions that are formed in light of this knowledge.43 When knowledge of death moves the mind away from reason to form an overly vehement impulse, this knowledge becomes fear of death. Again, death is an indifferent: it is in itself neither good nor bad, but because of love of self, the innate desire for self-​preservation, an innate horror of disintegration, and the opinion that death extinguishes all that is known and loved, human beings come to fear death as evil.44 Dread of the afterlife exacerbates one’s fear of death, but Seneca argues that, in reasoning about life and death, one ought not to become overwhelmed by an imagined possible future. The most reasonable and moderate hope when it comes to the afterlife seems to be acceptance of death as a return to the tranquil nothing from whence one sprang.45 Therefore, one must jettison the scurrilous tales about death while also overcoming one’s fear of the unknown. For those who do not find consolation in the nothing—​those who fear the dark—​Seneca offers tales of the afterlife wherein the virtuous find reward.46 Central to Seneca’s effort to guide readers towards the self-​control that will allow them to live and die virtuously is understanding that, just like death, life itself is neither inherently good nor bad.47 Living rationally makes life good and living emotionally makes life bad. When one adds to this understanding that death is an inescapable responsibility of living, then one may begin to grasp that it is not death but dying badly that ought to be feared.48 One must use reason to come to understand and accept death. One must understand that because “past time is lost time … already in the possession of death,” one dies every day.49 Doing so facilitates the movement from fearing death to fearing dying badly to desiring to die well.50 Once free of the fear of death, one may embrace death courageously, reasonably, and even by choice.

Grieving Well One might come to knowledge of how to die through knowledge of how to grieve. Excessively grieving the death of a loved one occurs in no small part because one’s reason collapses under the feeling of loss but also because the death of a loved one forces one to recognize one’s own mortality.51 Therefore, no matter the specificity of any particular consolation he may offer, Seneca’s lessons on grieving serve as proxy for lessons on dealing with one’s own death. Seneca admits that it might be too much to ask his readers not to grieve at all. Only the sage possesses the strength of mind to rise above the death of a friend, and even the sage feels a twinge at such a loss.52 But those who are not the sage and who experience the death of a friend, which Seneca says is the greatest loss one may suffer, should endeavor to rejoice at the very having of the friend.53 Instead of allowing one’s imagination to go beyond the stab of pain that nature demands, one is encouraged to see that just as it was fortune that took the friend away, it was fortune that bestowed the friend in the first place. An antidote

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Seneca the Younger  125 to fortune’s savagery comes in the recognition that fortune merely provides the material for good or bad things. Whether one finds these things good or bad depends upon one’s mind. One might strengthen one’s mind against fortune and excessive emotion by understanding that one exists in a universe animated by a rational and providential principle. In On Providence, Seneca says the god of this universe has “a father’s attitude toward good men. He gives them tough love, saying, ‘Let them be stirred up by labors, pains, and losses so they can become truly robust.’ ”54 This “father’s attitude” is said to be a matter of love, for god hardens, examines, and exercises those whom he loves. By this understanding, human beings are blessed with the freedom to navigate hardship according to their rational, moral capacity. According to god and reason, one must strive to possess fortitude in the face of the great suffering that is the death of a friend. Furthermore, grieving properly is not only something cultivated through fortitude but also something cultivated through gratitude.55 One must love friends while one has them, and when one no longer has them, one must be grateful and love the memory of having had them.56 The sweet, comforting thought produced by this reasoning is that every friend gained is a friend who will be lost to death and that every friend lost to death is a friend that one still has.57 Moreover, one must not respond to the experience or recognition of death by retreating from love, for doing so would inflict greater suffering upon oneself than even fortune could. Friends help friends live by helping each other overcome certain vulnerabilities, and friends help friends live well by providing opportunities for honorable action, strengthening confidence, and passing on knowledge.58 Therefore, to live and to live well, one must continue to love, celebrating one’s love for lost friends by loving new friends evermore. Some might rely on time to heal grief, but because one cannot control time, happier are those who abandon grief intentionally. Seneca offers reasonable self-​control as an alternative, for by controlling one’s emotions, one can control how one is affected by fortune. If something can happen at all, it can happen at any time.59 All must die, but none must grieve excessively. Unlike tears of sorrow, rejoicing in the love and memory of the dead is the freely chosen, rational celebration of life that cannot be corrupted by death. Seneca does muse that perhaps the stories of the afterlife are true, but he does so only after forcing his readers to realize that they too will soon die.60 Developing a rational understanding of the death of a loved one serves as rehearsal for one’s own death. And just as one ought not to cease loving because one has lost someone in the past, one ought not to cease living because one knows one will die in the future. Seneca no more advocates running towards death than he advocates fleeing from death.61 However, Seneca is the philosophic advocate of suicide on rational grounds.62

Dying Well Living bravely with the knowledge of one’s finitude is vital to living well. The evidence of one’s living well is one’s dying well. One dies well when one chooses death freely, resolutely, and, given one’s circumstances, correctly. Although one may recognize that one’s death is imminent and choose death without fear, the free act par excellence is committing suicide after due deliberation and according to reason.63 The circumstances in which one finds oneself should bear on whether one chooses suicide,64 and the first circumstance to sort through is the natural desire to preserve oneself.65 By reasoning towards what it is to live well, one may move past this natural inclination to discover the conditions wherein it is one’s responsibility to kill oneself; one must consider whether, in living, one is prolonging life or merely prolonging death.66 There is nothing dishonorable, Seneca explains, about choosing to live to an old age, but living idly while waiting

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126  J. Michael Hoffpauir for death to come is the next thing to cowardice. The difference in these circumstances is the difference one’s fear makes between merely living and living well. If one’s reason is impaired or if one’s body is moribund, then suicide is the reasonable course of action. Further, if one’s faculties are beginning to fail, then it is likely necessary to commit suicide, lest one be unable to when it is absolutely necessary. Neither one’s age, the particulars of one’s sickness, nor the particular source of one’s pain in themselves warrant suicide. However, because sickness without a cure and pain without intermission are impediments to the mind that preclude living well, one ought to kill oneself.67 In this circumstance, reason demands suicide because reason has blessed human beings with the responsibility of living well. One, therefore, has a responsibility to kill oneself in these conditions precisely because one can no longer live according to reason.68 One ought not to fear death on the supposition that it is painful but choose death as liberation from pain.69 Failure to kill oneself in this situation is the error of a fool too afraid to seek liberation from his miserable life. Yet there are conditions wherein, regardless of the immense, ceaseless pain one suffers, concern for loved ones renders suicide dishonorable. If one is gravely ill, in pain, and has lived a full life, then killing oneself is right and honorable. However, if these conditions are altered by the presence of loved ones, then the excellent man will not commit suicide.70 In this situation, the excellent man does not die for his own sake but lives for the sake of others. He recognizes that his pain does not prohibit him from benefiting his loved ones with his words and example.71 Seneca also speaks of when, despite the severity of his own pain and sickness, considerations of his elderly father held him back from suicide.72 Although Seneca was capable of dying bravely, he knew that his father, a man who was so kind to him, could not bear the loss bravely. Sometimes our merely living is beneficial to those who love us. Therefore, out of love and gratitude for his father, Seneca commanded himself to go on living.73 In circumstances similar to those of the excellent man and of Seneca himself, suicide would be the shameful seeking of refuge from pain. The example set by the excellent man is what Stoics mean by studying philosophy while practicing it. The excellent man controls his passions. If one is of useful service to others, then one faces pain and death courageously and, as the examples show, navigates pain and death prudently.74 Yet one might be in a situation wherein one may no longer be of service to those one loves. Seneca offers the example of Cato the Younger who, once he could no longer be of service to his countrymen and fatherland, ripped open his body before men and gods alike. For Seneca, no spectacle on earth is more deserving of attention and none brought the gods greater joy than Cato’s suicide.75 All who take notice benefit from Cato’s dying well. As the Roman republic neared its end, Cato sided with Pompey against Julius Caesar. Once Pompey was defeated, the free world was lost to Caesar. In the misfortune of defeat, Cato cared for others by aiding in their escape, read Plato, and proved himself a fierce self-​ liberator.76 Cato used the sword that was incapable of keeping his fatherland free to keep himself free.77 He was soon discovered by his sons, friends, and physician, and his stomach, which he sliced open with his sword, was sewn up. Upon recovering himself and becoming cognizant of the physician’s efforts,78 Cato plunged his hands into his body and tore out what remained, revealing his reason and virtue for all to see. Cato is a model of virtue not simply because he chose freedom over slavery but because he appropriately chose suicide without hesitation—​not once but twice. For Seneca, the political significance of Cato’s actions ascends to cosmic significance. The immortal gods found it insufficient to watch Cato die once: “his virtue was brought back and recalled, to show itself in a more challenging role. After all, entering into death does not take as great a mind as seeking it over again.”79 Cato’s mind was undoubtedly certain and set in

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Seneca the Younger  127 its understanding of its object.80 What Caesar and fortune denied, Cato took for himself. Freedom is the reward for the man who has the courage not to be a slave. Context bears on whether or not one ought to commit suicide, but one’s virtue is that which makes one’s death good or bad.81 One need not be a Cato to die well. When it comes to breaking the bonds of slavery to one’s fear or to other men, even children and people of low rank may behave as great men. Even if one cannot choose a convenient manner of dying or employ means that suit one’s tastes, one may nonetheless find freedom. For the proficientes to ferret through, Seneca offers examples in his Letters of nameless individuals dying with bravery and ingenuity. He offers the tale of a Spartan boy who, upon being captured and placed into servitude, kept shouting “I will not be a slave!”82 The first time this boy was commanded to perform a slave’s demeaning task—​in this case, fetching a chamber pot—​he burst his skull open by smashing his head against a wall. This example teaches that none ought to be a slave with the means to gaining freedom so near. Seneca also speaks of an enslaved German who, instead of fighting at the gladiatorial morning show as his Roman captors demanded, took the private moment he had in the latrine to stuff a xylospongium down his throat.83 This unsanitary action was the action of a “brave man,” who understood that even the most disgusting death is preferable to the cleanest slavery.84 Dying honorably is part of living honorably, and no matter if one uses a xylospongium, a wall, or a sword to find freedom, suicide is the noble choice when a tyrant prohibits one’s living well. When one can no longer live well, one must die well, and dying well is dying willingly.85 Finally, Seneca’s own death offers this lesson, for he did not fear death but was resolved in his choice.86 According to Tacitus, after Seneca received the command from Nero that he must die, he sought to alter his will so as to bequeath his fortune to his loved ones but was forbidden from doing so by Nero’s officer.87 Unperturbed, Seneca instead offered his gratitude to his friends by declaring that he would leave them his finest possession, the pattern of his life.88 Along with his life as his friends already knew it, Seneca intended his death to be admired and emulated. Seneca also intended to be useful to his wife, Paulina. After learning of his death sentence, he embraced her, tenderly petitioned her to moderate her grief, and asked her to take consolation in contemplation of his life. Paulina insisted, instead, on joining Seneca in death.89 The two then cut their arms open. Seneca’s old, lean body was not apt for bleeding out, causing him to cut open the veins on his ankles and behind his knees. Exhausted, in severe pain, and fearful of revealing his agony and lessening Paulina’s resolve or of losing his own at the sight of her agony, Seneca dismissed Paulina to a bedroom.90 Lest one interpret Seneca’s action as weakness, Tacitus points out that, even in this state, Seneca retained his mind, for he next dictated a dissertation to his secretaries.91 Seneca’s death proceeded slowly. He therefore asked his medically skilled friend, Annaeus Statius, to supply the poison made famous by Athens. Seneca drank the hemlock to no effect; the austere diet that possibly saved him from Nero’s previous attempt on his life prolonged his life when he himself wished otherwise. Seneca thus took a warm bath to speed the flow of his blood, the poison, or both.92 Seneca’s active and reasoned death reminds readers of the brave and chosen ends of figures discussed previously: Cato, the Spartan boy, and the nameless German. For Seneca, ingenuity regarding his death did not fail him because his resolute determination for liberation did not fail him.93 Once in the bath, Seneca sprinkled water on his slaves and spoke his last words, claiming that this was “a libation to Jupiter the liberator.”94 He offered this libation to Jupiter for giving him the capacity to see that liberty may be acquired through suicide and for the intellectual means to claim such a boon.95 After thanking god for deliverance, Seneca, a man who long suffered from a respiratory illness that doctors called a rehearsal for death, was

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128  J. Michael Hoffpauir carried into a steam bath where he suffocated. The gods who forced Cato to die twice, once by his sword and once by his hands, forced Seneca to die thrice, once by his blade, once by poison, and once by suffocation. And for this he was grateful. Seneca’s death was the materialization of his virtue, for “entering into death does not take as great a mind as seeking it over again.”96 Tacitus concludes his account of Seneca’s death noting that, in accordance with instructions written at the height of his wealth and power, Seneca was cremated without any of the usual funeral rites.97 Even while enjoying fortune’s blessings, Seneca thought of death, and when immediately facing death, Seneca thought of his friends and his freedom. Funeral rites matter not to the man who is free, and the free man is he who is unwavering in his understanding that death is nothing to fear.

Progressing to Freedom Death pronounces judgment on every human being, and dying well is the mark of living well. Philosophy is the divine gift that enables human beings to choose death freely.98 Through the examination of individual deeds situated within unique circumstances, Seneca offers readers a way to discern the general from the specific, the good from the bad, and the truly virtuous from the fickle indifferents, such as to facilitate their movement towards happiness and freedom. Seneca’s philosophy, example, and mortal end teach that one must be prepared for death. One must use reason to overcome fear of death, for understanding that death is a blessing allows one to die willingly—​to die well. One ought to study the patterns left by brave and honorable human beings, contemplate one’s own death, understand death as a responsibility of living, and think of death as offering tranquility. And the contemplation essential to progressing beyond fear of death is contemplation of suicide.99 Those capable of progressing to clarity of mind will see that suicide, if used after due deliberation and according to reason, offers liberation from pain, illness, and slavery.

Notes

1 Seneca, On Anger, 3.15.4. 2 Tacitus, XV.60–​5, 48–​54; Suetonius, 35; Dio, LXII.24–​5; Ker, 17–​39; Braund, 15; Griffin, 190–​4. 3 Tacitus, XV.60, 45, XIV.52–​7; Dio, LXII.10. 4 Salmasius, Defensio Regia pro Carolo I quoted by Gwy, 421. 5 Tacitus, XV.61–​2; cf. Dio, XLII.25; Edwards, 334; Evenepoel, 218. 6 Part IV of The Cambridge Companion to Seneca, “The Senecan Tradition,” traces Seneca’s influence throughout the ages. 7 Griffin, 368–​72; Rist, 248; Evenepoel, 217–​18, 225, 232. 8 Seneca, Letters, 26.5–​6, 70.5–​6, 70.11–​24, 92.29–​35. 9 Seneca, Consolation to Helvia, 2.4, 14.3, 16.3, 18.9; Acts 18.12–​16; Griffin, 34–​6; Tacitus, XIII.15–​17, 20–​1, XIV.2–​13, 53–​65, XV.41–​4, 70, 73, XVI.17; Dio, LXII.16, 25; Suetonius, 33, 36–​8. 10 Seneca, Letters, 54.1, 65.1, 77.9, 78.1–​4. 11 Seneca, Consolation to Helvia, 19.2; Letters, 40.12, 49.2, 52.11, 58.5–​6, 64.2, 67.15, 100.1–​12, 108.3, 108.13–​24, 110.14; Griffin, 37–​43. 12 Griffin, 43–​53; Habinek, 8. 13 Dio, LIX.19. Something like jealousy fueled Caligula’s cruelty, but Caligula possibly acted because of Seneca’s complicity in a conspiracy against him (Habinek, 8). 14 Seneca, On the Constancy of the Wise Person, 18.3; Dio, LIX.29–​30; Suetonius, 56–​60.

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Seneca the Younger  129 15 Messalina, third wife of emperor Claudius, accused Seneca of adultery with Julia Livilla. Dubious as it was, such allegations were common against political opponents; this was less about Seneca and more about Julia Livilla. Claudius executed Messalina in 48 CE (Tacitus, XI.25–​38; Dio, LX.8; Griffin, 59 note 6; Habinek, 9 note 30). 16 Tacitus, XIII.2, 13, 11.2, XIV.10–​11, 17, 54; Habinek, 9–​10. 17 Tacitus, XIV.52–​7. 18 Tacitus, XV.61. 19 Evenepoel, 227; Griffin, 375; Seneca, Letters, 82.9. 20 Setaioli, 258. 21 Evenepoel, 227, 236. 22 Seneca, Letters, 16.1–​3; Consolation to Marcia, 2.1. Reading and writing might even offer a path to immortality (Letters 1, 21.5; On the Shortness of Life, 14.1–​3, 14.5–​15.2; Consolation to Marcia, 1.2–​4). 23 Seneca, Letters, 90.1, 92.27; Evenepoel, 219. 24 Evenepoel, 219. 25 Seneca, On Benefits, 4.18.2–​4. 26 Seneca, Letters, 85.5–​13, 124.14–​24; Consolation to Marcia, 7.2–​3. 27 Seneca, Letters, 5.5. 28 Seneca, Consolation to Marcia, 7.1. 29 Seneca, Consolation to Marcia, 3.2–​4.1, 7.1. 30 Seneca, On the Happy Life, 22.4; Letters, 74.14–​19, 82.9–​14; Consolation to Helvia, 11.6; Evenepoel, 219. 31 Seneca refers to the deaths of Cato and Decimus Brutus as “the same death.” Both opposed and lost to Caesar, but where Cato chose death and liberation, Decimus Brutus requested his executioners let him live, revealing that he would have rather lived a slave than die (Letters, 82.11–​14). 32 Seneca, Letters, 74.1. 33 Seneca, Letters, 71.32, 92.11–​12. 34 Seneca, Letters, 71.27. 35 Seneca, Letters, 74.3. 36 Seneca, Letters, 75.11–​12. 37 Seneca, Letters, 75.18. 38 Seneca, On Tranquility of Mind, 8.1–​16.3; On the Constancy of the Wise Person, 8.3. 39 Seneca, Letters, 75.12–​14. 40 Seneca, Letters, 75.12–​18. 41 Seneca, Letters, 51.9. 42 Seneca, Letters, 70.7. 43 Seneca, Letters, 121.18. 44 Seneca, Letters, 71.13, 82.13, 82.15, 30.11, 102.26–​8, 109.16; Consolation to Marcia, 10.3, 11.2. 45 Seneca, On Providence, 6.6; Consolation to Polybius, 9.2; Consolation to Marcia, 19.5; On Tranquility of Mind, 15.4. 46 Seneca, Letters, 82.15; On the Constancy of the Wise Person, 5.2; Consolation to Polybius, 9.3; Consolation to Marcia, 19.4–​5, 24.5–​26.1. 47 Seneca, Letters, 82.17. 48 Seneca, Letters, 77.19. 49 Seneca, Letters, 1.2, 24.20, 58.24, 71.15. 50 Seneca, Letters, 30.18, 70.17; Edwards, 329. 51 Seneca disapproves of the performative aspect of grieving (Letters, 63.2, 63.13). 52 Seneca, Letters, 63.1, 9.5; Consolation to Polybius, 18.4–​6; On Anger, 1.16.7; Consolation to Marcia, 7.1. 53 Seneca, Letters, 99.1–​3, 9, 78.3–​5; Consolation to Marcia, 12.1–​3; On the Tranquility of Mind, 7.3–​8.1. 54 Seneca, On Providence, 2.6, 4.7.

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130  J. Michael Hoffpauir 55 Seneca, Letters, 98.2–​4. 56 Seneca, Letters, 99.4–​5, 99.23. 57 Seneca, Letters, 63.7. 58 Seneca, Letters, 6.3, 9.3–​18, 109.3–​6. 59 Seneca, Letters, 99.6–​10, 63.14–​16; Consolation to Helvia, 5.4–​5; Consolation to Polybius, 9.9; Consolation to Marcia, 10.3. 60 Seneca, Letters, 63.15–​16; Consolation to Polybius, 9.3; Consolation to Marcia, 19.5. 61 Seneca, Letters, 98.16; Evenepoel, 221. 62 Edwards, 333; Hill, 151–​7; Evenepoel, 217–​18; Griffin, 368. 63 Seneca, Letters, 70.14; Rist, 231–​55; Veyne, 113; Evenepoel, 234, 239. Suicide is not the only free action one might take, but suicide is, for Seneca, the freest action one might take. 64 Seneca, Letters, 70.4–​6; cf. Griffin, 376–​82. 65 Seneca, Letters, 36.8, 82.15, 121.14–​24; On Benefits, 5.9.1. 66 Seneca, Letters, 58.33; Hill, 145–​82; Griffin, 382–​8; Veyne, 113, 124, 166–​7. 67 Seneca, Letters, 58.36, 70.15. 68 Seneca, Letters, 58.36, 70.4–​6, 77.5–​6. 69 Seneca, Letters, 78.6–​11, 71.27–​30, 91.18–​20. 70 The excellent man here is not clearly the sage but, because he does not waver, is above most. 71 Seneca, Letters, 98.15–​17. 72 Seneca, Letters, 78.2. 73 Out of consideration for his wife Paulina, Seneca looked after his health. It is “supremely kind” to be careful in one’s old age out of awareness that this behavior is useful, pleasant, and desirable to loved ones (Letters, 104.1–​5). 74 Seneca, Letters, 98.17. 75 Seneca, On Providence, 2.9. 76 Cato read Plato’s Phaedo. Here Socrates claims that philosophy entails devotion to dying and being dead (64a; Seneca, On Providence, 2.11; Letters, 24.6–​8). 77 Seneca, On Providence, 2.10. 78 Plutarch, Life of Cato, 70.6. 79 Seneca, On Providence, 2.12. 80 Seneca, Letters, 82.18. 81 Seneca, Letters, 82.12, 82.17–​18. 82 Seneca, Letters, 77.14. 83 A xylospongium is a stick with a sea sponge affixed to it used by ancient Romans to clean themselves after defecating. 84 Seneca, Letters, 70.19–​23; Consolation to Polybius, 15.1. 85 Seneca, Letters, 61.2. 86 Seneca, Letters, 82.17–​18. 87 In the absence of a will, the departed’s wealth went to the emperor (Braund, 15). 88 Tacitus, XV.62; Seneca, Letters, 77.8, 78.3; Habinek, 30–​1; Braund, 17–​18. 89 Tacitus, XV.63; cf. Dio, LXII.25; Seneca, Letters, 104.1–​5; Consolation to Helvia, 19.5. 90 Tacitus, XV.63; Seneca, Letters, 104.1–​6; Consolation to Marcia, 9.1, 10.3; Plato, Phaedo, 60a–​b; On Paulina, see Tacitus, XV.64. 91 Tacitus does not identify this work; cf. Dio, LXII.25. 92 Seneca, Letters, 108.18, 95.2. 93 Seneca, Letters, 70.24; On Providence, 2.12. 94 Cf. Plato, Phaedo, 118a. Seneca, Letters, 51.9, 70.24, 77.15; On Providence, 2.10, 6.7. The Stoics used “Jupiter” for their conception of god. Seneca, Letters, 73.12–​15, 95.47–​50, 110.14–​20; On Providence, 6.7; Consolation to Marcia, 20.1; On Anger, 3.15.3–​4; Veyne, 186 note 26; Habinek,18–​19. 95 Veyne, 172. 96 Seneca, On Providence, 2.12; Hill, 182. 97 Tacitus, XV.64; cf. Plato, Phaedo, 115c–​116a. 98 Seneca, Letters, 26.6, 30.3, 90.1. 99 Seneca, Letters, 70; Hill, 151–​7; Edwards, 333.

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References Braund, Susanna. “Seneca Multiplex: The Phases (and Phrases) of Seneca’s Life and Works.” In The Cambridge Companion to Seneca, 15–​28. Edited by Shadi Bartsch and Alessandro Schiesaro. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Dio Cassius. Roman History, Volume III: Books 61–​70. Translated by Earnest Cary. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925. Edwards, Catharine. “Death and Time.” In Brill’s Companion to Seneca: Philosopher and Dramatist, 323–​41. Edited by Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Evenepoel, Willy. “The Philosopher Seneca on Suicide.” Ancient Society 34 (2004): 217–​43. Griffin, Miriam. Seneca: A Philosopher in Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Gwy, William Β. “Cruel Nero: The Concept of the Tyrant and the Image of Nero in Western Political Thought.” History of Political Thought 12, no. 3 (1991): 421–​55. Habinek, Thomas. “Imago Suae Vitae: Seneca’s Life and Career.” In Brill’s Companion to Seneca: Philosopher and Dramatist, 3–​ 31. Edited by Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Hill, Timothy. Ambitiosa Mors: Suicide and the Self in Roman Thought and Literature. New York: Routledge, 2004. Ker, James. The Deaths of Seneca. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Plato. Phaedo. Translated by Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Eric Salem. Newburyport: Focus Publishing, 1998. Plutarch. Lives, VIII, Sertorius and Eumenes. Phocion and Cato the Younger. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1919. Rist, John M. Stoic Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969. Seneca. Consolation to Helvia. Translated by Gareth D. Williams. In Hardship and Happiness, 48–​76. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ Consolation to Marcia. Translated by Harry M. Hine. In Hardship and Happiness, 6–​41. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ Consolation to Polybius. Translated by Harry M. Hine.In Hardship and Happiness, 81–​104. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ Letters on Ethics: To Lucilius. Translated by Margaret Graver and A. A. Long. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017. —​—​—​On Anger. Translated by Robert A. Caster and Martha C. Nussbaum. In Anger, Mercy, Revenge, 14–​129. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. —​—​—​ On Benefits. Translated by Miriam Griffin and Brad Inwood. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011. —​—​—​ On Providence. Translated by James Ker. In Hardship and Happiness, 282–​302. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ On Tranquility of Mind. Translated by Elaine Fantham. In Hardship and Happiness, 182–​214. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ On the Constancy of the Wise Person. Translated by James Ker. In Hardship and Happiness, 149–​72. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ On the Happy Life. Translated by James Ker. In Hardship and Happiness, 240–​71. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. —​—​—​ On the Shortness of Life. Translated by Gareth D. Williams. In Hardship and Happiness, 110–​ 39. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016. Setaioli, Aldo. “Seneca and the Ancient World.” In The Cambridge Companion to Seneca, 255–​ 65. Edited by Shadi Bartsch and Alessandro Schiesaro. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Suetonius. The Lives of the Twelve Caesars. Translated by Catharine Edwards. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Tacitus. The Annals of Imperial Rome. Translated by Michael Grant. London: Penguin Classics, 1996. Veyne, Paul. Seneca: The Life of a Stoic. Translated by David Sullivan. New York: Routledge, 2003.

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13  Continuity Without Corruption The Political Theology of Death in St. Augustine James R. Stoner, Jr.

Life full of life, everlasting and ever blessed life, which is joy without sorrow, rest without labor, dignity without fear, riches without loss, health without sickness, abundance without want, life without death, continuity without corruption, blessedness without calamity, where all good things are in perfect charity; where there is beauty and perfect sight.1

It would be ridiculous but not entirely misleading to say that St. Augustine (354–​430 C E ) did not believe in death. To be more precise, Augustine held that for the Christian believer, freed from his sin by repentance and forgiven by God’s grace, death at the close of this life means entry into an everlasting life where the goodness of the life we know is enhanced and completed while its evils vanish. Put differently, true death is the rejection of God’s offer of salvation and the embrace of oblivion. For the Christian, natural death is a passage, not a stop—​a doorway, not a wall. It is the movement from the world of nature to the realm of supernatural grace. Not that the contemplation of death is to be avoided; on the contrary, Augustine presents it as a critical step on the road to conversion, central to the drama of his famous Confessions, the story of his own becoming a Christian. Moreover, since politics is key to Augustine’s understanding—​his famous trope that heaven is a “City of God” indicates that the city of man, built though it is on the sin of pride, is the type of eternal order—​the familiarity of death among the concerns of politics deserves attention, for while Augustine does not, like John Locke, define political power as the power to inflict death,2 he nevertheless accepts death as a penalty for violation of the city’s laws and, again famously, formulates a theory of just war, acknowledging that widespread fighting to the death is something cities can rightly do.3 In short, while death is undoubtedly an evil in Augustine’s eyes, it is an evil that needs to be faced, one from which good can be salvaged, and one that can be ultimately, triumphantly, overcome.

Death in Confessions Even today, despite its enormous influence and widespread familiarity, Augustine’s Confessions is an unusual book to read. On the one hand it is intensely personal, revealing childhood wrongdoing and adult transgression, condemning the author’s own sinfulness but also exploring his consciousness, as if struggling to understand himself even as he sits in judgment on his younger days. On the other hand, it is an intellectual autobiography, tracing the progress of his thought from his youthful fascination with rhetoric and literature, the liberal arts—​in which he proved skillful enough to earn his living teaching for years to come—​ through his embrace of Manicheism, his growing doubts about its truth, his trek through Platonism, to his ultimate and complete conversion to Christianity, presenting dialectically DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-14

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St. Augustine  133 the reasons that governed every turn. Although the moment of conversion in Book VIII—​ “All the shadows of doubt were dispelled”4—​is the work’s dramatic climax, his self-​scrutiny does not conclude, and Books X–​XIII show that intellectual debate enlivens the mind even of the fully committed Christian. The work is not a diary, but is written in retrospect, “confessing” even or especially sins that, by Christian doctrine to which Augustine wholeheartedly assents, were washed away in his baptism and so require no further recounting even to God, much less to one’s fellows. Death is a presence in the Confessions, though not a thematic one; it is barely mentioned in the final books, on topics such as memory, time, eternity, creation, and Biblical interpretation. Augustine is clear that what is crucial is death to sin, which enables the Christian soul to rest in the confident belief in its immortality. By his own death—​a true physical death5—​and by his resurrection, Christ conquered death for all who believe in him, are baptized, and follow his way. With almost every death Augustine discusses in his narrative, the question is whether the decedent died in Christ, with the author generally consoled, albeit in retrospect, if so. Curiously, the first death that threatened was Augustine’s own, when “still a small boy.” By the custom of the age, he was blessed with salt and the sign of the cross at the time of his birth to a Christian mother, but baptism itself was delayed—​ and was again, despite his asking for it during his childhood illness—​“on the assumption that, if I lived, I would be sure to soil myself; and after that solemn washing the guilt would be greater and more dangerous if I then defiled myself with sins.”6 How different the book—​even the history of Christianity?—​would have been had the sacrament been administered when the boy had begged for it in fear of death! He suddenly recovered his health, however, and thereafter seems to have become strong in body and mind, and altogether aware of his strength. His tears were reserved for the theater, his strength for physical love and for philosophy. Too proud to be a Christian, he adhered to the doctrine of the Manichees, who seemed to him then to better explain the problem of evil, positing it as a principle in opposition to God and the good. Lest the reader be attracted to follow Augustine’s youthful path, he adds immediately, with the knowledge subsequently gained, “I did not know that evil has no existence except as a privation of good, down to that level which is altogether without being.”7 Though he does not explicitly say, it follows that the evil of death is itself simply the privation of life, not a brooding grim reaper. To dwell upon it or even to orient oneself by it would be a form of Manicheism, which Augustine eventually rejects. In Book IV, still teaching in his hometown of Thagaste in Africa, Augustine recounts the death of a friend—​not a true friend, he explains, as true friendship is possible only to Christians bound by the Holy Spirit, but “nevertheless it was a very sweet experience, welded by the fervor of our identical interests,” presumably in philosophy and the liberal arts.8 This unnamed friend is seized with a fever, and when unconscious and thought to be on the verge of death, his family had him baptized. Recovering, he is told of his baptism and is glad for it, growing angry with Augustine when the latter, remembering their former mockery of Christians, makes a joke of it—​perplexing Augustine, who is thrown into confusion and despair when the illness returns and his friend dies. Writing later as a Christian looking back, Augustine is of course thrilled that his friend died in God’s grace, but he takes the occasion to meditate on the state of his earlier unbelieving soul, upon his grief and his weeping, and then upon the attachment he formed to his very grief. In contrast to friends described in poetry as willing to die for one another, unable to imagine life without their friend, Augustine writes: in me there had emerged a very strange feeling which was the opposite of theirs. I found myself heavily weighed down by a sense of being tired of living and scared of dying. I suppose that the more I loved him, the more hatred and fear I felt for the death which

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134  James R. Stoner, Jr. had taken him from me, as if it were my most ferocious enemy. I thought that since death had consumed him, it was suddenly going to engulf all humanity … What madness not to understand how to love human beings with awareness of the human condition! How stupid man is to be unable to restrain feelings in suffering the human lot! That was my state at that time.9 A move to Carthage and the company of new friends consoles him, and the memory evokes reflections on human friendship that explain why friends mourn one another’s death, at least in the absence of a full-​hearted Christian conversion: There were other things which occupied my mind in the company of my friends: to make conversation, to share a joke, to perform mutual acts of kindness, to read together well-​ written books, to share in trifling and in serious matters, to disagree though without animosity—​just as a person debates with himself—​and in the very rarity of disagreement to find the salt of normal harmony, to teach each other something or to learn from one another, to long with impatience for those absent, to welcome them with gladness on their arrival … That is what we love in friends.10 Beautiful as this account of intellectual friendship is, it remains unsatisfying to Augustine, and he escapes from the oscillation between joy in friendship and grief at its loss by theologically prefiguring his later and decisive friendships: If physical objects give you pleasure, praise God for them and return love to their Maker lest, in the things that please you, you displease him. If souls please you, they are being loved in God, for they also are mutable and acquire stability by being established in him. Otherwise they go their way and perish. In him, therefore, they are loved; so seize what souls you can to take with you to him, and say to them: “Him we love; he made these things and is not distant.”11 The narrative moves on, to his lost first book, On the Beautiful and the Fitting, to his ready grasp and acceptance of Aristotle’s Categories, his increasing doubt of the truth of Manicheism, his move to Rome—​where he took ill and felt he was dying, both in body and in soul, the latter for his unbelief—​his disgust with the dishonesty of his students there and thus his subsequent move to Milan, where he encountered Bishop Ambrose and was followed by his mother Monica, come from Africa. Milan is the site of his conversion. He was joined there by a friend, Alypius, once his student at Carthage, and by another friend from Carthage, Nebridius, and the three made a pact to devote themselves entirely to “investigation of the truth,” under the shadow of death, in a sense: “In what state shall we depart this life? ... What if death itself will cut off and end all anxiety by annihilating the mind?”12 They determine not to marry, sending Augustine’s longtime concubine home to Africa but keeping his “natural son,” rejecting astrology definitively, discovering through the neo-​Platonists the nothingness of evil and the beauty and fullness of good, and then finally through St. Paul and the stories of other Christians, with an outpouring of tears and in a moment of perfect clarity, he converts, and is immediately joined by Alypius. They finish the term teaching, resign their posts, vacation at the villa of another friend, read scripture and prepare for baptism, and then are baptized, joined by the son and afterwards by Nebridius. Meeting yet another friend from his home town, a Roman civil servant already baptized a Christian, they all resolve to return to Africa as the place where they might best do God’s work.

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St. Augustine  135 Augustine narrates a few more deaths, some taking place at an unspecified later date, including his son’s and Nebridius’, but as all die as Christians, they are treated as a matter of course or even as a cause of celebration, if further conversions were involved. There is, however, one last death in the Confessions treated at great length, and that is his mother’s. A Christian, she prayed for Augustine throughout his life, taking him into her home when he was a young teacher and later following him to Milan, where she became part of the community of pious Christians. Having brought her pagan husband to Christ before his death years before in Africa, she was naturally overjoyed when her son finally took the same step, but she fell ill on the way south in Italy before embarking to cross the sea with her son and his entourage. Augustine recounts their intimate last days together, their conversations on death and on salvation, her indifference to where she was buried, her exhaustion with living, and finally her death. He offers the reader her eulogy by recounting her life, distinguished by her charity and holiness, but then turns to the question of his own grief, which he calls overwhelming. He restrains his tears during the obsequies and burial, but weeps afterwards and then wonders at his weeping: Was it a sin to feel grief, rather than joy that she was now headed for God’s presence? Did it mean he doubts the faith which he had made his own and which made his accounts of other deaths in Christ more joyful than sorrowful? He writes that he makes this confession to God in writing, and asks his readers, if they find this a fault, that they pray God to forgive his sin. Christ conquers death, but not entirely, it seems, as evidenced by the natural sorrow we feel at the death of one we love.

Death in The City of God In Confessions, then, death is at once central to the drama and its victim, the cause of anxiety and the darkness eventually smothered by the light. In The City of God, death is treated more thematically, at the outset of the work, in one of its books, and in the discussion of politics. Like Confessions, The City of God is a work of striking originality, defining a new realm of study, Christian political theology; unlike Confessions, it is not personal, but polemical, aimed against pagan accounts of the gods, the worship accorded them, the political uses made of them, and finally philosophical speculation about the divine. Composed over a period of about fifteen years following the sack of Rome by Alaric in 410 C E , The City of God is identical in many of its teachings to the earlier work, but what there appeared as the new discovery of an inquisitive mind—​for example, the definition of evil as privation of good—​now appears as a mature and settled doctrine.13 Once again the Platonists are accorded highest honor among the philosophical sects, as closest to the truth, but even they are confused in their theology, indeed the later ones contradict the master. As in Confessions, the perplexities of the philosophers—​the questions they found impossible to answer—​ appear resolved by Christian revelation, while simultaneously human reason helps interpret the meaning of the Biblical text. The “City of God” of the title is “the pilgrim City of Christ the King” on earth—​the Church, those who share in the sacraments—​as well as the Heavenly City of the saints. The visible Church and the “Church Triumphant” are “interwoven and intermixed in this era,”14 to be sorted out only at the Last Judgment. In contrast is the city of man, especially Rome, of course, the most successful of human cities. This city is also interwoven and intermixed with the city of God, insofar as its members might be at once Romans and Christians. By the time Augustine writes, a century after the Edict of Milan that first tolerated Christianity in the Empire, Rome has established Christianity as its dominant religion; indeed, this gives the work its occasion, for the old pagan aristocracy at Rome accused the Christians of making the city weak and thus subject to invasion. Augustine vigorously denies the charge, noting instead that the barbarian invaders spared those who took refuge in Christian churches out

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136  James R. Stoner, Jr. of respect for Christ, a form of mercy the Romans themselves never showed to those they vanquished. Nothing can be inferred about God’s judgment from human suffering, for God may have allowed the sack of Rome not only to punish the wicked but to admonish the good, particularly for having been too “tender towards damnable sins of the wicked,” which they had tolerated rather than suppressed. The good and the wicked suffer together, since both “love this temporal life”: But the good ought to have despised it, so that the others might be reformed and corrected and might aim at life eternal; or, if they refused to be partners in this enterprise, so that they might be borne with, and loved as Christians should love their enemies, since in this life it is always uncertain whether or not they are likely to experience a change of heart.15 Words like these convey the mixture of tenderness and toughness that pervades Augustine’s writing, stern in the demands made of Christians, patient in working towards the conversion of those who are not Christian, a lesson learned, one might think, from his mother’s long watch over the journey of her son. Early in Book I, Augustine faces the question of death in a chapter called, “The end of this present life must come whether sooner or later.” “What does it matter,” he asks, “by what kind of death life is brought to an end?”16 He ignores, at least here, the entire epic tradition with its emphasis on heroism, not only in the face of death but in the moment of death itself, concluding simply, “Death is not to be regarded as a disaster, when it follows on a good life, for the only thing that makes death an evil is what comes after death.” Essential to the Christian is his destiny in the next life, not the accident of how he leaves this one, though he acknowledges that the body “instinctively shrink[s]‌” from death “in weakness and fear.” Nor—​echoing Augustine’s mother Monica’s indifference to where she dies and is buried—​does it matter to the one who dies how his body is disposed of, since “a decent funeral and a proper burial … are a consolation to the living rather than a help to the departed,” though the living have a duty to treat the bodies of the dead with respect. If heroism is ignored for now, Stoicism is rebuked: their praise of suicide is wholly misguided by their depraved sense of honor and shame, that is, their excessive pride, whether the suicide of Lucretia (for even rape does not impugn the chastity of the woman who suffers it) or the suicide of Cato (too proud to acknowledge his defeat by Caesar). “Christians have no authority to commit suicide in any circumstances,” so while they ought to accept death, they must not seek it. Greatness of soul belongs to a pure conscience, not to an insistence upon supreme command, including the self-​command of the Stoic who determines his own end. Book XIII of The City of God is about death, as the author turns from his account of the Creation to his account of the Fall. The soul is immortal, the body mortal, but there is a sense in which the soul can die: “the death of the soul results when God abandons it, the death of the body when the soul departs.”17 The soul that cleaves to Christ experiences bodily death as an entry into his kingdom, the perfect City of God. The experience of the soul that abandons God—​for, despite the formulation above, God’s love calls out to all, and he abandons only those who give themselves to sin instead and never repent—​is altogether different, for it has chosen the way that leads to hell, first for itself, then, with the resurrection of the body and the reuniting of body and soul for the Last Judgment, to a hell with bodily pain in addition, a “second death.” Death enters the world through Adam’s sin,18 man having been made, unlike the animals, never to have died had he not sinned, writes Augustine, so death is a punishment and the inheritance of all men; though by Christ’s death and resurrection our souls are redeemed and offered immortality. Augustine now admits

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St. Augustine  137 that death is naturally an evil, and yet, as God can bring good even out of evil, so the martyrs who die in witness to their faith in Christ can turn an evil, death, into good, as they gain heaven by their martyrdom and further faith among the living. Indeed, so great is the good of a martyr’s death that it can gain heaven even to one who was not baptized, provided he die in witness to his unwavering faith in Christ. Augustine returns to the question of life after death in the final books of The City of God—​both the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the good—​but from Books XIV through XIX he concentrates on the natural world and on recorded history, Biblical and chronicled. This begins in Book XIV with his account of the Fall, concentrating not on the punishment of death but on the subsequent disobedience of the sexual parts to human will—​a just punishment, he writes, for man’s disobedience to God—​and more generally on human emotions, which, again contrary to the Stoics, he praises or blames according to their objects, not in themselves. After tracing at length the precursors to the city of man and the City of God in the different lines of descent from Adam—​the first through the line of Cain, founder of the first city, the second through Seth to Noah, Abraham, Moses, and the Hebrew people—​he arrives eventually at Babylon and Rome, on the one hand, and the Church of Christ and the Apostles on the other. In Book XIX, he treats the question of politics in “our” time, when the two cities, of God and man, are mingled and interwoven, starting, like Plato or Aristotle, by asking about the human good and explaining his way of proceeding: I must first explain … the arguments advanced by mortal men in their endeavor to create happiness for themselves amidst the unhappiness of this life. My purpose is to make clear the great difference between their hollow realities and our hope, the hope given us by God, together with the realization—​that is, the true bliss that he will give us; and to do this not merely by appealing to divine authority but also by employing such powers of reason as we can apply for the benefit of unbelievers.19 At first Augustine emphasizes the contrast between the end taught by reason and that learned by faith: the philosophers find human happiness in a life devoted to virtue, balancing the contemplative and the active, in society with other men, while the Christian knows that living rightly depends on God’s grace, that virtue involves a struggle against sinfulness, and that true happiness can be achieved only in the next life, in community with God and our fellows. But then the argument takes a different turn. Peace comes to light as the end that all men seek with one another, and justice is discovered as the critical means to peace. The peace and justice of the city of man are imperfect, while the peace and justice of the City of God, resting in faith and salvation, are perfect, but there is a certain peace to be found between the two cities, too. The peace of the earthly city “limits the harmonious agreement of citizens concerning the giving and obeying of orders to a kind of compromise between human wills about the things relevant to mortal life”; the Heavenly City “make[s]‌use of this peace also, until this mortal state, for which this kind of peace is essential, passes away.” This, too, is a compromise; the Church “leads what we may call a life of captivity in this earthly city,” provided she is allowed to worship God and not forced into idolatry. Still, for Augustine, the captives do not begrudge their captors: it does not hesitate to obey the laws of the earthly city by which those things which are designed for the support of this mortal life are regulated; and the purpose of this obedience is that, since this mortal condition is shared by both cities, a harmony may be preserved between them in things that are relevant to this condition.20

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138  James R. Stoner, Jr. Augustine’s endorsement of obedience to and participation in human government and law clarifies other passages in The City of God which might otherwise be ambiguous in their import for Christians. In Chapter 21 of Book I, “All homicide is not murder,” he notes, the commandment against killing was not broken by those who have waged wars on the authority of God, or those who have imposed the death penalty on criminals when representing the authority of the State in accordance with the laws of the State, the justest and most reasonable source of power.21 In Book XIX, he makes clear that the duty of the judge in an earthly city might even extend to torture of innocent witnesses if the law permits it, “because ignorance is unavoidable—​ and yet the exigencies of human society make judgment also unavoidable.” Will the wise man in such circumstances consent to sit as a judge? “Obviously he will sit; for the claims of human society constrain him and draw him to this duty; and it is unthinkable to him that he should shirk it.” To be sure, he bemoans, indeed “hates that necessity in his own actions” and cries out to God for deliverance.22 Likewise the ruler will “lament the fact that he is faced with the necessity of waging just wars” when “the injustice of the opposing side lays on the wise man the duty of waging wars.”23 War and judgment, for Augustine, are brutal necessities of human governance, and the Christian, though a lover of peace and mercy, is not only permitted but enjoined to do what he must to see just wars waged and lawful judgments rendered. Needless to say, both duties entail the infliction of death upon others, though Augustine is clear that the nasty task of administering capital punishment be left to brutal hands, whose natural murderousness is thereby turned to the benefit of the state. Augustine’s realism, as one might call it, appears throughout The City of God: in a famous passage in Book IV, he asks, “Remove justice, and what are kingdoms but gangs of criminals on a large scale? What are criminal gangs but petty kingdoms?”24 Yet immediately before this, after praising the life of one who holds in a middle station as more desirable than the life of a wealthy man, full of worries and bitten by ambition, he nevertheless writes: it is beneficial that the good should extend their dominion far and wide and that their reign should endure, with the worship of the true God by genuine sacrifices and upright lives. This is for the benefit of all, of the subjects even more than the rulers. For the rulers, their piety and integrity—​great gifts of God—​suffice for true happiness, for a good life on earth, and for eternal life hereafter. And in this world the reign of the good is a blessing for themselves, and even more for the whole of human society.25 Similarly, in Book XIX, he concurs with the philosophers in finding the best life to consist in a balance of contemplation and action, though now contemplation of God and charitable action: “no one ought to be so leisured as to take no thought in that leisure for the interest of his neighbor, nor so active as to feel no need for the contemplation of God.”26 Though the heavenly city and the earthly city live together uneasily, given human sinfulness and the practical circumstance, described in both Augustine’s principal works, that Christians and pagans dwelt interspersed among one another, he seems also to imagine the possibility of a genuinely Christian empire or kingdom or republic. Modifying Cicero, he offers the following definition: “A people is the association of a multitude of rational beings united by a common agreement on the objects of their love.”27 The Romans, by this definition, constituted a people, though they loved not only virtue but empire, and so acted unjustly. What, then, of a Christian people, united in their membership in the Church? Although

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St. Augustine  139 Augustine is clear throughout his writings about the presence of sinners in the Church, including those who reject Christ, seek only their own advantage, and will never be admitted to the Heavenly City, still the dignity he accords to political life leaves open the possibility of a Christian commonwealth, imperfect though it would be. And mortal: Augustine would hardly be surprised if a regime established with Christian laws and full of Christian citizens should nevertheless grow corrupt.

Conclusion The robust faith in life after death expressed by Augustine, indeed faith that life after death will in every way surpass in its glory the miserable life of human beings on earth, makes the Christian he describes, not one who shies away from political action, but one who confidently does his duty in the world, though for the sake of a world beyond. His exaltation of the City of God, though it sometimes seems to cast aspersion on the world of nature, in fact is meant to embrace it, not as adequate in itself of course, but as the product of God’s creation and so essentially good. Towards the very end of his long work, Augustine writes of “the good things of which this life is full, even though it is subject to condemnation,” including the marvelous process of growth and maturity in living things, the human capacity for virtue and “all the important arts discovered and developed by human genius, some for necessary uses, others simply for pleasure,” the beauty and the dignity of the human body, and “the beauty and utility of the natural creation, which the divine generosity has bestowed on man, for him to behold and to take into use.”28 As was clear in the discussion of philosophic friendship in Confessions, Augustine knows and extols the goods of nature; his moral severity is not intended to deplore their goodness, but to remind us of their incompleteness, of the still greater friendship and beauty that awaits the Christian on the other side of the veil. The City of God, telling as it does the story of the rise and impending fall of the Roman Empire, is not without dramatic structure, but its story, in contrast to the account of his conversion in Confessions, is not yet complete; that City is still in pilgrimage, the climax of its triumph only to appear with the Second Coming. I suggested above that Augustine hints at the possibility of a Christian commonwealth in the future; what might he have to say to us on the other side of Christendom, so to speak? As I was concluding this essay, I happened to read in an American paper a profile of Martin Lee, the Hong Kong barrister who helped write the city’s constitution when it was returned by the British to China in the 1990s, who became a pro-​democracy leader in its legislature, and who was briefly arrested in April 2020 as China began its crackdown to impose a new “security law.” The article closed by quoting Mr. Lee: If I have the choice of dying peacefully in bed outside Hong Kong, or dying in pain in a Chinese jail, the question for me is not how will I die, but will I go to heaven … Dying without my convictions is what would really give me pain.29 Thinking I heard the voice of St. Augustine, a quick internet search confirmed that Lee is a devoted Roman Catholic and a close friend of Cardinal Joseph Zen. Wrote Augustine himself: “The source of a community’s felicity is no different from that of one man, since a community is simply a united multitude of individuals.”30 I do not think Augustine anticipated all the stations along the path of pilgrimage, but in the pilgrims’ attitude towards death he would have no trouble identifying, insofar as any living man can ascertain, his fellow citizens in the City whose story he tells.

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140  James R. Stoner, Jr.

Notes 1 Prayer attributed to St. Augustine, Hardon, 243. 2 Locke, 268. 3 Augustine, City of God, 32. 4 Augustine, Confessions, 153. 5 Augustine, Confessions, 61. 6 Augustine, Confessions, 13–​14. 7 Augustine, Confessions, 43. 8 Augustine, Confessions, 56. 9 Augustine, Confessions, 59. 10 Augustine, Confessions, 60–​1. 11 Augustine, Confessions, 63. 12 Augustine, Confessions, 105. 13 Augustine, City of God, 454. 14 Augustine, City of God, 46. 15 Augustine, City of God, 16. 16 Augustine, City of God, 20. 17 Augustine, City of God, 510. 18 Romans 5:12. 19 Augustine, City of God, 843. 20 Augustine, City of God, 877. 21 Augustine, City of God, 32. 22 Augustine, City of God, 860. 23 Augustine, City of God, 862; see also Fortin, 46–​7. 24 Augustine, City of God, 139. 25 Augustine, City of God, 138–​9. 26 Augustine, City of God, 880. 27 Augustine, City of God, 890. 28 Augustine, City of God, 1072–​5. 29 Lyons. 30 Augustine, City of God, 25.

References Augustine. Concerning the City of God against the Pagans. Translated by Henry Bettenson. Edited by David Knowles. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972. Augustine. Confessions. Translated by Henry Chadwick. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Fortin, Ernest L. Classical Christianity and the Political Order. Edited by J. Brian Benestad. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 1996. Hardon, Fr. John A. Catholic Prayer Book. Bardstown: Eternal Life, 1999. Locke, John. Two Treatises of Government. Edited by Peter Laslett. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Lyons, John. “The Rise and Fall of Martin Lee and His Dream of a Democratic Hong Kong.” Wall Street Journal, November 15, 2020. www.wsj.com/​articles/​martin-​lee-​democracy-​hong-​kong-​ china-​crackdown-​11605460019. Accessed November 17, 2020. “Martin Lee.” Wikipedia. https://​en.wikipedia.org/​wiki/​Martin_​Lee. Accessed November 17, 2020.

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14  Jihād for the City How Alfarabi Discourages, and Encourages, Death in Battle Alexander Orwin

The Muslim community has long been preoccupied with the commandment to die for the faith, and the promise of paradise for those who do so. This concern can be traced to certain verses in the Quran, which speak of rewards offered in the afterlife to those who leave their homes, struggle, and die for God.1 The Quran provides accounts of the pleasures reserved in the afterlife for the righteous, such as gardens, couches, pearls, wine cups, incense, young men, and maidens.2 These passages are the source of the widespread and enduring expectation that those who die in battle for the faith will go straight to paradise. The question of the relationship between war, death, and the afterlife attracted the interest of Alfarabi (870–​950 CE ). Widely considered the founder of Islamic philosophy, Alfarabi stands out as the first Muslim thinker to absorb the insights of Plato and Aristotle while developing an original political teaching of his own, suited to the vocabulary of Arabic and adapted to the challenges unique to Islam. Alfarabi’s nuanced treatment of death and the afterlife is scattered across several works. In the Perfect State and Political Regime, Alfarabi describes the fate of the inhabitants of various cities after the destruction of their bodies.3 The souls of the inhabitants of the virtuous cities may look ahead to a blissful afterlife in which the soul is liberated from the body, while those of the non-​virtuous cities await either a soul pained by ungratified bodily longings, according to the Perfect State, or complete but painless annihilation, according to the Political Regime. In neither work does Alfarabi speak of bodily pleasures for the righteous after death. Besides, these two accounts say nothing about the Quranic themes of death in war and its relationship to the next life.4 Alfarabi’s brief reference to the afterlife in the three-​part Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle approaches it from a very different angle. He opens the work by promising to explain what human things can deliver happiness to the life of cities and nations in this lower world, as well as supreme happiness in the “other life.”5 As tempting as it might be to attribute this “other life” to the world after death, Alfarabi’s silence about death and substitution of human things for divine leaves the door open for other interpretations. This ambiguity remains unresolved, since the phrase “other life” does not occur again. Is the implication that the largely philosophic arguments of the Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle suffice to bring about the supreme happiness of this other life? Alfarabi’s brief discussion of war does little to refute this interpretation. While he praises the just warrior for pursuing supreme happiness among the nations, he says nothing about his fate after death, as if supreme happiness is realized mainly in this life.6 Alfarabi’s brief allusions to death and the afterlife in the Book of Religion put the tension between the religious view and his own more firmly into focus. In enumerating the opinions of religion, Alfarabi explicitly identifies “death and the afterlife” as the place where the souls of the virtuous and wicked go in the next life.7 In two other passages where Alfarabi speaks in his own name, he contrasts the afterlife with life in this lower world, but without mentioning death or offering any definite idea about the afterlife’s peculiar time and place.8 DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-15

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142  Alexander Orwin In both instances, Alfarabi speaks of happiness in both lives as something attainable mainly through political activity. Alfarabi thus brings out a distinction that was concealed in his other works, between the afterlife as opined by religion, which is thought to occur after death, and the more elusive afterlife that is proclaimed by Alfarabi himself. The highly unorthodox character of Alfarabi’s own views also emerges in a fragment of a lost commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, cited by the later Islamic philosophers Ibn Bajja (1085–​1137 C E ) and Ibn Tufayl (1110–​85 CE ), in which Alfarabi defines all happiness as political and dismisses all claims of life after death as old wives’ tales.9 While it would be rash to take these glosses too literally in the absence of the original text, they clearly reflect widespread concerns among Alfarabi’s successors, that his subversion of respectable religious opinion may have gone too far. The works cited thus far raise more questions than answers about Alfarabi’s own views. Fortunately, Alfarabi provides a more substantial account in the Selected Aphorisms. This work includes a list of the various motivations for war, along with a description of the virtuous warrior and what he may expect to gain through death. It also contains an unusual cosmology which turns out to be closely linked to these pressing human questions. The rest of this chapter provides a close analysis of the relevant passages in this work. While my aim here is to offer the most comprehensive interpretation of these passages, I am not the first to explore this topic, and have benefitted from discussions by Joel Kraemer, Charles Butterworth, Christopher Colmo, and Joshua Parens, all cited in the References.

War in the City and the World Alfarabi announces his intention in the introductory sentence of the Selected Aphorisms: to explain how to bring cities toward happiness on the basis of the sayings of the ancients. Many of the work’s themes, however, are specifically Islamic. Alfarabi has produced a distinctive work that is neither exclusively Muslim nor exclusively ancient, but a meeting place for the two civilizations. It often seems to express what Alfarabi believes that the ancients would have thought had they faced the new set of political and religious challenges created by Islam. Our subject of war and the afterlife illustrates this mixture of ancient and Islamic themes unusually well. Alfarabi does not discuss Homer and Achilles, but rather the Islamic notion of jihād along with its relationship to the next life. However, he ascribes jihād not to religion, but to cities and their rulers. Warriors (mujāhid) are defined as a class within the city, below the rulers, language experts, and assessors but above the moneymakers, capable of both attack and defense.10 The cognate noun jihād appears on a list of the essential capabilities of the city’s ruler.11 In treating the various motives for war, Alfarabi switches from jihād to the more neutral term ‘war’ (ḥarb), but the prominence of cities and rulers remains. The first set of motives focuses mostly on the claims and interests of the city, while the second set is advanced mainly by rulers, and dismissed as unjust. For example, the city may engage in war to repulse enemies, wrest a good that it deserves from the hand of an external enemy, pursue a right that has been unfairly denied to it, punish criminals that threaten it, and even annihilate those whose very existence is a harm to it. The unjust motives for war, in contrast, entice rulers with the promise of honor, pleasure, domination, and revenge. It seems that wars which seek to fulfill the passions and ambitions of rulers cannot be justified, unless they also serve the good of the city as a whole. Subordinating war to the needs and claims of the city might therefore eliminate the worst kinds of military endeavors. The distinction between the legitimate wars carried out by the city, and the unjust wars provoked by the caprices of the ruler, is complicated by the presence of two additional motives on Alfarabi’s list. The third of the seven legitimate motives is directed against all

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Alfarabi  143 those who refuse to accept what is best for them of their own accord, until they are obliged to accept it through force. The fourth and central motive aims to reduce to slavery all those whose proper rank in the world is that of a servant and slave. These motives are described without any reference to the city, implying that their claims extend beyond it. They seem akin to what is supposed to drive jihād in Islam. Alfarabi declines explicit comment on the justice and righteousness of these motives. But their disruptive presence in the middle of a list devoted mainly to the claims of the city implies that the sweeping ambitions inherent in these grander claims cannot be adequately restrained by an appeal to the city alone. The third motive for war is further dealt with in the Attainment of Happiness, where Alfarabi proposes war to compel the nations to wisdom, only to indicate that he is highly skeptical of such compulsion and ambition.12 This kind of war is never again mentioned in the Selected Aphorisms, perhaps on account of the restricted framework of cities that characterizes the bulk of the work. By the time Alfarabi begins to discuss nations in the second-​to-​last aphorism in the context of theoretical virtue, the drumbeat of war has long since been exhausted.13 The fourth motive, based on the view that some human groups are fit only to be slaves, is properly examined in the Selected Aphorisms themselves. Alfarabi speaks here not of a person’s rank within the city,14 but of his rank within the world. Only a determination of this universal, trans-​political rank could justify waging war to enslave people who live outside of the city. But the jump from city to world cannot be clarified without some explanation of the meaning of the latter. This points to the need for a cosmological argument that reflects on whether some humans have indeed been born into the world only to be slaves. This consideration suffices to explain why Alfarabi follows his discussion of war with a sudden turn to cosmology. One cannot determine what kinds of wars are just and worth dying for, without some consideration of the structure of the world.

Worlds without Rank Compared to the elaborate hierarchies of beings for which works such as the Perfect State and Political Regime are famous, the cosmology of the Selected Aphorisms may seem like a poor country cousin. Its ranking of the world and its parts is not nearly as intricate or complete. While it defines various kinds of being, concluding that some are nobler than others thanks to the greater permanence of their existence, it never indicates how this translates into any kind of cosmic or political order.15 Its inconsistencies are also quite flagrant. Most notably, Alfarabi seems consciously unable to determine how many kinds of beings there are. He begins by dividing beings into three groups: what cannot possibly not exist, what cannot possibly exist, and what can possibly exist or not exist. Two aphorisms later, these divisions are suddenly four, with the addition of things that cannot possibly not exist at a certain moment.16 Even if we were to assume that the second list represents Alfarabi’s final view of the matter, we would immediately have to ask, why Alfarabi bothered to retain the first list. The fourth category appears, in the intervening aphorisms, to include the celestial bodies: does Alfarabi have some uncertainty about their existence and status? This question is quite pertinent, because without an elevated and eternal status for the heavenly bodies, the entire cosmological system proposed in the Perfect State and Political Regime would disintegrate.17 While Alfarabi asserts the existence of permanently existing spiritual entities, he declines to name any of them, let alone determine their place within a cosmological hierarchy. Alfarabi’s uncertainty about the kinds of beings in the cosmos inevitably leads to uncertainty about the structure of the world. Alfarabi goes so far as to deny the oneness of the world, since the various kinds of being give rise to at least three worlds: “There are three worlds: spiritual, celestial, and material.”18 The relationship between these three worlds is

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144  Alexander Orwin never elucidated. Alfarabi continues to employ the plural “worlds” throughout the rest of the section, culminating in the introduction of multiple, unnamed “spiritual worlds.”19 This usage calls into question Alfarabi’s earlier reference to a single world in his account of war. With reference to which of these worlds would any person merit subjugation and slavery? The importance of this question is highlighted by a surprising turn at the end of the Book of Religion, whose highly ordered and hierarchically governed world is summarily blown up by Alfarabi’s sudden acknowledgment of the multiplicity of worlds.20 For Alfarabi, the vastness of the cosmos defies any straightforward ranking or classification. His failure to enumerate the spiritual worlds in the present work might simply reveal his lack of any precise knowledge of their number. The fourth motive for war presumes not only some knowledge of the world, but a view of humanity that might justify slavery. Alfarabi appears to speak somewhat more definitively about our place within the world, but in a way that emphasizes our weakness and imperfection rather than our strength and courage. No human is self-​sufficient, so that many members of the species must exist at any given time. Far from establishing any clear hierarchy among humans, or justifying the subjugation of some by others, our universal weakness entails a need to work together. In the following aphorism, Alfarabi argues that inevitable defectiveness also arises in anything possessing a contrary.21 This observation has some bearing on war, which can only be pursued against an enemy of some sort. Even fitness to rule, for example, would have as its contrary fitness to serve. According to Alfarabi’s reasoning, any possible motivation for war would entail an imperfection of some sort in both parties. Alfarabi concludes both aphorisms by describing a being that is perfect in itself and therefore without any contraries.22 This being remains nameless, but in a monotheistic world many readers would identify it with God, who first appears by name slightly later in the text. Alfarabi argues that the same human being can be both a friend and enemy of God, depending on circumstances.23 The implication is that this truly perfect, self-​sufficient being might not have permanent friends or enemies, or feel the need to incite any wars at all. The contraries that incite us to war are forged not by God or nature, but by human will. Alfarabi proceeds to ascribe all evil to voluntary human acts.24 Everything natural follows necessarily from a first cause according to justice and desert, in the possible, celestial, and spiritual worlds. Alfarabi’s description of the worlds is characterized by a peculiar mixture of uncertainty concerning their structure and number, and certainty about the human lessons that should be drawn from them. However mysterious these worlds may be, we can be confident that natural evil does not exist in them. If the cosmos fails to provide any natural or transcendent standard that dictates human acts, we are left to assess our choices on their own terms. Unfortunately, some humans continue to resist this freedom, seeking greater cosmic support for their actions. One group erroneously assumes that natural, sensual pleasures are good and the corresponding natural pains evil. Another group supposes that existence is good while non-​existence is evil, inventing “chimerical beings that they set down as good and non-​existent beings that they set down as evil.”25 While Alfarabi characteristically declines to name these groups, his concise description might fit a certain kind of holy warrior, who fights in the name of imagined belief and unbelief for the sake of the sensual pleasures that are commonly associated with the afterlife. If the cosmos is as indifferent to his pursuits as Alfarabi intimates, we can fully appreciate the warrior’s need to motivate himself in this fashion. We conclude that Alfarabi’s cosmology is designed not to support, but to undermine, the notion that certain people in the world are meant to be subjugated and enslaved. Its uncertain account of the number of worlds, along with its more definitive description of the neediness and imperfection of humans, offers no cosmic support for any kind of human

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Alfarabi  145 war. This section of the Selected Aphorisms therefore leads the reader back to the view implied in #67, that war should be fought only for the sake of the city’s concrete interests and claims. Alfarabi will soon confirm that the virtuous mujāhid should ponder whether to risk death only with regard to the city’s interests and his own. The good soldier remains above all a servant of the city.26 Alfarabi raises the prospect of cosmic wars untethered from the city, only to show that they are a dangerous mirage.

Pleasure, Virtue, and the Afterlife Alfarabi fears that the warriors of his time might succumb to two temptations: first, to conjure up chimerical beings that serve to justify their warlike pursuits, second, to immerse themselves in dreams of sensual delights. It is important to recall that in Islam these dreams encompass not only this life, but especially the next. Having disabused his readers of the first error with the cosmology of #68–​74, Alfarabi promptly turns to the second, with a critique of conventional notions of the afterlife. This critique is not so much metaphysical as moral: it begins with a proper understanding of virtue and its relationship to pleasure. Before introducing the virtuous mujāhid, Alfarabi treats the virtuous person more generally.27 Alfarabi has already taken up the topic of moral virtue earlier in the work, from a broadly Aristotelian perspective. Familiar Aristotelian themes include virtue as a mean between two extremes that is established through a mixture of natural inclination and education.28 Even this deceptively classical discussion looks ahead to Alfarabi’s treatment of the mujāhid and the afterlife. Most significant in this regard is Alfarabi’s distinction between the virtuous person and the self-​restrained one. The former has been so thoroughly inculcated with virtue that he performs virtuous acts for his own enjoyment, while the latter performs them only painfully, under the duress of the law. The self-​restrained long for the pleasures of excessive food, drink, and sex and suffer from having to forgo them. Due to the connection between self-​restraint and law, Alfarabi argues that the good citizen should possess self-​restraint rather than virtue. In fact, this self-​restraint allows him to practice a very particular kind of virtue, namely the virtue of struggle (ijtihād). The etymological link between this term and jihād is obvious. The reflexive Arabic form signifies something like “struggling internally with oneself.” Should this struggle fail, the ruler can always correct him. The ruler, in contrast, should possess a genuinely praiseworthy character without attraction to any kind of vice: with nobody able to restrain the ruler and many subject to him, his vices are likely to harm others.29 One might ask at this point: What kind of virtue does the mujāhid have? He occupies at best a middling rank in the virtuous city, somewhere between the truly virtuous rulers and purely mercenary moneymakers. His strict obedience to the claims of the city and need to struggle against vice differentiate him from the virtuous ruler. It is true that this ruler is said to possess jihād as well, but this quality, which comes at the tail end of a list of many higher virtues, is ascribed to his body rather than his mind.30 And does the mujāhid simply need to struggle against his baser impulses, like the simple citizen? Endowed with more power than the citizen, he might inflict considerably more harm should his self-​restraint begin to falter. Called upon to make considerably greater sacrifices, culminating in violent death, he might also lose his resolve at a critical moment. It is surely in response to the unique temptations faced by warriors, along with the unique sacrifices demanded of them, that Islam offers such distinct pleasures in the next world for those who die in battle. But Alfarabi is not content with this solution to the problem. In between his cosmology and discussion of the virtuous warrior, he unleashes a scathing attack on the prevailing attitude toward the afterlife.

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146  Alexander Orwin Alfarabi’s cosmology concludes that the worlds are naturally good, so that all evil may be attributed to humans.31 This opens the way for a purely psychological account of evil, as something of our own making. This is not to say that evil is inherent in human passions. One needs to determine whether these passions are wisely used in each individual case, with due regard to the goal of human happiness. The passions associated with jihād may be profitably assessed in this way, especially since cosmology appears to offer no judgment on military jihād one way or the other. The results of Alfarabi’s assessment are quite damning for any literal interpretation of the Quranic teaching on the next life. The sacrifice of sensual pleasures in this world for the sake of still more intense pleasures in the next world has the character not of virtue, but of vice. It cannot even be called self-​ restraint, since no long-​term sacrifice is anticipated. This holds true even for the courageous who are willing to die in battle out of fear of hell and longing for the pleasures of the next life. Alfarabi dares to equate the attitude normally ascribed to mujāhid with moneylenders, who gladly part with money in the present in the expectation of making greater profits at a later date.32 The audacity and power of this argument stems from the well-​known commandment against lending at interest in the Quran.33 Morally speaking, there is no longer any difference between heroes and villains, since both holy warriors and moneylenders pursue equally mercenary aims. The base character of the two lowest classes in the city suddenly appears to converge. Alfarabi completes his critique by observing that a certain group of people is inclined to regard this world as a vale of tears, from whose misery death provides a long-​desired release. The result of this belief is indiscriminate killing of oneself and others.34 This temptation to such reckless bloodshed would arise regardless of whether the reward promised in the afterlife is the separation of the soul from the body mentioned in #81, or the intense bodily pleasures of #75. The common view of the afterlife thus risks incubating two very different kinds of vice, extravagant hedonism and excessive killing. Alfarabi’s critique sheds light on certain enduring problems within Islamic civilization. The hedonistic view of the next life, far from promoting virtue, often nourishes a parallel hedonism in this one. The people who have the means to indulge these fantasies are usually rulers and their entourages. The most splendid buildings in many historic Islamic capitals are mosques on the one hand, and palace harems on the other.35 In the Political Regime, Alfarabi argues that such hedonism will eventually undermine government, by immersing the ruler in pleasures.36 Meanwhile, the persistence of suicide bombings and other kinds of gratuitously destructive warfare by extreme Islamist groups gives Alfarabi’s concerns about indiscriminate killing greater contemporary weight. However cogent Alfarabi’s critique of conventional attitudes toward cosmology and the afterlife may be, it leaves him with a formidable dilemma. By the time Alfarabi finally turns to the virtuous warrior, the usual justifications for his vocation have been largely discredited. One is therefore compelled to ask, whether dying in battle for the sake of God or even the city can be justified at all. We conclude by examining Alfarabi’s novel justification for this sacrifice.

Warrior Virtue and the Opinions about the Afterlife In #78–​81, Alfarabi takes up our central theme, namely, how the virtuous person reacts to death. Alfarabi could respond to the challenge created by his rejection of traditional notions of the afterlife by offering an alternative version of it, and upon first glance, the latter half of #81 appears to do just that. However, this account of “the next life” as a reward reserved for those philosophers and ascetics who attain a complete separation of mind from body appears to say nothing about the actual fate of virtuous warriors after death. There is no

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Alfarabi  147 Alfarabian equivalent to the Platonic Myth of Er.37 Furthermore, this separation of mind from body may take place within this world: in stark contrast to the previous aphorisms, the discussion of the separation of the intellect from the body exudes a complete silence about death.38 The ambiguity present in the Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle and Book of Religion resurfaces here. In fact, this passage comes close to resolving it in favor of this world, by suggesting that the state of separation from matter could occur while the body is still living.39 Finally, even this view of the other life is presented as nothing more than an opinion held by a certain group, so its cognitive status remains unclear. How much more persuasive is it, than the ‘opinion’ of an afterlife of bodily pleasures that Alfarabi criticizes so harshly, or, for that matter, the religious opinions about life after death mentioned in the Book of Religion? This leads us to a striking feature of this passage, namely, its repeated reliance on the verb “opine.”40 I count at least two instances in #76, five in #77, two in #78, four in #79, and three in #81. It seems that everybody has opinions about what happens after death, but no real certainty. The prevalence of opinion in Alfarabi’s speculations about life after death presents a stunning contrast to its complete absence in his cosmology. Alfarabi is able to provide, however tentatively, a rational account of the structure of the world that transcends opinion; unfortunately, that goal seems out of reach with regard to the world after death, from which no human being is known to have ever returned. We may single out in this context the two prominent statements about death that are not called opinions. First, the people of the ignorant cities expect the pleasures, money, and honors that they have amassed in this lower world to disappear with death.41 Alfarabi does not contest this expectation, beyond warning that many of them will not die happily because of it. Their regret, however, will be less intense than the regret of the inhabitants of the immoral city, who opine the existence of happiness after death and therefore suffer from the belief that their behavior in life has caused them to relinquish it. Second, Alfarabi discusses death in battle without any reference to opinion.42 The virtuous mujāhid who sacrifices himself for the city’s sake is guaranteed to win praise from its inhabitants for his courage. His compatriots also rejoice in the happiness of his condition. That the citizens of the city think this way seems certain, but Alfarabi does not tell us what the fallen hero’s condition after death truly is. Is he even capable of receiving praise in it? Alfarabi never demonstrates that the people of the ignorant cities are wrong to suppose that honor cannot be felt or enjoyed after death. Whatever Alfarabi’s personal views of death might have been, he offers some very modest support for the hopes of the virtuous mujāhid. While indicating that all such support is based on opinion, he does see fit to encourage certain opinions at the expense of others. Having rejected as immoral the opinion that the afterlife is a hedonistic recompense for pleasures forgone in this life, he substitutes a far more tentative view, according to which the good amassed in this world does not depart in the next life. Flipping the moneylending analogy on its head, he describes a virtuous person whose gradually accumulated capital of good deeds continues to increase throughout life without dissipating in death. According to this opinion, the only thing lost by death is the interest which could accrue from living longer in order to perform more virtuous deeds. While this novel form of interest would cultivate more virtuous habits, it might not make anyone that eager to die. The most Alfarabi can say here is that the virtuous should not be apprehensive in the face of death; he never argues that such a person should delight in it. In fact, since his life is generally happy, he might reasonably expect to attain greater happiness through his survival.43 So, too, would the city, which clearly benefits from the survival of such an upstanding citizen, so that its inhabitants “ought to be mourned” on the occasion of the virtuous person’s death even more than the deceased himself.44 These calculations concerning the advantages of survival

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148  Alexander Orwin appear somewhat more solid and certain than Alfarabi’s vague reassurance that the mujāhid “will achieve happiness because of his previous virtue, and because he has now sacrificed himself.”45 It is hard to tell whether the survival of his virtue and happiness takes place in the afterlife, of which Alfarabi offers no depiction whatsoever, or merely through its persistence in the memory of the living. We recall that the only reward promised to the fallen warrior not consigned to the realm of opinion is that “he will be praised for sacrificing himself on behalf of the inhabitants of the city.”46 One might object that none of this provides any certain motivation for the sacrifice of lives in war. But perhaps that is Alfarabi’s point. If Islam is prone to encouraging wars that do not serve any tangible human interest whatsoever on account of unfounded beliefs and hopes, isn’t it the philosopher’s duty to undermine these fantasies? Indeed, Alfarabi cautions the mujāhid quite openly against indulging in any rash sacrifice. He should go into battle only when “he knows that what he seeks will be relinquished and not gained if he does not take the risk.” Since he can have only opinions on the outcome of battle and death, in both this world and the next, he is justified in fighting only on the basis of sound political calculations.47 Deprived of both trans-​political motivations for warfare, and any clear assurances of benefits in the next life on its account, the only justification left for a person to sacrifice in war is the good and honor of the city, or what we might call patriotism. In reinterpreting the mujāhid in this light, Alfarabi has allied himself firmly with the city. It bears noting, in reference to #67, that Alfarabi has not allied himself with rulers: having dismissed their wars as mostly unjust, he leaves them out of his treatment of the mujāhid. Perhaps Alfarabi fears that rulers might exploit Muslim theories about the afterlife to dupe their subjects into fighting their own unjust wars. Only a general political standard could serve as a justification for sacrifice in war that would resist both the seductive dreams of religion and the unreliable whims of rulers. In order to assure such sensible politics, Alfarabi does not deny all hopes for the other life, but he prefers to leave them floating somewhere in limbo. He might be satisfied with preserving nebulous, ill-​defined expectations of otherworldly bliss for good people and soldiers, of the sort that may often be found among Americans. These have the benefit of giving some people a little extra motivation to make the ultimate sacrifice for their country, without motivating too many people to fight too recklessly or risk too much. Muslims, according to Alfarabi’s analysis, should willingly die in strategic wars on behalf of their cities, while shrinking from religious wars unmoored from any useful political purpose. While Alfarabi’s successors displayed concern about his open skepticism concerning the next life, their own accounts of it do not appear that much more orthodox than that of Alfarabi. Indeed, all are clearly influenced by their towering predecessor. Ibn Bajja may have had Aphorism #81 in mind when he calls a state of pure intellection “the next life.”48 While Ibn Tufayl rebukes Alfarabi for not believing in the next life in the introduction, he ends his tale by calling the impending death of his principal characters Hayy and Absal “man’s certain fate,” as if what comes after that remains uncertain.49 The last of the great Andalusian philosophers, Averroes (1126–​98), has the audacity to insert an obvious paraphrase of Alfarabi’s critique of the hedonistic afterlife into his own Commentary on Plato’s Republic.50 However worried these philosophers may have been about the religious implications of Alfarabi’s views, they seemed unable or unwilling to escape from their imposing shadow. Perhaps they accepted that Alfarabi’s daring critique of the hedonistic afterlife was nonetheless politically salutary. As the latest outbreak of religiously motivated violence, from ISIS to the Taliban to Hizbollah, runs its bloody course through the heart of the Islamic world, it is worth reflecting on this point.

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Notes

1 For example, Quran, 3.169–​70, 22.58–​9. 2 Quran, 52.17–​26, 76.12–​22. 3 See APS, 259–​77, and PR, 70–​2. 4 See Colmo, 104–​7, for a persuasive account of the unorthodoxy of these teachings. 5 PPA, 13. Mahdi’s translation of “life beyond” is not entirely literal. 6 PPA, 37. 7 BR, 95. 8 BR, 102, 113. This point is a lot clearer in Arabic. The expression translated as “afterlife” on p. 95 simply means “after death,” while the parallel expression in these later passages means more literally “the other life.” 9 Ibn Bajja, Risā’il, 197; Ibn Tufayl, 100. 10 SA #57. 11 SA #58. 12 I refer the reader to my published interpretation of this work (Orwin, 136–​44). 13 Nations do not appear until #94, while warfare disappears after #80. 14 SA #60. 15 SA #71. 16 SA #68, #70. 17 See SA #69, APS, 101–​7, PR, 29–​32. 18 SA #68. 19 SA #74. 20 See BR, 113. The Arabic term ʿālim, translated as “realms” in the Book of Religion, is translated as “worlds” in the Selected Aphorisms. See Orwin, 121–​2. 21 SA #72–​3. 22 SA #72–​3. 23 SA #86. 24 SA #74. 25 SA #74. See also Parens, 67–​72. 26 SA #57, #79. 27 SA #75–​8. 28 SA #9–​18. See Aristotle, 1103a14 ff. 29 SA #15–​16. 30 SA #57–​8. 31 SA #74. 32 SA #75. 33 Quran, 2.275–80. 34 SA #75. 35 For example, Ibn Tulun mosque and Beit Suhaymi in Cairo; Suleymaniya Mosque and Topkapi Palace in Istanbul; Fatipur Sikri and Jami Masjid in the former Mughal realms. 36 PR, 89. 37 Plato, 614b ff. 38 SA #81, cf. 77–​80. 39 SA #81. 40 Butterworth translates this verb consistently throughout. The one understandable exception comes at the end of #81, when the same verb is translated as “see.” The expression “be of the opinion [concerning] his Lord” would indeed be awkward in English. 41 SA #78. 42 SA #80. 43 SA #77. 44 SA #80. 45 SA #79. 46 SA #80.

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150  Alexander Orwin 47 48 49 50

SA #79. Ibn Bajja, Conduite, 195. Ibn Tufayl, 100, 165. Averroes, 21–​2.

References Alfarabi. Alfarabi on the Perfect State. Translated by Richard Walzer. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985. Cited as APS. —​—​—​ Book of Religion. In Alfarabi: The Political Writings, vol. I., 93–​113. Translated by Charles E. Butterworth. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. Cited as BR. —​—​—​ Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle. Translated by Muhsin Mahdi. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. Cited as PPA. —​—​—​ Political Regime. In Alfarabi: The Political Writings, vol. I, 29–​94. Translated by Charles E. Butterworth. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015. Cited as PR. —​—​—​ Selected Aphorisms. In Alfarabi: The Political Writings, vol. I, 11–​67. Translated by Charles E. Butterworth. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. Cited as SA. Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999. Averroes. On Plato’s Republic. Translated by Ralph Lerner. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974. Butterworth, Charles. “Alfarabi’s Statecraft: War and the Well-​Ordered Regime.” In Cross, Crescent, Sword: The Justification and Limitation of War in Western and Islamic Tradition, 79–​100. Edited by James Turner Johnson and John Kelsay. New York: Greenwood Press, 1990. Colmo, Christopher. Breaking with Athens: Alfarabi as Founder. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2005. Ibn Bajja. La conduite de l’isolé et deux autres épîtres. Translated by Charles Genequand. Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 2010. —​—​—​ Risā’il Falsafiyya. Bayrūt: Dār al-​Thaqāfa, 1983. Ibn Tufayl. Hayy Ibn Yaqzān. Translated by Lenn Goodman. Los Angeles: Gee Tee Bee, 2003. Kraemer, Joel. “The Jihād of the Falāsifa.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 10 (1987): 388–​422. Orwin, Alexander. Redefining the Muslim Community: Ethnicity, Religion, and Politics in the Thought of Alfarabi. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017. Parens, Joshua. An Islamic Philosophy of Virtuous Religions: Introducing Alfarabi. Albany: SUNY Press, 2006. Plato. Republic. Translated by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 2016.

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15  Techniques for the Social Self Abū Ḥāmid al-​Ghazālī and the Remembrance of Death Sean Hanretta

Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad al-​Ghazālī (1058–​1111 C E ) is often considered the “most influential intellectual in the Muslim tradition.”1 While controversial in his own day, his works have influenced other Muslim writers for nearly a millennium, echoed through European philosophy and theology, and have become staples of modern collections of the “classics” of the world’s religions. Al-​Ghazālī approached the subject of death in a way common among Muslims both before and since: as the topic of a munjiya, a saving virtue. Part of his broader effort to provide Muslims with tools they could use to improve the likelihood of their salvation, al-​Ghazālī sought to explain to his readers how keeping death in mind could help them lead a virtuous, pious life. Importantly, since his goal was to describe death and the state of the dead for the benefit of the living, it was not death itself but specifically its remembrance that was, for al-​Ghazālī, a munjiya. He thus offered not just a discussion of death but of what we might call a psychology of mortality. His most sustained treatment of the topic, the fortieth book of his magnum opus, The Revivification of the Islamic Sciences, was thus entitled The Book of the Remembrance of Death and What Comes After It. Here, al-​Ghazālī gave his readers a detailed description of the experience of death intended to inspire an internal ethics, a “politics of the self ” that would remake the daily conscious mind of the living, removing the harmful emotions and thoughts that death inevitably brought and instead instilling a salutary mix of fear and trust. To do so, he emphasized the universality of the experience of death—​the difference in the ultimate destinations of the saved and the damned notwithstanding—​and the material continuity between the living and the dead. This allowed him to offer visceral examples of the relationship between virtue and physical suffering upon which the pious could meditate. All these techniques were a form of what he called the “disciplining of the soul,” riyāḍat al-​ nafs, a broader system of self-​fashioning for which he offered a general theory.2 The category of the “political” as al-​Ghazālī and many of his successors would have understood it, was generally confined to specific topics—​the theory of the Caliphate, the role of the state, the responsibilities of the scholars to the polity, and so on. Al-​Ghazālī’s work acknowledged the role of the state in maintaining order but located the core of ethical life in social relations and the believer’s efforts to follow God’s revelations. The purpose of a scholar was to work out and promote a set of “practical sciences” (ʿulūm al-​muʿāmala) grounded in those efforts. As we will see, al-​Ghazālī’s writings had implications for the politics of death and dying across a wide array of topics including the limits of the state’s capacity to forge a just and faithful society and the corresponding importance of individual believers to prepare themselves for salvation.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-16

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152  Sean Hanretta

Grappling with al-​Ghazālī’s Works and Legacy From one vantage point, al-​Ghazālī’s achievement was to draw on the work of great tenth-​ and eleventh-​century Islamic philosophers like Abū Naṣr al-​Fārābī and Ibn Sīnā as well as the range of ideas and practices often grouped under the label of “Sufism” without committing himself to the core principles of either camp. Eschewing both the abstraction of philosophy (which could lead one far from the concrete truths of revelation, particularly regarding bodily resurrection) and what he saw as the dangers of Sufism (which Sufis themselves insisted required careful guidance from a trusted master to avoid leading people into sin), his work was less a synthesis or middle way than a distinctive path. The Book of Remembrance provided an interpretive apparatus for a mountain of Qurˈānic verses and accounts of the sayings and deeds of the Prophet Muhammad (aḥādīth), making this material available to subsequent generations in ways that were not constrained by official affiliation to a particular doctrine or school. This did not mean, of course, that subsequent scholars did not attempt to claim him for their own; not the least consequential of such efforts was the tendency of European Orientalists in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to see him as a champion of the kind of personal, private piety that echoed the modernist Christian sensibilities they supported.3 In this they were hardly unique. The political implications of al-​Ghazālī’s ideas about death depend entirely on the specific social and historical situation to which they are applied.4 Those who use or seek to make use of his ideas today may interpret them in the context of eleventh-​century Seljuk society but the fundamental goals for which they mobilize those ideas cannot be anything but contemporary. I offer here, then, no original interpretation of al-​Ghazālī’, much less new historical facts, but rather highlight those aspects of his work on death that have contemporary social and psychological relevance.5 To this end, Kenneth Garden usefully places al-​Ghazālī at the center of a genealogy of Islamic “reform,” the effort to transform perceived defects in the piety of a community as a whole, a matter of pressing, perhaps dominant concern among modern and contemporary Muslims.6 Al-​Ghazālī’s approach to reform, like many of those which followed it, was multi-​pronged and included pressing rulers to deepen their own personal piety as well as, perhaps, leading an inner circle of his own disciples in intense, esoteric contemplation. But his core strategy was to transform the thinking and practices of rank-​and-​file scholars—​the ʿulamāˈ whose consolidation as a professional class had begun in earnest about a century before7—​so that they could in turn guide the mass of believers (ʿumūm al-​muˈminīn). Al-​Ghazālī produced a daunting number of works, each oriented towards a particular problem and audience, but the Revivification of the Islamic Sciences has generally been the most celebrated among Muslims.8 Garden describes al-​Ghazālī’s core project in the Revivification as the fleshing out of a science of the hereafter,ʿilm al-​ākhira, intended to be a highly practical guide allowing the believer to benefit from the insights of philosophy and Sufism while remaining thoroughly grounded in respectable theology. One piece of that science of the hereafter dealt with the experiences between death and the final judgment, and it was through an awareness of those experiences—​through the paradoxical technique of the remembrance of what was to come—​that the soul could be disciplined. For whatever the ultimate dispensation of the soul, in ecstatic union with God or in eternal damnation, the time between death and the last trumpet was one of suffering palliated only by one’s good deeds and piety and by the intercession of the pious. The purpose of religion, dīn, was not, then, to comfort the believer in the face of death, for comfort could lead only to complacency. It was rather to heighten one’s awareness of the awesome fact of death and God’s judgment.9

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Remembrance of Death as Disciplining the Self Describing the meditation on death as a remembrance gave it a very specific place in al-​ Ghazālī’s techniques for disciplining the soul. Individuals differed in the depth of their training in the Islamic sciences and in their spiritual sensitivity. While the gnostics and those who came to master the science of the hereafter could glimpse the true reasons for fearing death—​the terror of being held fully responsible for one’s own deeds—​“believers in general (ʿumūm al-​muˈminīn) have [only] a portion of this trepidation (khashiya).” Their understanding “rests exclusively on authority (taqlīd),” that is to say, on the experiences and knowledge of others, and al-​Ghazālī held that fear derived primarily from authority was fragile. In a typically concrete passage, he noted that a child’s fear of a snake is not instinctive but rather learned by observing a parent’s caution around snakes. It can be weakened if some other authority, say a snake charmer, provides a contrary example. Solid belief is rather obtained “through constant witnessing and diligent [practice] … so as to maximize obedience and minimize disobedience through lengthy repetition.”10 It was thus that al-​Ghazālī strove to provide concrete ways of transforming emotional states based on the authority of others into experiences based on insight and fuller understanding. To do so, he offered a set of medicines or “therapies”11 (sing. diwāˈ, pl. adwiya), ranging from therapies for inducing fear and focusing the mind on death to those enabling “the recollection of God and constant reflection on Him.”12 Indeed, the movement through spiritual states or stations that for Sufis was the effect of deeper esoteric training by a master was, for al-​Ghazālī, a consequence of the correct application of a sequence of such therapies. The most serious illness that could lead one from salvation was “love of the world … Its treatment lies only in faith in the Last Day.”13 The ultimate goal was not, however, to allow the contemplation of death to introduce paralysis or indolence into daily life, for the Prophet admonished people to appreciate and take advantage of youth, health, wealth, and life while they still could. Rather, the believer was to cultivate an equanimity towards the world, an abandonment of expectations and any pretense of control.14

The Death of the Prophet and the “Shadows of the Graves” It is clear that, in the modern era, to speak of death as “the great leveler” is highly misleading; both mortality rates and lifespans correlate closely with inequalities. Yet before the sixteenth century, it was almost as true in material terms as it was existentially and philosophically. Al-​Ghazālī made this idea the opening theme of the Remembrance of Death, calling by name the great Khusrows15 and Caesars whom death had laid low, and the idea that material advantage is irrelevant when death comes to call appeared throughout the text. “Where are the men of fine, clear faces?” he asked his reader. Those who were delighted with their youth? Where are the kings that built the cities, and fortified them with walls? Where are they that used to receive victory on the fields of battle? Time has swept them away, and they have gone on to the shadows of the graves.16 This is not to say that al-​Ghazālī did not make distinctions among the dead or recognize that the ways the dead were treated could amplify inequalities among the living. Following extensive precedent, he devoted a full chapter of Remembrance of Death to the deaths of the Prophet Muhammad and his immediate successors. Al-​Ghazālī used the example of Muhammad’s death to explore two seemingly contradictory ideas: that even someone as perfect and beloved by God as the Prophet experienced the full agony of death, but also that his unmatched piety and goodness made the way death took him distinct. This balance

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154  Sean Hanretta between similarity and difference was crucial to Muhammad’s ability to serve as a model for other Muslims when it came to thinking about and, ultimately, facing death. Even though Muhammad was God’s beloved and chosen-​one, God had not “granted him one hour’s respite when his time came … [nor did he] prolong his life by one instant when it had run its course.”17 Indeed, “his affliction was great when the agony of death came … Did you think that the office of Prophethood would ward off from him that which was destined? … Absurd!”18 If the Prophet had reason to fear death and could be brought low by it, lesser mortals who failed to heed death’s inevitability were beyond foolish. The similarities between the Prophet and other humans ran deeper still. Indeed, al-​Ghazālī tells multiple versions of the story of Muhammad’s death that include an iconic moment in Islamic history: when his immediate successor, the caliph Abū Bakr, announced the Prophet’s death to the assembled community, he told those who “worshiped Muhammad” that they had to face the implications of Muhammad’s death while those who worshiped God knew that God still lived. The attention al-​Ghazālī gave to this event reflected the deep commitment of most Muslim scholars to the idea that death was central to the “human condition.” This position had been sharpened dialogically through debate and confrontation with Christians. For Muslim critics of Christianity, Christians engaged in verbal gymnastics and sleights of hand to defend what was an inherently contradictory position: that Christ was God, that Christ died, but that God cannot die. Indeed, the anti-​Christian polemic, al-​Radd al-​jamīl, The Beautiful Refutation, long attributed to al-​Ghazālī himself but in fact by an anonymous follower, made it clear that death was one of the fundamental phenomena that separated the human and the divine.19 At the same time, as God’s Emissary, Muhammad was also unique among humans. Having been purified so that he could be a suitable conduit for God’s revelation, Muhammad was ensured an immediate place in Heaven—​indeed, the most exalted place. Furthermore, al-​ Ghazālī told his readers, Muhammad alone was allowed to choose when to admit the Angel of Death to his room—​a privilege which the Prophet exercised to ensure that the proper sequence of visitations and goodbyes was followed. The goal of emulating the Prophet in death was thus both reasonable and unattainable, creating an endless need for concrete advice. The best was no enemy of the good; indeed, one did not have to be the best to be saved. For this reason, then, throughout the Remembrance of Death, al-​Ghazālī detailed the misconceptions, self-​deceptions, and emotional indiscipline that kept people from paying attention to death, and unfailingly suggested ways to avoid these traps. When it came to the experience of the afterlife, for instance, the important question for most people was not whether they would experience hell, but rather whether they would ever leave it. But a trap awaited those who placed too much confidence in even that humbling distinction: if we think we know with certainty in which group we will be, we do “an injustice to our own selves by thinking wishfully” and actually increase the likelihood of eternal damnation.20 Instead, al-​Ghazālī provides an elegant encapsulation of the appropriate attitude: “of our arrival [in Hell] we are certain (mustayqunūn), but of our departure from it we only imagine (mutawahhimūn).”21 Most of the techniques that al-​Ghazālī offered for ensuring that the remembrance of death could indeed constitute a saving virtue were grounded in sociability rather than individual psychology. Friendship in particular played an important role in his advice for focusing the mind on death. If the Prophet’s death was such an extreme case that it grounded the fundamental necessity of accepting the inevitability of one’s own demise, it was remote enough that its practical utility for the average believer was limited. The adept could cultivate a constant awareness of death, but for most, death’s ubiquity tended to encourage complacency:

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Al-Ghazālī  155 The heedless man … constantly … imagine[s]‌that he will be following funeral cortèges, and never imagines that his own cortège will some day be followed, because witnessing the demise of others is something which is often repeated and has become familiar.22 Instead, al-​Ghazālī suggested that the “most productive method of bringing … about” a full awareness of death was for the believer “to make frequent remembrance of those of his peers and associates who have passed away before him.”23 Such deaths summoned a more immediate emotional response that could cut through the denial in which it was so easy to envelop oneself.

Material Continuity and the Presence of the Dead Personal connections to certain dead individuals could thus have great spiritual value and al-​Ghazālī built on this point to offer additional techniques for developing such connections. It is a common cliché today that “funerals are for the living” but for al-​Ghazālī the participation of the dead themselves was necessary if the living were truly to internalize the truth they represented. For most believers, abstract contemplation alone would not suffice; they needed to come as close as possible to experiencing the physical reality of death while still alive. To help them do this, al-​Ghazālī emphasized that the core Islamic belief in the physical resurrection entailed a material continuity between the living body and the corpse. To impart a visceral sense of this continuity, al-​Ghazālī offered a vivid example of the way actions taken while alive could transform the body in the grave. According to the early Muslim convert, Kaʿb al-​Aḥbār: When the [Muslim] is laid in his tomb he is surrounded by his righteous acts, such as his prayer, his fasting [et cetera] … The Angels of Chastisement approach him from the direction of his feet, but are told by Prayer, “Get back … you have no authority over him for upon those [feet] he stood in me at length for the sake of God.” Then they approach … his head, but Fasting says, “You have no authority over him, for in the world’s abode he thirsted at length for the sake of God.” Pilgrimage and Holy War do the same for his trunk, and as for his hands, Charity says, “Back! Retreat from my master, for how many an act of charity issued from those two hands to fall into the hand of God (Exalted is He!) … no authority, therefore, do you have over him.” Then he shall be told, “Rejoice! Good you have been in life and in death!” Next, the Angels of Mercy come, and spread a heavenly cloth and resting-​place out for him, and his grave is widened around him for as far as his eye can see.24 Material continuity between the living and the dead also made it possible for the living to hear the testimony of the deceased. Occasionally, the dead in the Remembrance of Death communicated using the speech of the living, such as when the Prophet Jesus compelled the skull of a king to speak, or when a dead man was summoned from a cemetery to answer questions from passersby.25 But the most profound lessons came when the dead “spoke” through their corporeality. For this, al-​Ghazālī used a technical term, the lisān al-​hāl. Rendered by Winter as “mute eloquence” and by Chittick as “ontological speech,” the lisān al-​hāl was a linguistic message embedded in the physical fact of the corpse’s presence in its grave. Both the corpse and the grave could use it, either when speaking with one another or with the living. The “thing-​ness” of this speech made it particularly powerful, and al-​Ghazālī

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156  Sean Hanretta noted that “the lisān al-​hāl is even more eloquent (afṣaḥ) in facilitating understanding with the dead than is regular speech in facilitating understanding with the living.”26 The grave could use it to scold the dead: The Emissary of God (peace and blessings be upon him) said: “The grave speaks to the dead when he is placed in it, and it tells (yaḥki) him, ‘O son of Adam, what deceived you concerning me? Did you not learn that I am the house of affliction (fitna), the house of gloom, the house of loneliness, the house of worms? What deceived you concerning me but that you used to stride past me [i.e. without lingering]?’ ” Even the corpse’s fellow dead would ask, “was there not for you any lesson in us?” And if a passerby told the grave that the deceased had been pious, it could respond, “then I shall become for him green and his body shall become luminant and his soul shall rise up to God!”27 Unlike those philosophers who counseled one to imagine one’s future death coming at every moment, constantly looking back on life from the perspective of its end, al-​Ghazālī wanted Muslims to cultivate moral and God-​fearing selves through social interactions in which the actual physical deaths of friends, relatives, and neighbors turned the dead into conversation partners from whom one could learn the most important truths. In turn, one offered these deceased benefactors one’s own prayers and witnessing, informing the grave and the chastising angels of their goodness, and praying to the Prophet to intercede on their behalf to allow the grave to transform, altering the material experiences of the corpse. At the same time, through this worship and awareness, the living acknowledged their future selves.

Death and the Prince This network of mutual acknowledgement and support was a form of subjectification in which the state played no direct role and, while God certainly remained all-​seeing, -​knowing, and -​judging, his care for Muslims took the form of the revelation of the Qurˈān through his Emissary, a form of communication that each individual had to take personal responsibility to heed and carry to their fellows. The importance al-​Ghazālī placed on the self’s horizontal relations with society shaped his ideas about the state’s role in the remembrance of death. After the death of his patron, the Seljuk vizir Niẓām al-​Mulk, al-​Ghazālī had lost confidence in the ability of the state to bring about a pious, just society. The Revivification was intended instead to provide a politics of the self that could enable those believers who adopted his approach to maximize their own chances for salvation in an insecure world. It was, as Garden puts it, the “pious individual and community rather than … the just ruler” that was the key to the flourishing of Islam.28 Al-​Ghazālī did discuss the role of an Islamic ruler near the end of the Revivification’s section on everyday life29 and he formalized the political implications of his approach in a manual for Seljuk kings, the Naṣīḥat al-​mulūk, Counsel for Kings.30 He did believe the state could play a role in supporting the wellbeing of its subjects, but whether it did so depended less on the state’s organization than on how the state’s ruler handled the dangers of power. In the Counsel for Kings, al-​Ghazālī echoed a prominent theme in Islamic political discourse that held that the exercise of authority was a burden for the pious, a distraction from God. He thus sought to impress upon the king that his salvation depended on how he ruled, so that the king’s own experience of death was inextricable from how he managed the life and death of his subjects. The first section of the Counsel for Kings sought to humble the king, first by turning his mind away from luxury. While God had given the king “abundant prosperity” for which he

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Al-Ghazālī  157 should be grateful, “To men of understanding, riches which cease at death have no value ... The wealth which has value is that which is enduring and eternal … [which] is faith.”31 Then al-​Ghazālī worked to disabuse the king of the seductive but false analogy between God’s rulership and the king’s rulership. For whereas a slave was, in truth, no one’s “creature” and was only a “slave in a metaphorical sense,” the ruler was actually “God’s slave and creature in reality.” Indeed, God’s lordship was in fact the inverse of the lordship of kings: God’s throne, for instance, “is not that which holds Him up; on the contrary, the throne and its bearers are all upheld by His favor and power.”32 With the king thus put in his place, al-​Ghazālī moved on to the dangers of leadership. For while “in matters between you and the True God pardon is quite likely … anything involving injustice to mankind will not in any circumstances be overlooked at the Resurrection; the danger therefrom is thus very great” and the unjust ruler would suffer “torment surpassed only by the torment for unbelief.”33 Indeed, The Apostle once stated, “Woe to princes, woe to functionaries, woe to treasurers. These are persons who at the Resurrection will wish that they had been hanged from the sky by their own curls and that they had never held office.”34 For the king, then, remembrance of his own death was the surest guarantee of just rulership and the king was instructed to “keep death” under his “pillow.”35 To be sure, the king had some degree of power over the life and death of his subjects, but it was crucial that he understood the nature and purpose of this authority. Rulers had an obligation, for example, to enforce the death penalty for murder when so requested by a victim’s kin.36 In doing so, however, the king acted not on behalf of the state as arbiter of life and death, but rather on behalf of the deceased’s family in accordance with a law more fundamental than the law of the state. By contrast, treason, as a crime against the state itself—​and thus against the king himself—​called instead for mercy.

The Role and Limits of Intercession A similar skepticism about the role of powerful humans in salvation manifested itself in al-​ Ghazālī’s treatment of one of the more contentious debates in modern Muslim history: that over the intercession of saints on behalf of their followers or those who supplicated in their name.37 There is little doubt that al-​Ghazālī accepted both the power and necessity of some degree of intercession: “any who obtain the intercession of Prophets, Imāms, ʿulamā’, or saints will be granted forgiveness” while those without an intercessor will be punished for their sins in Hell until, if they did die in the faith, they will eventually be brought to Heaven.38 But the material continuity between the living and the dead ensured that, intercessor or not, the corpse would suffer in the grave; it was only a matter of how much, with the degree proportionate to the sinfulness of the deceased and the ameliorative efforts of intercessors, living and dead. Al-​Ghazālī presented some of the most optimistic scenarios the good dead might face. In the case of the Prophet Abraham, for instance, the Angel of Death appeared as a “young man, handsome of face, perfumed, and finely-​attired.”39 Furthermore, the saved in general would be comforted during their torment in the grave by seeing the exact place in Heaven that had been reserved for them. But, as we have seen, even God’s Emissary was not entirely spared suffering and no believer could expect to escape the same fate, even with the intercession of saints. For Muslims in the modern era who surveyed the available opinions on this matter, al-​ Ghazālī stood as a relatively conservative voice compared to those who had sketched in detail the transformative potential of following a great Sufi saint. The towering fifteenth-​century

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158  Sean Hanretta Egyptian scholar, Jalāl al-​dīn al-​Suyūṭī, for example, whose work was a pillar of the North and West African Islamic traditions from the sixteenth century onward,40 also treated the suffering of the grave in great detail in his influential work on death, the Sharḥ al-​ṣudūr bi sharḥ ḥāl al-​mawtā wa ‘l-​qubūr, the Opening of Hearts through the Examination of the State of the Dead and the Graves. For al-​Suyūṭī, the believer, particularly when assisted by a saintly intercessor, could completely invert the meaning of the tightness of the tomb. Like al-​Ghazālī, he emphasized that no one could escape the “pressing” of the grave, but then suggested that for the pious or those who have received intercession, this pressing was more like a mother’s hug than the crushing weight of the earth.41 This radical inversion of the suffering of the grave, turning pain into comfort, was absent in al-​Ghazālī, for whom the correspondence between the physical state in the grave and the spiritual state of the soul was absolute.

Conclusions Ultimately, of course, the eternal disposition of the soul in either Hell or Heaven was a final verdict on a person’s life. And indeed al-​Ghazālī provided his readers with a detailed description of the soul’s experiences starting from the moment when the trumpet of the Last Judgment would sound. The final third of the Remembrance of Death was central to helping believers understand the core doctrine of the bodily resurrection and it provided al-​ Ghazālī with another opportunity to rehearse his lesson about the inadequacy of abstract knowledge and the necessity to contemplate, meditate, and prepare for what comes after the grave. But perhaps because of its very invisibility, compared to the concrete evidence provided every day of the reality of death itself and of the corpse in the grave, the trajectory of the soul was less suited to the practical therapies that made the salvation of the mass of believers possible. Al-​Ghazālī was under no illusion that the details of his ideas were suited to the needs of all Muslims. Even the practical therapies of the Revivification were too abstract for many, while the guidance given in other writings seems to have been intended for select groups of initiates who could achieve deeper union with the divine or find a surer path. Yet the explicitness and universal applicability of his suggested techniques reflected his belief that individual Muslims could cultivate the remembrance of death as part of a reliable toolkit for bringing about salvation, as long as they received suitable guidance from scholars who could lay out the basics of both theology and the ways of living a pious life. It was a vision that reflected both distrust of the soteriological claims of powerful imams and kings and anxiety over the quality of Islam that obtained during a time of political turmoil. That same vision has remained ready at hand for select teachers and preachers willing to reactivate the complex of ideas and beliefs, relatively controversial today for many Muslims, from which al-​Ghazālī’s practical advice emerged.

Notes 1 Moosa, 1. 2 Al-​ Ghazālī, Disciplining the Soul, 31–​45. 3 The paradigmatic example (though not a paradigmatic Protestant) is William James. See the general discussion in Garden, 1–​4, and, on European fantasies about the Sufi scholars among whom he was often grouped, Khalil and Sheikh. 4 See Dallal. 5 My general approach to al-​Ghazālī’s thought and history is indebted to Griffel, Philosophical Theology; Griffel (ed.), Islam and Rationality; Garden; Moosa; the introductions by Winter in al-​ Ghazālī, Remembrance of Death and Disciplining the Soul; and, to a lesser extent, Laoust.

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Al-Ghazālī  159 6 Garden. 7 Hallaq, esp. Ch. 3. 8 Al-​Ghazālī, Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn. Translations from the Iḥyāˈ in which the Arabic text is cited are my own—​albeit guided at many places by those of T. J. Winter and, to a much lesser extent, William McKane. Translations in which the English edition is cited are by those respective translators. 9 See, for instance, al-​Ghazālī’s frequent warnings about comfort and satiety in Breaking the Two Desires. 10 Al-​Ghazālī, Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn, IV:168. 11 “Therapy” is McKane’s felicitous translation. 12 E.g. Remembrance of Death, 27–​8, 38, etc. 13 Remembrance of Death, 27. 14 Remembrance of Death, 31–​2. 15 Kisrā, taken from the Sasanian Persian king Khosrow I, was the generic Arabic term for Persian kings. 16 Remembrance of Death, 24–​5. 17 Remembrance of Death, 57. 18 Remembrance of Death, 58. 19 Beaumont and Kaisy-​Friemuth, 60–​4. 20 Remembrance of Death, 58. 21 Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn, 469, which Winter renders “we are certain of coming to it, but only conjecture when we think of thence emerging.” Remembrance of Death, 58. 22 Remembrance of Death, 27. 23 Remembrance of Death, 13. 24 Remembrance of Death, 134. 25 Remembrance of Death, 40, 44. 26 Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn, 498. 27 Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn, 498. 28 Garden, 67. 29 Extensively treated in Cook, Ch. 16. 30 I follow Garden (213–​14n88) and Crone in considering only the first part of the Counsel for Kings as by al-​Ghazālī. 31 Book of Counsel, 3. 32 Book of Counsel, 7–​9. 33 Book of Counsel, 13–​14. 34 Book of Counsel, 16. 35 Book of Counsel, 22. 36 Book of Counsel, 19. 37 Which is not to say that such debates have in any sense been unique to the modern period. But however much nineteenth-​and twentieth-​century discussions have drawn on, say, thirteenth-​ century commentaries on the issue, their social contexts are distinct enough to make any direct genealogy highly problematic. 38 Book of Counsel, 11–​12. 39 Remembrance of Death, 44. 40 Inter alia, Sartain; Hernandez; Hall and Stewart. 41 Al-​Suyūṭī, 108–​11. In this he built on the widespread idea that, insofar as humans were created from earth (clay or dust), the earth is our “mother.”

References Beaumont, Mark and Maha El Kaisy-​ Friemuth. “al-​ Radd al-​ jamīl in the Context of Muslim Refutations of Christianity.” In Beaumont and Kaisy-​Friemuth (eds.), al-​Radd al-​jamīl: A Fitting Refutation of the Divinity of Jesus. Leiden: Brill, 2016. 43–​78. Cook, Michael. Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.

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160  Sean Hanretta Crone, Patricia. “Did al-​Ghazālī Write a Mirror for Princes? On the Authorship of Naṣīḥat al-​mulūk.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 10 (1987), 167–​91. Dallal, Ahmad. “Ghazālī and the Perils of Interpretation.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 122:4 (2002), 773–​87. Garden, Kenneth. The First Islamic Reviver: Abū Ḥāmid al-​Ghazālī and His Revival of the Religious Sciences. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. al-​Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad. Ghazālī’s Book of Counsel for Kings (Naṣīḥat al-​mulūk). Trans. F. R. C. Bagley. London: Oxford University Press, 1964. —​—​—​ Iḥyāˈ ʿulūm al-​dīn. Beirut: Dār al-​Maʿrifa, 1982. —​—​—​ On Disciplining the Soul, Kitāb Riyāḍat al-​nafs, and On Breaking the Two Desires, Kitāb Kasr al-​ shahwatayn. Trans., intro., and notes T. J. Winter. 2nd edn. Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 2016. —​—​—​ The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife: Kitāb dhikr al-​mawt wa-​mā baʿdahu. Trans., intro., and notes T. J. Winter. Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1995. Griffel, Frank. Al-​Ghazali’s Philosophical Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Griffel, Frank. Ed. Islam and Rationality: The Impact of al-​Ghāzālī. Papers Collected on His 900th Anniversary. Vol. 2. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Hall, Bruce S. and Charles C. Stewart. “The Historic ‘Core Curriculum’ and the Book Market in Islamic West Africa.” In Graziano Krätli and Ghislaine Lydon (eds.), The Trans-​Saharan Book Trade: Manuscript Culture, Arabic Literacy and Intellectual History in Muslim Africa. Leiden: Brill, 2011. 109–​74. Hallaq, Wael B. Authority, Continuity and Change in Islamic Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Hernandez, Rebecca Skreslet. The Legal Thought of Jalāl al-​dīn al-​Suyūṭī: Authority and Legacy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Khalil, Atif and Shiraz Sheikh. “Editorial Introduction: Sufism in Western Scholarship, a Brief Overview.” Studies in Religion/​Sciences Religieuses 43:3 (2014), 1–​16. Laoust, Henri. La politique de Gazali. Paris: Geuthner, 1970. McKane, William. Al-​Ghazali’s Book of Fear and Hope. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1962. Moosa, Ebrahim. Ghazālī and the Poetics of Imagination. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005. Said, Yazeed. Ghazālī ’s Politics in Context. New York: Routledge, 2013. Sartain, E. M. Jalāl al-​dīn al-​Suyūṭī: Biography and Background. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975. al-​Suyūṭī, Jalāl al-​dīn ʿAbd al-​Raḥmān. Sharḥ al-​ṣudūr bi sharḥ ḥāl al-​mawtā wa ‘l-​qubūr. Cairo: Maṭbaʿa al-​Madanī, 1975.

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16  Death and Dying, Mortality and Immortality in Moses Maimonides Joshua Parens

Moses Maimonides (1137/​8–​1204 CE ) is the greatest medieval Jewish political philosopher, and a towering figure in the history of Judaism. In a time of Jewish political dependence, Maimonides was the leader of the Jewish community in Fustat, the former center of political life in what is today Cairo. Because of his meteoric rise to theologico-​political authority based on his writings, he was sought as a legal authority by Jews not only in the Muslim lands but also in Christendom. He wrote by far the most important work of medieval political philosophy in Judaism in his Guide of the Perplexed. He established his authority as an interpreter of the Talmud by writing his Commentary on the Mishnah (CM) based on both versions of the Talmud, Babylonian and Palestinian, which includes an unprecedented list of thirteen roots or principles that all Jews should believe. By making these explicit, he transformed what had been a matter for private opinion into a source of both religious and political unity. His Mishneh Torah (MT), or code of law, reduces the Talmud from a titanic sea to a lake that an observant Jew might reasonably sail across. These two works, the CM and the MT, established him as a legislator or prophetic voice calling the Jewish people back to the Law. As a prominent doctor and medical theorist, Maimonides was also attuned to matters of quality of life as they relate to death and dying, as careful study of his many medical writings reveals.1 Here, however, we will focus on his teaching concerning mortality and immortality. Maimonides’s views of mortality and immortality are very different from those that prevail today. In our world, we rush to affirm the value of bodily well-​being and tend to consider claims about immortality to be quaint or, worse, life-​denying. Our brief look at Maimonides’s arguments will reveal a radically different view. Although Maimonides is critical of bodily pleasure, he is far from a denier of the value of this-​worldly life. While he treated bodies and souls with an eye to their optimal well-​being, his view of bodily well-​ being is different from ours which tends to emphasize bodily contentment and enjoyment. Even in Maimonides’s own time, most people were incapable of imagining goods other than bodily ones. Everything he taught affirmed the value of bodily life, though primarily as a means to the perfection of one’s soul or intellect. What Maimonides believed personally regarding immortality is difficult to surmise, though consideration of his letters might reveal something of interest from a biographical point of view.2 For our purposes, however, what is of greatest interest concerning his political philosophy of death and dying are his public teachings about and the novelty of his approach to the World to Come or the afterlife, on the one hand, and what we will refer to variously as “Resurrection of the Dead,” “bodily resurrection,” or simply “resurrection,” on the other.3 Among the CM’s list of thirteen roots, the belief in the World to Come is the eleventh root, the belief in the End of Days or Messianic Age the twelfth root, and the belief in the Resurrection of the Dead4 the thirteenth and final root. The simple fact that DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-17

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162  Joshua Parens Maimonides articulated a distinction between the World to Come and Resurrection was itself a revolutionary idea in Judaism. Before Maimonides, it was common in the Jewish tradition to treat the World to Come as synonymous with bodily resurrection. This view was also reinforced by some corporeal beliefs about the divine, popular among all faiths in the Muslim lands in which Maimonides spent his life. The primary motive for Maimonides’s insistence on separating bodily resurrection from the World to Come is his overarching concern to teach all Jews to view God as incorporeal.5 How these two things, the distinction between the World to Come and resurrection, on the one hand, and God’s incorporeality, on the other, are related is not immediately obvious. Let us consider briefly the primary scriptural source in Judaism for immortality. The Torah or Pentateuch does not make explicit mention of either the World to Come or bodily resurrection. However, in the final chapter of the Book of Daniel, God’s prophecy to Daniel makes explicit reference to one, or the other, or both. He says, At that time, your people will be rescued, all who are found inscribed in the book. Many of those who sleep in the dust will awake, some to eternal life, others to reproaches, to everlasting abhorrence. And the knowledgeable will be radiant like the bright expanse of sky, and those who lead the many to righteousness will be like the stars forever and ever.   But you, Daniel, keep the words secret, and seal the book until the time of the end [ad ait qaiṣ]. Many will range far and wide and knowledge will increase …   Many will be purified and purged and refined; the wicked will act wickedly and none of the wicked will understand … But you, go on to the end; you shall rest, and arise to your destiny at the end of the days [le-​qaiṣ ha-​yamīm].6 This passage has come to be taken in rabbinic Judaism to affirm bodily resurrection. That such resurrection is connected to the End of Days is also apparent. Far from obvious here is the relation bodily resurrection and the End of Days might have to the afterlife in Judaism. Moreover, it leaves one with the suspicion that immortality might only take the form of this bodily resurrection. It is well beyond the purview of this brief chapter on Maimonides to explore the intervening Jewish sources on immortality and resurrection. It will have to suffice to say here that resurrection in the End of Days came to be conflated with the World to Come. Why did Maimonides insist that the World to Come and bodily resurrection are different, especially given the ambiguity of Daniel 12 and the consensus that Resurrection of the Dead is the afterlife in the Talmudic tradition? To begin with, Maimonides had at least one Talmudic rabbi who avers that the World to Come has no place for the basic activities that sustain the body. As Maimonides explains in the Treatise on Resurrection (also referred to in the CM and the MT), since the Talmud teaches that in the World to Come “there is neither eating nor drinking nor copulation,”7 surely the World to Come must be a world without bodies. Otherwise, the body would exist in vain. While a matter of interpretation, this passage from Tractate Berakhot seems to establish easily that the World to Come is non-​corporeal. Although Maimonides does not entertain explicitly this possibility, he also implies that, among other absurdities, he must contend with the “vulgar” or popular supposition that we might exist after resurrection with bodies yet without the need to eat, drink, or copulate! After all, as Maimonides underlines, according to the vulgar there is no existence other than for a body or for that which exists in a body, and what is not a body nor in a body does not exist. Whenever they want to strengthen something’s existence they add corporeality to it; I mean they thicken the essence of its body.8

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Moses Maimonides  163 Already we start to get a better sense of what is at stake in distinguishing the World to Come from bodily resurrection: the very notion that existence can be incorporeal is not easy for his community to acknowledge. Without clarification of the incorporeal character of the World to Come, the vulgar are likely to remain ignorant regarding God’s incorporeality. The former implies the latter and vice versa. The Treatise on Resurrection is filled with a sense of frustration. Having previously penned the CM, the Mishneh Torah—​or as he refers to it in TR, the Compilation—​and the Guide, Maimonides expected that his view of these questions would by now have become clear. Yet doubts and confusion evidently remain. The popularity of the notion of the Resurrection of the Dead threatens to undermine Maimonides’s ambition to educate all Jews regarding God’s incorporeality. By underlining strongly the difference between the incorporeality of the World to Come and Bodily Resurrection, Maimonides reinforces the plausibility of God’s incorporeality.

The Commentary on the Mishnah and the Mishneh Torah In the CM, Maimonides focuses his attention on the World to Come and its incorporeality—​ downplaying resurrection. He prefaces his articulation of the thirteen roots of the Law, with a discussion of the various views of our reward or good or “portion” (ḥeleq) in the World to Come, deriving from our obedience to the commandments. He articulates four views of that portion: the Garden of Eden,9 the Days of the Messiah or End of Days, the Resurrection of the Dead, and some sort of earthly reward. Only after mentioning those four does he even mention the World to Come itself, underlining that his predecessors have neglected it. In other words, the traditional phrase (portion in the World to Come, heleq l’olam ha-​ba), which appears in the Mishnah, Sanhedrin 10, Pereq Ḥeleq on which Maimonides comments in the CM, has mistakenly come to be interpreted to refer to one of these four other states. His primary emphasis in this preface is on the undesirability of man’s fixation on reward. It would be far better if human beings could focus on the greatest end for us, which according to his lights is accessible at least to some human beings in this life—​namely, wisdom or knowledge of God. Yet, like children who need to be bribed to study, most human beings need a clearly articulated consequence of or reward for all their actions, which is their “portion” or desert. He considers three different groups of interpreters of the Talmudic views on our portion. The first and largest group are the ignorant who believe that the more impossible (that is, miraculous) a claim, the more believable. The second group read the Talmud literally and look down on the Talmudic sages, based on some knowledge of either medicine or astrology. The third group is the smallest: it consists of those who understand the intention of the sages and who understand, above all, the difference between that which is impossible and that which accords with the nature of existence.10 Maimonides admonishes his audience to try to become a part of the third group. He goes on to articulate the opposition between the immortality of the soul achievable in the World to Come with the goods sought by most men, which are bodily or external such as wealth and honor. The good achievable in the World to Come because it is incorporeal can only refer to wisdom. Thus, he tries to show a sort of convergence of the claim that we should not be seeking a consequence of action but should seek the one trustworthy good, wisdom, with the suggestion that the World to Come is our ultimate end. The MT contains a similar argument about the undesirability of human beings’ tendency to focus on the consequences or wages of action. In the closing chapters of the last section of the first volume of the MT, Maimonides discusses the portion of the just or righteous (ṣadiqim), namely, the World to Come.11 The wicked are snuffed out or excised. As if to anticipate the very confusion that he treats in the TR, he states explicitly that in the World to

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164  Joshua Parens Come not only is there no eating or drinking (regarding copulating, he makes no mention) but also there are no bodies, only souls. Indeed, he affirms this more than once. Although he acknowledges that, in life, soul is intimately connected with the body, he states that in this case he is referring to the form of the soul (ṣurat ha-​nefesh) which is identical with the intellect (ha-​de’ah).12 He concludes chapter eight by repudiating any suggestion that the proper reward for obedience to the commandments is superior physical reward in the afterlife in recompense for all of the renunciation of such rewards in this life. Instead he appeals to the wise regarding the inanity of all such goods and underlines the superiority of otherworldly pleasures to those of the body. In chapter nine, he pivots to attempt to deal with the fact that the Torah or Books of Moses seem to offer only earthly rewards. While suggesting that we need to interpret passages that appear to offer earthly rewards figuratively to be referring to the World to Come, he also suggests that when the Torah speaks of material reward for obedience to the Law, what it intends is that obedience to the commandments will result in sufficient material prosperity to enhance our ability to spend our days “studying wisdom” (li-​lmod be-​chokhmah) as well as performing the commandments. In effect, he turns what are popularly viewed as ends into the mere means that they truly are. It is not by chance then that he interprets the Messianic Age or End of Days in the same vein, as a time of material prosperity and a means to the fitting end of achieving wisdom—​as if the achievement of wisdom were itself the World to Come.13 But chapter ten makes it amply evident, though one might begin by serving God out of fear of divine punishment, one ought ultimately to serve out of love. Furthermore, one should not serve God out of a fear of evils or out of a desire for goods, rather one ought to serve out of love of God.14 Initially, the focus is on the commandments and the spirit of love in which one should practice them. Ultimately, though, the emphasis shifts once again to knowledge or wisdom. Indeed, given that one can love God only insofar as one knows Him, the ultimate good of wisdom proves to be the fitting end and motive.15 The primary aim of Maimonides’s treatments of the World to Come in CM and MT is to shift the focus of his audience from lower goods to higher goods. Like Plato and Aristotle before him, he is insistent that things popularly conceived of as the ends or rewards of life are merely means to the proper end, wisdom. The World to Come, rather than a realm of heightened earthly delights, comes to be identified with wisdom.

The Treatise on Resurrection and Maimonides’s Teaching Overall Because in his prior works Maimonides so emphasized the World to Come, some had come to suspect that he viewed the Resurrection of the Dead as a purely figurative teaching.16 Why he had previously been so reticent about resurrection will become more apparent by the end of this chapter. Maimonides divides the TR into three parts: (1) an explanation of the basis for the distinction between the World to Come and the Resurrection of the Dead as well as a consideration of the confusion surrounding the distinction, especially confusion based on or at least related to what he has previously written; (2) a discussion of Resurrection of the Dead: its character as a generally accepted opinion in the Jewish community, its miraculous character, its occurrence during the End of Days or Messianic Age rather than as, or with, the World to Come, and its miraculous as opposed to natural character;17 and (3) a section providing “new benefit” that enumerates textual and substantive reasons that resurrection has come under attack, all of which derive from resurrection’s miraculous character. This final section of the TR includes some of Maimonides’s most interesting discussions of the relation between the miraculous and the natural, including subdivisions of kinds of miracles: some of which are impossible by nature—​others which are less so.18 One thing is clear by the end: the conflation of the World to Come with Resurrection of the Dead is

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Moses Maimonides  165 tantamount to suggesting that the latter, which is a miracle, could acquire the eternal perdurance of the natural. It is at least as essential to Maimonides’s thought that the distinction between the natural and the miraculous be maintained as that God’s incorporeality and our incorporeality in the World to Come be maintained. The heart of Maimonides’s distinction between the World to Come and Resurrection of the Dead seems to be his opposition to the idea of eternal human corporeal existence. For this reason, it is essential that an eternal World to Come be distinguished from resurrection in the Messianic Age. The End of Days is ushered in by the “king Messiah.” Maimonides underlines that neither the king nor the End of Days is a miracle brought about by God; rather, these are events that are part of the natural order, which like most other natural things come into being and pass away. Restoration of Jewish independence by means of the king Messiah will not depend on God. Rather, it will result from human exertion. The miraculous character of resurrection is that much more salient because it occurs against the background of an End of Days that is not miraculous. Not only is his appearance not miraculous, but the “king Messiah” need not be a miracle worker. Although Maimonides affirms the Messianic Age will come as the twelfth root, he rejects the idea that Resurrection of the Dead, which is to occur in those times, should be expected to be performed by the Messiah. He attempts to sever any necessary connection between the Messiah and resurrection. This denial seems to have contributed to the view that Maimonides denied resurrection. Yet Maimonides’s intention was that God alone should be believed to be the cause of resurrection—​as God alone is the cause of all miracles.19 It is also not difficult to see another reason why Maimonides would want to distance resurrection from the Messiah: it appears to lend succor to the Christian view of the Messiah. In that view, the resurrection might well be intended to be an eternal reunification of body and soul. After all, if God is made flesh, then why shouldn’t bodily immortality be “possible”? On the one hand, Maimonides insists that Resurrection of the Dead is not parabolic or figurative; on the other hand, he insists that, in general, the Messianic Age as described in Isaiah should be interpreted parabolically, that is, the lion will not literally lie down with the lamb. Although Maimonides admits that the merely figurative character of scriptural accounts of the Messianic Age has not been revealed to him, he advocates for it because the elect or elite have a “yearning” opposite to that of the multitude: we, the elect, yearn to discover the intelligibility in things. The multitude craves that the Law be opposed to the intellect, and that the Law be characterized by all things miraculous. Though Maimonides upholds the belief in resurrection as miraculous because of the authority of the tradition about resurrection, he pushes back on the miraculous as a last resort.20 As part of his effort to unify Jews religiously and politically, Maimonides’s resistance to the Christian teaching of the Incarnation of God through Jesus has a relatively obvious motive: it was part of his defense of Judaism to resist beliefs that seemed to support claims unique to Christianity. Leaving aside the bounty of evidence that Maimonides thought an eternal immortal human body would be impossible, there are yet other reasons for his opposing any notion of bodily immortality along the lines of objections that were frequently voiced by philosophers in the dominant Muslim community. As is well known, there are passages in the Qur’an and the hadith that support a vision of an eternal carnal reward. Philosophers such as Alfarabi and Avicenna pushed back against these teachings; Maimonides follows their lead and expands on it. Similarly, Maimonides is renowned for what Leo Strauss has called the “watering of asceticism”21 in his Guide. That is, Maimonides’s great emphasis on divine incorporeality, and his insistence that even the vulgar believe in it, encourages asceticism. Whether Maimonides himself adheres ultimately to an ascetic view of the body—​or the evidence of

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166  Joshua Parens asceticism in the Guide testifies to an enduring hostility toward the body on his own part—​is less important than that he intends clearly to extoll or “water” asceticism for all or many of his audiences. His repudiation of bodily immortality contributes to the watering of asceticism as does the insistence that the World to Come is incorporeal. In our contemporary world, everyone rushes, or at least all philosophers and thinkers rush, to prove that they have a positive attitude toward the body. To do otherwise is either condemned by religious believers as Manichean or condemned by post-​Nietzschean thought as otherworldly. An important reason for studying Maimonides’s teaching on resurrection and the World to Come is to consider how a teaching that often appears to advocate for asceticism is not in fact otherworldly. It is difficult for us to recover the dynamics of thought about life, death, and immortality in a believing age like Maimonides’s, because in our age, immortality, though believed in by many, is generally publicly repudiated by philosophers and intellectuals. These dynamics in our post-​Nietzschean age are quite different from those in Maimonides’s time or place: a greater threat to valuing this world came from the side of the argument that actions in this life would be rewarded by more intense bodily pleasures in the future. As I mentioned earlier, among Maimonides’s Muslim predecessors, the thinker he cites more favorably than perhaps any other, Alfarabi (870–​950 CE ), argued subtly and indirectly against bodily immortality. For example, he argues against the suggestion that true moderation is a form of continence or self-​restraint with respect to bodily pleasure, predicated on the promise of greater bodily reward later.22 It is difficult not to interpret this as an indirect criticism of the subtle but carnal, especially sexual, rewards for sacrifice of earthly pleasure offered in the Qur’an.23 Avicenna (980–​1037 CE ) in Healing: Metaphysics 10.2 seems to point in the same direction as Alfarabi, when he argues: [The legislator] must instill in them the belief in resurrection in a manner they can conceive and in which their souls find rest. He must tell them about eternal bliss and misery in parables they can comprehend and conceive. Of the true nature of the afterlife he should only indicate something in general: that it is something that ‘no eye has seen and no ear heard,’24 and that there are pleasures that are great possessions, and miseries that are perpetual tortures.25 Alfarabi and Avicenna, and Maimonides after them, repudiate what is widely recognized in modern utilitarianism as the very essence of ethics or morality, namely, delayed gratification. This is so ingrained in some modern ethical views that it can prevent us from understanding premodern approaches to ethics and politics. It complicates matters that sometimes premodern thinkers find it necessary to entice the young and the weak-​willed to pursue virtue by means of the promise of pleasure as a reward, but this is not the core of their teaching. We saw this earlier in Maimonides’s admission that one should use the promise of a portion in the World to Come as an enticement much like tasty treats used to entice a child to study. Avicenna sails very close to the shore of just such an argument in his last clause’s reference to “pleasures that are great possessions.” Aristotle and Plato both had recourse to similar enticements,26 though those enticements did not indicate the core of their teaching. Rather that core is: one ought to engage in fitting actions for their own sake, not for the sake of consequences or wages, an argument Maimonides imbibed with his philosophical education, and a view rather opposed to delayed gratification. In brief, Maimonides waters asceticism by denying bodily immortality. The means for making that argument are (1) the distinction between Resurrection of the Dead and the World to Come, (2) the distinction between the End of Days and the World to Come, and (3) the denial that the Messiah would bring about the Resurrection of the Dead—​and that

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Moses Maimonides  167 such resurrection would be synonymous with immortality. In effect, all that Maimonides argues about Resurrection of the Dead, the World to Come, and the End of Days is geared toward repudiating any notion of bodily immortality. Only in the World to Come when our connection to the body has been severed will we achieve immortality. The End of Days is not a miraculous age even if the miracle of Resurrection of the Dead takes place in it. The great harms caused directly by belief in bodily immortality are the denigration of present existence and the intensification of attachment to bodily desires and cravings. In recent times, we have witnessed the sort of harm such an attitude produces by spurring young people filled with bodily cravings to sacrifice their body now for a greater bodily reward in the future. This has, of course, thrown powerful fuel on the flames of martyrdom. Maimonides had different concerns about the same issue. Bodily immortality has extraordinary allure for human beings, after all it is bodily immortality that we cannot help but imagine in imagining the afterlife. It is no wonder that Resurrection of the Dead achieved greater popularity in Judaism before Maimonides than any conception of an incorporeal afterlife had. Maimonides pushed back and pushed back hard on this allure. His insistence on Jewish belief in the incorporeality of God and the incorporeality of the afterlife appear both intended to “water asceticism,” that is, to tamp down on our attachment to base goods, which are mere means, in favor of the highest and truest end, which is wisdom. The political value of Maimonides’s resistance to bodily immortality was not as immediate as it was for his fellow political philosophers in the Muslim world. After all, when Maimonides wrote, Jews lacked political independence—​indeed, they were suffering under nearly a thousand years of exile. Yet evidence abounds that Maimonides intended his teaching for all time, including an indeterminate future in which Jews might achieve political self-​determination. Maimonides’s vision of the End of Days, intimately connected as it is to his teaching on the Resurrection of the Dead and the World to Come, sought to prepare Jews not for continued servitude but for independence. Hidden within his teaching on the End of Days are just such elements of a pull-​yourself-​up-​by-​your-​own-​bootstraps mentality. By treating the End of Days and apparently even the appearance of the Messiah as non-​miraculous,27 he underlines that Jews must not sit around waiting for God to free them from servitude. This teaching is evident both in his most extensive treatment of the End of Days in “Laws Concerning Kings and Their Wars” and in his renowned “Letter on Astrology.” Rather than begin with a prediction of when the Messianic Age might come, the Letter begins with a discussion of exile. Contrary to typical rabbinic interpretations of Exile from the Land of Israel, following the destruction of the Second Temple, as divine punishment for failure to follow the commandments, Maimonides construes it as the inevitable or, I should say, natural consequence of studying works of astrology. Studying such works went along with failing to study the “art of war or … the conquest of lands.”28 Like “Laws Concerning Kings and Their Wars” Maimonides speaks to Jews as if they are still capable of self-​rule. If Jews were ever to acquire such self-​rule again, they must cease thinking that either an omnipotent God or the stars above determine their fate. Their fate is in their own hands, and they should not wait around for God to free them. Maimonides uses the specter of astral determinism throughout his thought as an easier target to attack than the more immediately concerning vision of a God whose power knows no limit. Yet all who have studied Maimonides’s Guide know full well that Maimonides resists at every turn the teaching of AshꜤarite theology, which taught unmitigated divine omnipotence.29 These observations regarding the non-​miraculous character of the End of Days and the non-​miraculous character of the Exile help to explain why Maimonides concludes the Treatise on Resurrection with a discussion of the distinction between the miraculous and the natural. As he brings the second part of TR to a close, he brings out the opposition

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168  Joshua Parens between the miraculous and what the Talmudic sages refer to as the “customary way of the world,”30 which he interprets initially as referring to the fact that “natural things continue forever according to their customary way.” This opposition enables him to explain why he was so stinting in his treatment of resurrection in his compilations (CM and MT). Here is where he explains that it is the miraculous character of resurrection that precludes extended treatment: But as for the case of miracles, the conception of what is mentioned concerning them is neither hidden nor difficult [things which require extended discussion], nor is it possible to prove the truth of what has occurred or what is testified to. Either they are observed with the senses or are accepted from someone else who has observed them.31 Once again, we are reminded of the special challenge surrounding Resurrection of the Dead as a thing “outside of the nature of existence.”32 Whether anyone has ever seen an actual case of resurrection is dubious. One thing is certain: the relevant resurrection, namely, the one during the Messianic Age, is a promised future event. Such a miracle cannot depend on the senses or even a report of witnesses from the past. After all, it is a promise. Given that the coming of the Messiah is itself not necessarily attended by any miracle besides resurrection, made possible only by God, resurrection appears to be the limit case of the miraculous. Although the creation of the world would be a more powerful miracle, no miracle would defy previous sense experience as greatly as would resurrection. Precisely because resurrection defies our experience of life and death, Maimonides establishes it as the evidence one would need to confirm creation: miracles prove creation and yet creation points to harder to believe miracles such as resurrection. One can be confident that when Maimonides goes on to say that “a true miracle is a definite proof of the Creation of the world, as we explained in the Guide”33 he is fully aware that his “argument” here is circular. It is almost as if he were arguing that until we see the Resurrection of the Dead with our own eyes, we won’t have “proof ” that the world was created. Before concluding, it is worth considering whether Maimonides’s teaching regarding the World to Come has the effect of subverting earthly life, as we fear today. He envisions an incorporeal existence wholly apart from our present corporeal existence. For most human beings caught up in attachment to bodily existence and physical pleasures, this vision raises the gaze of the believer. It recommends that Jews not settle for the means of existence which we all too often mistake for the end. If the afterlife is incorporeal and the incorporeal part of us (with the intellect characterizing the pleasures of that existence), then such a teaching regarding the World to Come can hardly be accused of devaluing this life—​on the contrary it merely affirms what is highest in this life, namely, wisdom.

Notes 1 The Medical Works of Moses Maimonides series includes his Medical Aphorisms in 25 treatises. 2 See Kafih, in Maimonides, Iggerot; and Shailat, in Maimonides, Letters and Essays. 3 Maimonides treats these themes most prominently in his Commentary on the Mishnah (hereafter CM), Sanhedrin: Pereq Ḥeleq; Mishneh Torah (hereafter MT), “Laws concerning Repentance” and “Laws concerning Kings and Their Wars”; and most notably and thematically the Treatise on Resurrection. He touches only lightly on the soul and its fate in his Guide of the Perplexed. 4 Heb., Teḥiyyat ha-​metim. 5 See, for example, Guide of the Perplexed, 1.35; CM, Sanhedrin, Pereq Heleq, third root. 6 Daniel 12:2–​13.

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Moses Maimonides  169 7 All references to the Treatise on Resurrection (hereafter TR) are to the Fradkin translation. TR 157 and 164, quoting Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 17a. 8 TR 164. 9 In the Talmud, the Garden of Eden takes on the character not only of the beginning of human being but also in some sense that end toward which human beings must strive to return. Another term for the Garden of Eden so conceived is Pardes: a Persian loanword from which the modern term “paradise” derives. 10 Cf. Guide 1.71 and 1.73, tenth premise. 11 MT, Book of Knowledge, “Laws Concerning Repentance,” chaps. 8–​10. 12 “Laws Concerning Repentance,” 8.6. Cf. Guide 1.1. 13 “Laws Concerning Repentance,” 9.8. 14 “Laws Concerning Repentance,” 10.2–​3. 15 “Laws Concerning Repentance,” 10.10 and cf. Guide 3.51, 627. 16 TR 160–​1. 17 On the one hand, Maimonides claims that this section is redundant with what he has argued elsewhere; on the other, he acknowledges in TR itself that elsewhere he has said little about Resurrection of the Dead but written at length about the World to Come (168), which our consideration of CM and MT have confirmed. He may be acknowledging that his relative silence regarding resurrection was intended to elevate the World to Come and to push resurrection into the background, despite its greater popularity among Jews. 18 TR 175–​7. 19 TR 166. 20 TR 166–​7. 21 Strauss, in Maimonides, Guide, xxviii. 22 See Alfarabi, aphorisms 67–​81, esp. 76. Also see Parens, 67–​72. 23 Qur’an 55:46–​78, 78:31–​5. 24 From al-​Bukhari’s collection of hadith, 59:8. 25 Avicenna, 82. 26 Plato, Republic, 9.584b–​587e; Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 10.1173b21–​33. 27 MT, Book of Judges, “Laws concerning Kings and Their Wars,” chaps. 11 and 12. 28 “Letter on Astrology,” 179. 29 Guide, 3.17–​23. 30 TR 168, referring to BT, Avodah Zarah 54b. 31 TR 168–​9. 32 TR 169; cf. Guide 1.71 and 73, 10th premise. 33 TR 173.

References Alfarabi, Abu Nasr. Selected Aphorisms. Translated and Edited by Charles E. Butterworth. In Alfarabi: The Political Writings, “Selected Aphorisms” and Other Texts, 3–​67. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. Avicenna. Healing: Metaphysics 10. Translated by Michael E. Marmura. In Medieval Political Philosophy: A Sourcebook, edited by Joshua Parens and Joseph C. Macfarland, 2nd edn, 77–​88. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011. Maimonides, Moses. A Maimonides Reader. Edited by Isadore Twersky. (Including all texts from the Mishneh Torah and Commentary on the Mishnah cited here.) Springfield, NJ: Behrman House, 1972. —​—​—​Iggerot [Letters]. Edited by Joseph Kafiḥ. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1972. —​—​—​“Letter on Astrology.” Translated by Ralph Lerner. In Maimonides’ Empire of Light, edited by Ralph Lerner, 178–​87. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. —​—​—​ Letters and Essays of Moses Maimonides. Edited by Isaac Shailat. 2 vols. Maaleh Adumim, Israel: Maaliyot Press of Yeshivah Birkat Moshe, 1988.

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170  Joshua Parens —​—​—​ The Guide of the Perplexed. Translated and Edited by Shlomo Pines. Introduced by Leo Strauss (as “How to Begin to Study the Guide of the Perplexed”). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963. —​—​—​ The Medical Works of Moses Maimonides. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2001–​17. —​—​—​ Treatise on Resurrection. Translated by Hillel Fradkin. In Maimonides’ Empire of Light, edited by Ralph Lerner, 154–​77. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Parens, Joshua. An Islamic Philosophy of Virtuous Religions: Introducing Alfarabi. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. Saadia Gaon. The Book of Beliefs and Opinions. Translated by Samuel Rosenblatt. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1948.

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17  The Young, the Old, and the Immortal Machiavelli on Political Health and Aging Faisal Baluch

Niccolò Machiavelli (1469–​1527 CE ) presents himself as a partisan of the young and the purveyor of the new in both of his most widely read works, The Prince and the Discourses on Livy.1 In The Prince, where he describes what a founder may be called to do when establishing a new order, he writes that in the face of variable fortune one does best by comporting oneself in the mode of the young. Fortune, he tells us, “is the friend of the young because they are less cautious, more ferocious, and command her with more audacity.”2 In the Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli more explicitly fashions himself an interlocutor of the young, writing: I will be spirited in saying manifestly that which I may understand of the former and the latter times, so that the spirits of the youths who may read these writings of mine can flee the latter and prepare themselves to imitate the former at whatever time fortune may give them opportunity for it.3 In the same text he also writes that he aims to “find new modes and orders” and “to take a path as yet untrodden.”4 Likewise, in The Prince, his intention to introduce the new is evident from his announcement in the dedication that he departs from the customary way of ingratiating himself to a prince. Taking authority to represent the past and the old, we can conclude that in Machiavelli’s major texts we are witness to “youth and modernity ris[ing] up against authority.”5 Reduced to its seeming essence, then, Machiavelli’s response to the problem of human mortality seems dismissive. The celebration of the young and the new at the cost of the old and the past seems to side-​step rather than address the themes of death, dying, and aging. Yet, closer inspection reveals that Machiavelli does not quite escape the hold of the past. The young, inspired by the deeds of the men who came before them, are called on to put in place “new modes and orders.”6 This call in turn is made precisely with a view to overcoming the death and decay that are, in Machiavelli’s view, a permanent feature of human things.7 The “new modes and orders” that the young are tasked with ushering in, ought to be put in place, Machiavelli argues, to ensure that the human world can be made less susceptible to the death that comes with age. This is done by ensuring a long life for the worldly and human creation of the polity. Machiavelli’s concern with the life and death of polities bears directly on the problem of human mortality. His response to human mortality is found in the glory he promises founders of long-​lasting polities. Though the immortality won through the glory of founding may be limited to a few, a rightly ordered polity offers all its citizens the opportunity to show their virtue and thus earn glory. In these ways, Machiavelli’s advocacy of the new, partisanship of the young, and concern for the past, address the problem of human mortality and the transitory nature of all worldly things. The new, the young, and the past offer the means by which human beings can taste immortality. DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-18

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172  Faisal Baluch In what follows I lay out Machiavelli’s case for siding with the young. I argue that Machiavelli raises the status of youth not just by attributing to it characteristics not found among the old, but also by highlighting the danger it can pose to political orders. I also consider the relationship between youth and newness, and old age and antiquity. Machiavelli’s celebration of antiquity and the past comes not just in the form of an encomium to the great deeds recorded in history, but in a call for these actions to be imitated, mutatis mutandis, on the grounds that despite the vastly divergent political achievements of the ancients and his contemporaries, the former were not in any fundamental way different from the latter.8 Though this comparison ends up “comparing great things to little” and thus diminishes the status of the past, Machiavelli’s concern with the past, I argue, is earnest. The past offers examples of political orders that in their grandeur and longevity show how human beings and human things can fight decay and death. The young, armed with their spirits and a judicious knowledge of the past, are called on to battle this decay and death. The state, I conclude, becomes the central means by which humans can fight mortality.

Machiavelli and Fortune Favor the Young The intellectual significance and controversial nature of Machiavelli’s most popular work The Prince is attested to by the fact that the likes of Baruch Spinoza and Jean-​Jacques Rousseau have defended it. Both Spinoza and Rousseau felt the need to account for the work in the corpus of an author they considered a staunch republican and patriot.9 Yet one need not explain away The Prince to maintain Machiavelli’s republican credentials, for one of the work’s many enigmas is that it makes a strong case for the superiority of republics over principalities. Machiavelli favors republics because they are best suited to dealing with the vicissitudes of fortune. Fortune, personified as fortuna in The Prince, leaves only half of human affairs in our control, while the other half are outside human influence.10 The two halves call for different postures from human beings. The half of fortune that is under human control can be conquered through virtue. Virtue in turn is demonstrated in the ability of humans to foresee and make preparations against dangers. Machiavelli’s famous advice that “dikes and dams” be built to contain the torrents unleashed by fortuna when she overflows her banks is aimed at showing how the half of fortuna under human control can be conquered. But even the conquerable part of fortune does not always require caution; it sometimes rewards impetuosity. The decisive advantage of republics over principalities is that the former have greater success in controlling the conquerable part of fortuna because they allow their inhabitants to choose between impetuous and cautious leaders as the times require.11 Even virtuous men and republics, however, cannot fully conquer fortuna. The unconquerable part of fortuna shapes human affairs and must therefore be dealt with. Though success against unconquerable fortune is uncertain, Machiavelli calls for an impetuous and bold stance against it. Unconquerable fortuna is therefore best dealt with by the young, who are most likely to be bold and impetuous. This ought, however, not to lead to the conclusion that only the young are advantaged. Ferocity and impetuosity do not go with caution, yet fortuna sometimes calls for the latter.12 To always proceed as the young in a polity, then, is to lose the advantage that comes from being a republic, namely being able to act impetuously or cautiously as the circumstances dictate by electing leaders appropriate to the times.13 The old are at a disadvantage when it comes to the unconquerable part of fortuna, for they are least likely to proceed with impetuosity and ferocity, while the young can err on account of these very qualities. Our first impression, then, is that while Machiavelli is certainly a partisan of the young, he seems to accord those who do not proceed like the young an important role in his republican polity.

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Niccolò Machiavelli  173 Yet the outsized role played by the young in Machiavelli’s retelling of Rome’s history puts the balance suggested here into question. Machiavelli’s valorization of the conflict between the plebeians and the patricians as the source of Roman freedom sits at the heart of his heterodox view of Rome.14 The conflicts were necessitated, in Machiavelli’s view, by Rome’s choice to expand. Pushing out Rome’s borders required that Rome expand the plebs’ participation in the military, and, as a result, political affairs. However participation was expanded not just by rank, but also by age. Thus, the Romans rewarded the 23-​year-​old Valerius Corvinus (c.370–​c.270 BC E ) with a consulship despite his tender years, for the valor he showed in a battle with the Gauls. Machiavelli, approving of the Romans’ decision, writes that the Romans made it a practice to “always … find virtue, whether it was in the young or in the old.”15 Machiavelli lauds this practice because on it depends the long life of the polity. Virtue, wherever found, must hold sway so that the polity can be protected from destruction and premature death. To the extent that the young are now given a role in ensuring the long life of the polity, the turn to the young can be viewed as Machiavelli’s response to the precarious transitoriness of all human things. Machiavelli, however, does more than just assign the young a new role; he also puts into question the privileged status that had traditionally been granted to age.

The Young Can Learn, the Old Can’t Change In the preface to the second book of the Discourses, Machiavelli raises the possibility that he might be mistaken in judging the past as superior to the present. Such assessments are often made in error, he concedes, since the inconveniences of the past are forgotten while the good is remembered. Meanwhile the inconveniences of the present are painfully obvious, leading to the erroneous judgment that the past was better than the present. It would seem at first that those who have not lived through the past would be more apt to commit this error since they have not lived through the inconveniences of the past. Yet the old, it turns out, are just as prone to this error. Even though the old ought to be capable of comparing the past more objectively to the present, they are unable to do so because their judgments change with age. Machiavelli describes the change that takes place in men as they age in the following words: “men when they get old lack force and grow in judgment and prudence, it is necessary that those things that appear to them endurable and good during youth turn out unendurable and bad when they get old.”16 The old, then, are in fact more apt to condemn the present, but less capable of changing it, while the young are capable of bringing about change, but are also better able to endure the inconveniences of the present. When the judgment that the present is worse than the past is made accurately–​–​and such, Machiavelli insists, is the case with his judgment that the Roman political orders were in fact superior to those followed by his contemporaries–​–​one needs either the old who still have the force to rid the polity of inconveniences, or the young who have the prudence to recognize the inconveniences of the present and are therefore willing to use the force they possess to deal with them. But neither of these outcomes is likely: the old cannot regain the force and energy of youth, and the young do not possess the judgment and prudence which are the gift of years. In his discussion of political change in the Discourses, Machiavelli thus undoubtedly addresses the young, but what he seems to call for is an alliance between the young and the old, where the latter provide judgment and the former force. Yet he neither seeks to aid the old to correct their judgment, nor does he address them. Instead, Machiavelli’s solution is to fashion himself as the mediator who corrects for the weaknesses of the old and the young. He brings to the young knowledge of the past, but unlike the old who may be inclined to read histories and learn from them, yet are nevertheless unable to judge the present

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174  Faisal Baluch correctly, Machiavelli brings good judgment and prudence to his criticism of the present. Furthermore, the advantage of the old over the young in possessing knowledge of the past proves chimerical, since Machiavelli explains his ability to judge the past and present accurately not by citing his age, but his judicious study of histories.17 Thus, even if this ability to judge were to be the monopoly of the old, it is possible to gain it as a youth by reading those who have studied and digested the histories—​that is, by reading Machiavelli. What is lacking in the old, on the other hand, cannot be made good; the ferocity and impetuosity of youth can neither be regained, nor learned. Machiavelli’s positive case for the prominent inclusion of the young in the affairs of the polity is thus based on all but erasing the uniqueness of the qualities that he associates with the old, and by questioning the monopoly the old have over them. What is gained by age is not enjoyed by the old, but instead delivered to the young, for it is the young who can act on it. Age, which was seen as a qualification for active participation by earlier thinkers, has thus now become a liability.18

The Young are Dangerous Machiavelli’s case for the young is not, however, limited to pointing out the promise they represent; he also reminds those not yet convinced by his case that they must choose between harnessing the promise of the young for the good of the polity, and opening themselves up to the danger that the young pose when denied political opportunity. Machiavelli offers several examples of the latter outcome in his account of Roman history. These examples illustrate that Machiavelli’s celebration of the young does not come without a recognition of the pernicious role that the young can play in a polity. The young feature prominently at two critical junctures in Machiavelli’s account of Rome. First, the action of a young nobleman, Sextus (d. 509 B C E ), the son of Tarquin the Proud, precipitates the collapse of the monarchy. While the discussion of Tarquin the Proud suggests that the fall of the monarchy is merely occasioned, rather than caused, by the rape of Lucretia by his son, Sextus, Machiavelli’s account makes it clear that the actions of the son are not merely reflections of the behavior of the father.19 Machiavelli does not argue that had Tarquin the Proud acted with greater moderation his son would not have committed the rape. Instead, Machiavelli holds that Tarquin’s failure to punish his son was the critical mistake. That the actions of the young are independent of the attitudes of their father is reinforced by the second example. The rape of Lucretia and her subsequent suicide set off the chain of events that leads to the establishment of the Roman republic. The man who becomes the face of this change—​ Lucius Junius Brutus—​is credited by Machiavelli as the founder of the Roman republic twice over. First, Brutus has the Romans swear over Lucretia’s dead body that they will never again accept kings. Second, when his own sons conspire to bring the monarchy back, Brutus heroically presides over their sentencing and death. The threat to the republic thus once again comes from the young patricians, reinforcing the argument made above that the actions of the noble youths do not necessarily mirror those of their fathers. What then do we gather from this evidence? Both old age and youth can be pernicious to the political health of a polity. While aging deprives men of the spirit necessary to change their world, the excessive spirit of the youths can bring about detrimental change. Yet Machiavelli is a partisan of the young precisely because of their ability to bring about change. His political theory is aimed at turning what can be a pernicious force into one that can contribute to the long health of polities by making up for the loss of spirit that comes with aging. Thus, the very disadvantage the young have over the old—​an excessive spiritedness and lack of judgment—​is what necessitates their inclusion in the political realm. Polities must harness the spiritedness of the young to bring forth the new and to renew

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Niccolò Machiavelli  175 the old that has decayed. Polities that fail to do so are subject to destruction through the excesses of the young; and even if the young are prevented from harming the polity, the passage of time—​age—​will inevitably lead to a polity’s decay and eventual death.

The New and the Past In the opening of the Discourses, Machiavelli has himself set sail for the new and unknown. Yet in the very same preface he turns to the past, promising his readers aid that will allow them to understand and draw out what is most valuable in the study of histories. This Janus-​ faced posture puts the earnestness of his turn to the past into question. In the very work in which he presents a commentary on an ancient author, Machiavelli offers the following advice: If someone who desires or who wishes to reform a state in a city wishes it to be accepted and capable of being maintained to the satisfaction of everyone, he is under the necessity of retaining at least the shadow of its ancient modes (modi antichi) so that it may not appear to the peoples to have changed its order even if in fact the new orders are altogether alien to the past ones.20 Combine this with an encomium to Rome that is peppered with discussions of its many faults and errors, and one seems forced to conclude that any deference Machiavelli shows to the past is deployed strategically. The past, however, turns out to play a central role in Machiavelli’s politics.21 The reasoning Machiavelli offers to justify presenting new orders in the garb of the old suggests that human beings are disturbed when things around them change. Thus, the prime reason that those who wish to establish “a political way of life” are advised to keep the “shadow of ” ancient orders is to ensure that the populace does not revolt against the new orders. Though Machiavelli writes of “modi antichi,” he is offering more of a defense of current practices than of the past. Common usage rather than antiquity is what holds sway over human beings. The distinction being drawn here becomes clear when we consider Machiavelli’s argument about the agrarian laws in Rome.22 When current and long usage strays from an ancient law, Machiavelli defends the practice of the former, rather than a return to an ancient law that has fallen into disuse. Thus, when Machiavelli calls on those who wish to introduce the new to preserve the shadow of the past, he is stressing the power that current practice has on the minds of human beings. But in pitting current practices against ancient laws, Machiavelli’s account puts into question the inviolability of the ancient and old. This becomes obvious when we consider how Machiavelli wishes that we comport ourselves to the past. Machiavelli and his contemporaries agree that the past is admirable, but they disagree on its value for their times. While his contemporaries both admire and attempt to imitate ancient plastic arts, they merely read about the political practices of the ancients for pleasure and not for guidance. Thus, his contemporaries’ error is to pay the past homage by prizing artifacts created then, but to fail to appreciate the true treasures of the past, namely the actions performed by “ancient kingdoms and republics, by kings, captains, citizens, legislators, and others who have labored for their fatherland.” Machiavelli’s contemporaries relegate the histories to pleasure reading because they assume that replication of the actions related in them “is not only difficult but impossible.”23 Machiavelli does not directly address the question of why this might be; instead he dismisses the attitude by reminding his readers that it is based on the unfounded assumption that the world and human affairs operate differently today than they did in the past. His effort to convince his readers that they can learn

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176  Faisal Baluch from the past and imitate it does not lead him to hold that his readers too are capable of the greatness of the men of the past, but rather that the men of the past were no different from his readers. Machiavelli’s tack reveals not just his own view, but also the view he aims to overcome. The majesty of the past must be diminished if it is to serve to motivate actions in the present, for reverence of the past is precisely what prevents one from adopting the right posture before it. Machiavelli seeks to disabuse his readers of the notion that the past is far too great to be imitated. Age and antiquity thus take on a negative valence insofar as they prevent change. To prevent change is to stand in the way of the renewal necessary to overcome the inevitable death and decay that all worldly things are subject to. If we then take stock, Machiavelli has already diminished the status of the old and now we see him question the reverence accorded to the past. Yet he urges his main addressees—​the young—​to engage with the past. Whether this is a call to sufficiently familiarize oneself with the past so as to be able to deploy it when necessary, or an earnest effort to direct the young’s attention to the past, is most evident in his discussion of how a polity is best maintained, or to put it differently, how the premature death of the polity can be prevented.

Renewal, Return, and Immortality Though Machiavelli is a philosopher of political beginnings, he is concerned with the longue durée. Founders in his account are worthy of admiration to the extent that they act to ensure that their creations outlast them. This requires that the creation, though the product of one man, does not depend on him alone. The authority that cannot be shared at the founding moment must subsequently be distributed into institutions that will keep the polity together.24 But inheriting institutions does not guarantee the survival of a polity. Thus, the opening chapter of the third book of the Discourses is titled “If one wishes a sect or a republic to live long, it is necessary to draw it back often toward its beginning.” The chapter itself begins with the declaration that “all worldly things have a limit to their life.”25 The title and opening sentence reveal that the problem faced by polities is not just the ephemerality of all worldly things, but the hostility of the world to even this circumscribed existence. Merely to last the limited time allocated to worldly things, human artifice must necessarily be applied. Without the application of this artifice, the forward march of time leads not just to inevitable death, but to premature death. When the polity is the worldly thing to be preserved, then this artifice can take the form of institutions, or the initiative of individuals. Regardless of which of these means is used, ensuring that a polity lives out its allotted time requires that it be drawn back to its beginnings. Though Machiavelli suggests that there are two means by which a polity can be renewed, the subsequent discussion makes it clear that one of the two means is in fact privileged. Institutions and orders, he writes, “have need of being brought to life by the virtue of a citizen who rushes spiritedly to execute them.”26 Institutions and orders do not suffice because they share in the central characteristics of all worldly things—​they not only have a limited life, but are also subject to decay and premature death. It is this that spirited individuals must correct for. While the corrosive and decaying effects of time cannot be altogether overcome, their onset can be delayed, albeit not indefinitely. This limited victory over time is achieved through the actions of individuals, in particular the actions of founders and re-​founders. To prevent decay, even well-​ordered polities must have recourse to spirited men whose actions counter the effects of time. These men, who display the spiritedness of youth, extend the life of the polity not by ushering in the entirely new, but by renewing the original orders. The young are therefore not called simply to make instrumental use of the past to ease in the

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Niccolò Machiavelli  177 new, but to bring forth what was good about the past into the present, in order to extend the life of the polity. The spirted young, therefore, must show a genuine concern with preserving certain aspects of the past, in particular those moments when the new appeared. Thus are the young, the new, and the past united, providing a bulwark against the decay that comes with age. The turn to beginnings, like the turn to ancient arts by Machiavelli’s contemporaries, is justified on the grounds of their goodness. This goodness is responsible for the existence of what is now to be preserved. Thus, in the case that occupies Machiavelli, the goodness at the founding moment of Rome is responsible for its long life. This goodness, however, gets covered over and must be renewed. The renewal aims to ensure that the good orders and institutions that were then put in place are not allowed to fall into disuse and disrepair. The most effective way of achieving this is through “excessive and notable executions” of those who sabotage the good orders and institutions.27 By instilling fear in the hearts of all inhabitants, such executions ensure obedience and compliance, thereby securing the orders and institutions that made the beginning good. Since renewals require the use of such extreme measures, they depend on the availability of spirited men, and such men, we have been told, are found predominantly among the young. Machiavelli then, paradoxically, calls on the spirited to ensure a long life for the polity by renewing the primal fear—​the fear of death. The turn to the young and new, then, far from dismissing the problem of age, becomes the central means of overcoming the problem. The necessity and futility of the battle against time and death, fought by polities, finds a parallel in the lives of individuals. Founders and re-​founders concern themselves with the longevity and continued life of the polity, but in doing so they too manage to escape the confines of the time allotted them. Though founders are explicitly called on to use religion at the founding moment, they must be willing to commit the greatest impieties, exemplified by Romulus’s killing of Remus. Such impiety, combined with their concern with the here and now, bars them from the comfort of the spiritual hereafter. While Machiavelli robs the founders and re-​founders of this solace, he makes good by offering an inducement of his own. Contrasting infamy and fame, he writes, Among all men praised, the most praised are those who have been heads and orderers of religions. Next, then, are those who have founded either republics or kingdoms. After them are celebrated those who, placed over armies, have expanded either their kingdom or that of the fatherland. To these literary men are added; and because these are of many types, they are each of them celebrated according to his rank.28 To be remembered, human beings must leave behind testaments. Such testaments, when cherished by those left behind, redound to the glory of those who are no more. Thus it is that individuals can win a human—​and therefore limited—​victory over death. This victory is limited in Machiavelli’s world by the very nature of human things, which he writes are “in motion and cannot stay steady, they must either rise or fall.”29 As for the many others who will not themselves be remembered, they are offered a taste of immortality by the hope that their young “can, through their virtue, become princes” and thus rank among those who are remembered past their death.30 This hope, however, is only available to citizens of a rightly ordered polity: a republic. The latter stands on the virtue of founders, re-​founders, and institutions, all of which ensure that the state (Machiavelli’s famous lo stato) survives the ravages of time. Thus, the state becomes the necessary means to fight the decay of worldly things for both the few and the many, and it is upheld by the renewals that require the spiritedness of those who have not yet been subjected to the ravages of time.

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Notes 1 I would like to thank Elizabeth Baber for reading and commenting on multiple drafts of this chapter. Special thanks to Juju. Any remaining errors are mine. 2 Machiavelli, Prince, chap. 25. 3 Machiavelli, Discourses, II, Preface, 3. emphasis added. 4 Machiavelli, Discourses, I, Preface. 5 Strauss, 127. 6 Machiavelli, Discourses, I, Preface. 7 Machiavelli, Discourses, II.5. 8 For an excellent account of what the changes might be, see Sullivan. 9 In his Political Treatise Spinoza writes: In the case of a prince whose sole motive is lust for power, the means he must employ to strengthen and preserve his state have been described at some length by that keen observer, Machiavelli, but with what purpose appears uncertain … Perhaps he also wished to show how wary a free people should be of entrusting its welfare absolutely to one man who, unless in his vanity he thinks he can enjoy universal popularity, must go in daily fear of plots. Thus he is compelled to look more to his own defense and in his turn to plot against the people rather than to look to their interests. I am the more inclined to take this view of that wise statesman because he is well known to be an advocate of freedom, and he has given some very sound advice as to how it should be safeguarded. (700) Rousseau attributes a similar intent to Machiavelli, writing: “While pretending to give lessons to kings, he gave great ones to the people. Machiavelli’s Prince is the book of republicans” (On the Social Contract, III.4). 10 Machiavelli, Prince, chap. 25. 11 Machiavelli offers the example of Pope Julius II who succeeded in a military campaign against Bologna despite not having secured military assistance from his allies. Had the Pope been cautious and waited to ensure the King of France’s support, the campaign would never had gotten off the ground (Prince, chap. 25). 12 “And so the cautious man, when it is time to come to impetuosity, does not know how to do it, hence comes to ruin: for if he would change his nature with the times and with affairs, his fortune would not change” (Prince, chap. 25). 13   Hence it arises that a republic has greater life and has good fortune longer than a principality, for it can accommodate itself better than one prince can to the diversity of times through the diversity of the citizens that are in it. For a man who is accustomed to proceed in one mode never changes, as was said; and it must be of necessity that when the times change not in conformity with his mode, he is ruined. Discourses, III.9.2. See also I.20 14 In this assessment Machiavelli differs not just from his predecessors but also from later observers. Cf. Rousseau, On the Social Contract, IV.2. 15 Machiavelli, Discourses, I.60. 16 Machiavelli, Discourses, II, Preface, 3. 17 Machiavelli, Discourses, Dedication; Machiavelli, Prince, Dedicatory letter. 18 Thus we find the following in Aristotle’s Politics: “Nature has provided the distinction by making that which is the same type have a younger and an older element, of which it is proper for the former to be ruled and the latter to rule” (1332b). 19 Machiavelli, Discourse, III.5.1. 20 Machiavelli, Discourse, I.25.1. 21 I take the phrase from the title of Catherine Zuckert’s book, Machiavelli’s Politics. 22 Machiavelli, Discourses, I.37. 23 Machiavelli, Discourses, I, Preface.

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Niccolò Machiavelli  179 24 For Machiavelli, the act of creating and sharing power with the senate is testament to Romulus’s virtue. Discourses, I.9. 25 Machiavelli, Discourses, III.1. 26 Machiavelli, Discourses, III.1. 27 Machiavelli, Discourses, III.1.3. 28 Machiavelli, Discourses, I.10. 29 Machiavelli, Discourses, I.6.4 30 Machiavelli, Discourses, II.2.3.

References Aristotle. The Politics. Translated by Carnes Lord. First Edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985. Machiavelli, Niccolò. Discourses on Livy. Translated by Harvey C. Mansfield and Tarcov Nathan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998. —​—​—​ The Prince. Translated by Harvey C. Mansfield. Second Edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998. Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques. On the Social Contract: With Geneva Manuscript and Political Economy. First Edition. Edited by Roger D. Masters. Translated by Judith R. Masters. Boston: Bedford/​St. Martin’s, 1978. Spinoza, Benedictus de. Spinoza: Complete Works. First Edition. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2002. Strauss, Leo. Thoughts on Machiavelli. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995. Sullivan, Vickie B. Machiavelli’s Three Romes: Religion, Human Liberty, and Politics Reformed. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1996. Zuckert, Catherine H. Machiavelli’s Politics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017.

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18  Death in Montaigne’s Essays Brandon Turner

In 1571, a French nobleman retired to his chateau in the Dordogne; he proceeded to lock himself in its tower, immersing himself in his expansive personal library.1 Nine years later, in 1580, the first edition of the Essays of Michel de Montaigne (1533–​92) appeared. They represent an achievement with few parallels, a work of autobiography and confession that can perhaps be best described as a series of philosophical dialogues undertaken without interlocutors. The Essays are, as Montaigne confesses in the foreword to the first edition (1580), a work of rigorous and indulgent self-​examination: “it is myself that I portray … I am myself the matter of my book.”2 Given this focus, and given the extent to which Montaigne’s life was marked by the imprint of death, it is no surprise that his work often reflects on mortality. Indeed, the Essays turns and returns to death with great frequency, and its author considered few things more important than getting death right. No treatment of death in Montaigne’s thought can fail to mention the 1563 death from plague of his beloved friend, Étienne de La Boétie, which occurred when Montaigne was thirty years old. The friendship between the two was extraordinary. Their love is immortalized in the remarkable essay “On Friendship,” where Montaigne describes their union as a “perfect friendship,” one in which “each one gives himself so wholly to his friend that he has nothing left to distribute elsewhere.”3 Montaigne watched his friend die, remaining at his side despite the threat of infection. A subsequent letter to his father which describes at length the stages of illness and the unique course of his friend’s death suggests he acquired in the experience an unusual intimacy with the progress of death.4 Montaigne never recovered from La Boétie’s death. Despite later marrying and fathering children, he described these relationships as almost ephemeral by comparison, as “nothing but smoke.”5 The mark of La Boétie’s death can be spied in Montaigne’s decision to begin composing the Essays only after the death of his friend. Donald Frame notes that the Essays—​which are, after all, an unusually frank kind of conversation between Montaigne and his imagined reader—​are the “means of communication” left to him after Boétie’s death: “the reader takes the place of the dead friend.”6 One marvels at the fact that the Essays, for all their monumental weight, were written while Montaigne claims to have “only drag[ged] on a weary life.”7 Even setting aside his friend’s death, Montaigne was no stranger to suffering. His first child died in 1570 at only two months old; of his six children, only one lived to adulthood. Just a year before his first child died, his younger brother, Arnaud de Saint-​Martin, died suddenly and unexpectedly after being struck in the head with a tennis ball. When he reflected in the Essays on the death of his young brother—mortally wounded during, of all things, a round of jeu de paume—​Montaigne wonders, “with such frequent and ordinary examples passing before our eyes, how can we possibly rid ourselves of the thought of death and of the idea that at every moment it is gripping us by the throat?”8 DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-19

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Michel de Montaigne  181 As fate would have it, Montaigne himself experienced death’s grip around the same time he suffered these personal losses. Sometime in 1569 or early 1570, he suffered a very serious accident on horseback when a servant on a much larger horse crashed into his own. His men rushed him back home; Montaigne regained consciousness only after coughing up large amounts of blood (“a whole bucketful”). He was, he recounted, “much closer to death than to life.”9 He relates this episode at length in “Of Practice,” an essay ostensibly concerned with the obligation to pursue excellence by seeking out opportunities to sharpen through practice those qualities that are conducive to right conduct.10 “Dying,” he writes, is “the greatest task we have to perform,” yet it is one task for which practice is of little help: “we can try it only once.” Clinging to life “by the tip of my lips,” Montaigne remained in a “swoon” for several days before slowly but fully recovering.11 In retrospect, he writes, dying in the way that he almost did was not so bad—​in fact, the experience of dying was most like that of drifting off to sleep. “I closed my eyes,” he recounts, “in order … to help push [life] out, and took pleasure in growing languid and letting myself go … in truth [I was] not only free from distress but mingled with that sweet feeling … [of] slid[ing] into sleep.”12 He felt the pain caused by his injuries only after he had returned to full consciousness—​or, to describe it in a way truer to the spirit of Montaigne’s recounting, only after his soul had completely returned to his body. The response of his body to the injury was little more than involuntary reaction, more akin to rigor mortis than to actual suffering. In fact, the experience of death, Montaigne claims, was “very pleasant and peaceful … a languor and an extreme weakness, without any pain.”13 Montaigne reminds his readers, here and elsewhere, that the Essays are about him, and for him—​for his “instruction.”14 What, then, is the purpose in recounting at length this story of his own near-​death? “This recollection,” he writes, in “showing me the face … of death,” thereby “reconciles me to it somewhat.”15 Revisiting frequently this brush with death brings it—​not so much the experience as the fact of death—​before Montaigne in a way that reflections upon the deaths of others cannot. Getting used to death—​this is the idea, and he is able to bring it about with peculiar force because this death was quite nearly his own—​ “there is nothing like coming close to it.”16 Elsewhere, Montaigne relates the experience of Pomponius Atticus, an interlocutor of Cicero. Pomponius had fallen very ill and had resigned himself to death, but then quite unexpectedly (and quite accidentally) recovered. The experience changed the Roman; after his recovery, he immediately set out to meet death again, and indeed, met it in a remarkable attempt to “taste it and relish it.” Citing this episode, Montaigne writes that Pomponius successfully “reconnoitered death,” and did so “quite at his leisure.”17 In a similar way, we see our author, engaged in a prolonged retirement of over two decades, hidden away in a tower of his chateau in southern France, crafting his Essays—​the word “essay” meaning “trial” or “test”—​revisiting and re-​experiencing the deaths of himself and of those close to him. Montaigne too reconnoitered death at his leisure.

“That to Philosophize Is to Learn to Die,” and Death in the 1580 Edition of the Essays For the reasons discussed above, the matter of how to approach death correctly is one of considerable importance for Montaigne, and it is a subject that appears and reappears throughout the Essays. Death is “without doubt the most noteworthy action of human life,” he writes in “Of judging of the death of others,” but most of us do not recognize it as such—​most of us prefer to consider death as something that happens, as something that befalls us.18 We seek to disassociate ourselves from death, from this action that each of us is fated to take, and to take in our own way.

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182  Brandon Turner We carry out this disassociation in a number of ways. We console ourselves with the thought that it is not yet our time; few men, after all, “die convinced that it is their last hour.” This is not merely from cowardice, Montaigne argues—​it is just as much a consequence of pride, of the universal tendency to “set too much importance on ourselves.” We entangle our own existence with that of the world itself; we imagine that for us to end would mean that everything else ends as well. “We drag everything along with us,” he complains.19 But, of course, the refusal to face the fact of our own end is also a matter of cowardice. Montaigne does not dismiss this outright; if death could be avoided, he argues, then we should “borrow the arms of cowardice” in this way, by cursing its name and fleeing all mention of it. But death “catches you just the same.”20 It takes those around you, and it will always end up taking you—​without rhyme or reason, without warning, it comes for us all. If we are to die—​and we are—​then death must be confronted. This question, perhaps more than any other in the Essays, occupies Montaigne throughout his life; in Hugo Friedrich’s phrase, “it is everywhere [in the Essays], it appears beneath his finger, whatever he touches.”21 Thus, despite the frequency with which death appears in the Essays, Montaigne produces nothing that might be called a “teaching” on the subject. His views on death carry the marks of his writing more generally: they are vivid, scattered, and inconstant, the product of a mind that is never finished with an idea. In an early essay titled “That to philosophize is to learn to die,” written during the initial period of the Essays’ composition (1572–​4), Montaigne approaches death in a defiant mood. “Cicero says that to philosophize is nothing else but to prepare for death,” he begins, but this teaching comes not just from Cicero: “all the wisdom and reasoning in the world boils down finally to this point: to teach us not to be afraid to die.”22 This focus is due to the fact that, unlike other misfortunes like poverty or sickness, death comes for all, and it always comes. Death is, he writes, “the goal of our career.” There is “no place from which it may not come to us … death always hangs over us, like the stone over Tantalus.”23 It is difficult not to read into this early essay the weight of Montaigne’s near constant experiences with death over the preceding decade; indeed, in this essay Montaigne briefly mentions his brother’s unexpected demise. When he mocks those who choose to ignore death in the hopes of avoiding its sting, we wonder whether Montaigne mocks himself; there is a touch of self-​reproval in his remarks. He admits to living quite comfortably, and if that means hiding from death even “under a calf’s skin,” then so be it. But hiding does not work. They go, they come, they trot, they dance—​of death no news … But when it comes, either to them or to their wives, children, or friends, surprising them unprepared and defenseless, what torments, what cries, what frenzy, what despair overwhelms them! Did you ever see anything so dejected, so changed, so upset?24 Dejected, changed, upset, overwhelmed with despair—​might this not describe Montaigne himself in the aftermath of the death of La Boétie? As he confesses elsewhere, it was “a melancholy humor” that led him to the Essays, a gloomy solitude brought about by the death of his friend.25 In fact, considering Montaigne’s reputation as a humanist of the first order—​rivaled in his time only by Shakespeare—​this early treatment of the subject of death suggests a mind not altogether reconciled to the ineluctable fact of death.26 Recounting his brother’s death alongside other sudden and surprising deaths from literature and history, he reveals the depth of the problem: “How many ways has death to surprise us!” Montaigne fears death—​ more than this, however, he fears the fear of death itself, because it is a “continual source of torment,” a fear that incapacitates and robs life of its pleasures.27

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Michel de Montaigne  183 In this essay—​the work of a comparatively young Montaigne—​the approved response to the fear of death is one of active and studied defiance. If to philosophize is to learn how to die, then Montaigne finds in philosophy the teaching that death is to be scorned, that “among the principal benefits of virtue is disdain for death.”28 Montaigne’s original phrasing here is “le mépris de la mort”; mépris has no precise cognates in English, and refers to an attitude that combines contempt and indifference. Such indifference to death, however, appears to come at a very high cost. Rather than running from death—​or, for that matter, simply ignoring it—​we must “learn to meet it steadfastly and combat it.”29 In adopting this watchful and ready attitude towards death, Montaigne seeks to familiarize himself and thus to inoculate himself to the presence of death. That death is to be something that we are both wary and indifferent to: this tension goes unresolved in the early Montaigne, and invites us to consider the ways in which he continued to struggle with his experiences in the tumultuous decade, beginning with the death of La Boétie in 1563, and leading up to the commencement of the Essays. Montaigne’s language here displays a subtly republican tenor, attributing to death the power to enslave men. Death in “To Philosophize is to learn to die” is not something to be understood, or embraced, or reconciled into a more complete view of human life. The fear of death robs us of whatever happiness we can find; death enslaves us through fear. To defeat death through familiarization—​through this practice of awaiting it everywhere—​is to rob it of its power to enslave: “he who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave … premeditation of death is premeditation of freedom.”30 Montaigne here also channels a long tradition of Roman Stoicism that likewise taught this defiant posture towards death, a tradition underscored by his frequent references to Cato the Younger—​who “held … in his hand” the “violent and bloody death” he carried in his heart.31 Like Cato, and like Socrates, “we are born to act,” and the virtuous are those who act unperturbed and “careless of death.”32 The cultivation of this attitude of carelessness towards death is itself an art, a practice by which we “raise and straighten [the soul] against the assault of this adversary.” This Montaigne does through the study of history and the lives of great men—​in particular, the deaths of great men; in so doing, he acquires the habit of having death always at hand. The essay itself functions in the same way—​it is filled (even more so than usual) with images of noble and notable deaths; the second half is littered with lines from Lucretius intended to assuage the anxiety that attends the fear of death. If the philosophical attitude towards death—​the attitude of mépris—​means practicing indifference towards it, then this is a supremely studied and disciplined indifference: it requires constant and deliberate cultivation, the sort of cultivation of which one suspects only great minds are capable.

Montaigne’s Evolving Approach: Death in the Final Essays The Stoic posture towards death saturates the essays published in the first edition of the Essays in 1580. By the time Montaigne writes his final essays, however—​in particular, “Of vanity” and “Of physiognomy,” both composed after 1585—​his earlier, somewhat wounded posture of defiance towards death has faded. What is left is an approach to death that can be described as humanistic, rather than Stoic or exceedingly manly—​an approach that seeks not to conquer death so much as incorporate it into a more comprehensive conception of human experience.33 This shift is consistent with the so-​called “evolutionist” line of thinking in Montaigne scholarship, according to which Montaigne’s thought evolved as he substantially edited and added to the Essays over the years..34 Indeed, on few questions is the evolutionist interpretation of Montaigne stronger than the question of the proper approach to death—​his final essays indicate something approaching a complete break with the views found especially in “To philosophize is to learn to die.”35

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184  Brandon Turner What occurred between the composition of the earlier and the later essays that might have led Montaigne to reconsider his previous position on death? There is, for starters, what might be called the evolutionary pressure of age. The Montaigne who locked himself in his library to pen his Essays was not a young man by any stretch—​he had just turned 38—​but the man who composed the final essays was most certainly an old man. He was 55 when the final essays were published, and he was dead of quinsy only four years later. If the sting of La Boétie’s death—​and his own close shave on horseback—​still smarted during the composition of the initial essays, then one might expect the passage of an additional decade or two to remove some of this pain. There is, too, Montaigne’s experience as the mayor of Bordeaux, a position he held when plague broke out in 1585. It was this episode that inspired some of the most striking images from these late discussions of death, in particular Montaigne’s descriptions of French peasants digging their own graves.36 And there are, finally, the excruciating kidney stones that plagued Montaigne, an affliction that began after the composition of “To philosophize is to learn to die.” This condition he inherited from his father, who suffered mightily from renal colic. Montaigne describes this “new acquisition” in an essay titled “Of the resemblance of children to their fathers”; he confesses that it is, “of all the accidents of old age, the one I feared the most.”37 Little surprise, then, that in the midst (and aftermath) of these maladies, the prospect of death appeared altogether different than in his earlier days. Montaigne acknowledges his previous position on the subject of death without entirely owning it as his own. He confesses that he has not yet developed “that disdainful vigor which finds fortitude in itself ”; he is, he admits, “a peg lower.”38 The mature Montaigne seems to have lost his nerve; he has settled for something decidedly less manly than his previous posture. “There are deaths good for fools,” he writes, and “deaths good for wise men,” but he recognizes that he is neither: “let us find some that are good for people in between.”39 One is tempted to read this search for the in-​between death as a reaction to Montaigne’s experience of the plague around Bordeaux. He has at the time of this mature writing learned something from what might be described as folk approaches to death and dying, and it is on this precise point—​the commoner’s attitude to death—​that the most striking contrasts between the young and the old Montaigne can be found. In “To philosophize is to learn to die,” Montaigne seeks the example of great men like Cato and Socrates, men who conquered death through disciplined fortitude; he contrasts them explicitly with the low and stupid, the “common herd” whose remedy to the fear of death “is not to think about it.” In this they reveal their weakness—​indeed, their “brutish stupidity”—​“tak[ing] fright at the mere mention of death, … cross[ing] themselves at that name, as at the name of the devil.”40 Contrast these remarks about the common and “brutish” approach to death with the following, which appears in one of his final essays, “On physiognomy”: Let us look on the earth at the poor people we see scattered there, heads bowed over their toil, who know neither Aristotle nor Cato, neither example nor precept. From them Nature every day draws deeds of constancy and endurance purer and harder than those that we study with such care in school … How many who desire death, or who meet it without alarm and without affliction! This man who is digging up my garden, this morning he buried his father or his son.41 In this passage we see the sociological dynamics of Montaigne’s approach completely reversed: he looks now to the common and “low” for instruction. Two things in particular emerge from Montaigne’s last essays into death. The first is that his approach here considers nature—​unpolished, uncultivated nature—​as the proper

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Michel de Montaigne  185 guide to death and dying. Again, the contrast with the earlier account can hardly be overdrawn. Where the younger Montaigne sought to dominate and conquer death through art—​through the cultivation and constant application of the proper discipline, aided by the careful study of classical texts—​the older man seeks only the wisdom brought about by time, disappointment, and careful observation of those around us. “If you don’t know how to die,” he reassures himself and his readers, “don’t worry”; for “Nature will tell you what to do on the spot.”42 The reversal is total: he compares those philosophers who “order us to have death ever before our eyes”—​philosophers like Michel de Montaigne!—​to doctors “who make us ill so that they may have something on which to employ … their art.”43 He cites again the line from Cicero, but he does so only to contrast it unfavorably with those “lessons of simplicity” that are available to all: “I never saw one of my peasant neighbors cogitating over the countenance and assurance with which he would pass this last hour … nature teaches him not to think about death except when he is dying.”44 From the authority of Cicero to the authority of his peasant neighbor—​much has changed. The second thing that emerges from this later account is Montaigne’s desire to die his own death—​a death altogether in keeping with the way he lived. Our death belongs to no one but ourselves—​we can have it any way we like. For Montaigne, he is “content with a collected, calm, and solitary death, all [his] own, in keeping with [his] retired and private life”; he seeks to die as he lived—​to die not as an exemplar of Stoic virtue or manliness, but simply as Montaigne. Death is an event for “one single character”; it is that which we experience ourselves, despite our best efforts to share our suffering with those around us.45 What Montaigne describes here is his own variation on the methods of dying that left such an impression on him. To dig one’s own grave and thereby to fashion that death most suited to one’s temperament and character—​that is a good death. It is here that the wisdom of nature and man’s own vanity meet: “all wisdom is vanity,” and, he says with Virgil, “we suffer each a self-​made fate.”46

Montaigne and the Politics of Death Whatever difficulty one encounters in extracting from Montaigne’s views on death a specifically political teaching will likely owe something to the highly ambiguous nature of Montaigne’s political views. Montaigne frequently figures as a progenitor of a number of important intellectual and historical trends—​in the history of humanism, for example, or, more ambitiously, in the history of the development of literature, of modernity, and even of self-​consciousness.47 But few political traditions claim Montaigne as a founding member, and he is rarely classed as a figure whose contributions to specific political ideologies are either clear or particularly noteworthy. Contemporary interpreters of Montaigne, however, are most likely to place him alongside figures like Blaise Pascal and David Hume in the tradition of political skepticism, and there is much to be said for this view. In his late writing in particular, Montaigne adopts a position very much like the anti-​rationalism found among modern conservatives: “we do not create [men,] like Pyrrha or Cadmus,” Montaigne warns; “we take men already bound and formed to certain customs.”48 As with men, likewise with states, where “habit” has given shape and form to what “necessity” has brought together. We are naturally “prone to be discontented with the present state of things,” he warns, but changes in society and state are dangerous: “Nothing presses a state hard except innovation; change alone lends shape to injustice and tyranny.” In this, he prefigures skeptical conservatives like Edmund Burke and Michael Oakeshott; in lines that might be swapped into the Reflections on the Revolution in France, Montaigne compares politics to doctoring, where “the surgeon’s aim is not to kill the diseased flesh,” but rather “to make the natural flesh grow again, and restore the part to

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186  Brandon Turner its proper condition.” Above all, however, he cautions against the pretense of knowledge of things ancient and substantial: “the preservation of states is a thing that probably surpasses our understanding,” and “all that totters does not fall.”49 Montaigne’s skepticism towards transformative politics has made him attractive for a certain type of liberal, as well, and it is here that his views on death find their readiest political application. Judith Shklar especially draws extensively on Montaigne in developing her “liberalism of fear,” a species of liberalism that deliberately foregoes transformative moral and social politics and settles, instead, for an order that places the avoidance and minimization of violence and fear at the very center of political life.50 This is the Montaigne, too, of those interpreters who emphasize his role in mediating religious conflict between Protestants and Catholics around Bordeaux, and who take from his recoiling from sectarian violence an approach to toleration that emphasizes active and deliberate strategies of de-​escalation over more traditionally liberal emphases on secular neutrality and political quietism.51 This Montaigne, whose political theory is one of restraint both in terms of our own thinking about politics and in terms of the violent activity of political actors, is the older Montaigne, the man whose youthful mépris regarding death had been overcome and replaced with a simple desire to die as one lived. Yet Montaigne’s approach to the politics of fear differs from more representative modern figures like Thomas Hobbes, who likewise places the fear of violent death at the very center of the project of modern statehood—​more specifically, at the very center of the state’s responsibility to reduce as far as possible the likelihood of violence from within or without. Modern states borrow from Hobbes their focus on death, and they often articulate their commitments to religious toleration and procedural limits on state power in terms of the avoidance of violence and death. What those interested in a liberal politics of restraint can find in Montaigne is a set of reasons for minimizing cruelty and reducing exposure to violence rooted not in fear but rather in self-​fashioning. Violence brings death, yes, but Montaigne does not follow Hobbes in holding death itself to be evil—​or, to be more precise, as that which is evil by virtue of being universally feared. Whatever evil there is in violent death, Montaigne tells us, is not in the dying: it is, rather, in its capacity to rob us of a good death, of a death made on our own terms. What the violence of others—​agents of the state included—​exposes us to is thus twofold: the fear of violent death deprives us of the conditions under which we might pursue our projects freely and with pleasure; and an early violent death snatches from us of the chance to die on our own terms. A modern political theory in the fashion of Hobbes will offer something like security and freedom through fear—​the fear of punishment by the state, kept alive in the hearts of all who would engage in violence. One that follows Montaigne, rather than Hobbes, will seek ways to promote freedom from fear—​from the fear of cruelty and death that enslaves and thereby stops up the powers of self-​realization found in us all.

Notes 1 The author thanks Kim Hale and Erin Dolgoy for their indulgence and, more to the point, their patience. 2 Montaigne, Works, 2. 3 Montaigne, Works, I:28, 171. 4 Montaigne, Works, Letter II, 1276–​88. 5 Montaigne, Works, I:28, 174. 6 Frame, “Introduction,” v. Montaigne seems to suggest this retreat into himself in “Of Practice”; see Montaigne, Works, II:6, 273. 7 Montaigne, Works, I:28, 174. 8 Montaigne, Works, I:20, 71.

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Michel de Montaigne  187 9 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 326–​7. 10 The episode features prominently in the opening and thematic organization of a recent popular biography of Montaigne; see Bakewell. 11 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 324, 327, 326. 12 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 327. 13 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 330. 14 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 331. 15 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 327. 16 Montaigne, Works, II.6, 331. 17 Montaigne, Works, II.13, 560. 18 Montaigne, Works, II.13, 556. 19 Montaigne, Works, II.13, 556–​7. 20 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 71. 21 Friedrich, 260. 22 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 67. 23 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 69, 68. The final line is Montaigne’s rendering of a line from Cicero’s De finibus, I.xviii.63. 24 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 71. 25 Montaigne, Works, II.8, 337, in “Of the affection of fathers for their children.” 26 I take “humanism” to refer to at least three features of Montaigne’s thought: (1) its deep roots in classical sources and languages; (2) following Petrarch, an approach to classical studies that is simultaneously didactic and introspective; (3) its emphasis on incorporating these studies into an understanding of human (rather than explicitly divine) agency. In the first two points, I follow Kristeller; in the third, I follow Frame, who argues that Montaigne is instrumental in the development of modern humanism out of its early forms. See Kristeller; Logan; and Frame, Discovery of Man. 27 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 71, 68, 69. 28 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 68 (emphasis added). 29 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 72. 30 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 72. 31 Montaigne, Works, II.21, 626, in an essay titled “Against do-​nothingness.” 32 Montaigne, Works, I.20, 74. 33 See in particular Frame’s analysis of Montaigne’s rejection of early modern French stoicism; Frame, Discovery of Man. 34 The evolutionary interpretation of Montaigne’s thought is most closely associated with the work of Villey, though Montaigne’s most important twentieth-​century interpreter, Frame, also places himself in the evolutionist camp. See Villey; Frame, “What Next.” For an example of anti-​ evolutionist interpretation of the Essays, see Gray. 35 Villey’s discussion of Montaigne’s evolution on the question of death is over a century old but still quite valuable for students of Montaigne. According to Villey, the Stoic Montaigne gives way sometime between 1572 and 1588 to a gentler Montaigne who recommends “soumission aux lois de la nature” as a way of reconciling oneself to death. Villey, 390–​7. 36 Montaigne, Works, III.12, 977. 37 Montaigne, Works, II.37, 697. 38 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 909. Of note, this use of “disdainful” is not derived from mépris—​ Montaigne’s original phrasing for “that disdainful vigor” is “cette vigueur desdaigneuse.” 39 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 915. 40 Montaigne, Works, I.9, 69. 41 Montaigne, Works, III.12, 968–​9. 42 Montaigne, Works, III.12, 979. 43 Montaigne, Works, III.12, 980. 44 Montaigne, Works, III.12, 980. 45 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 909. 46 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 919.

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188  Brandon Turner 47 Montaigne’s list of admirers is impressive: Shakespeare, Emerson, and Nietzsche, to name a few; see for example Levine, “Skeptical Triangle.” On Montaigne at the beginnings of modernity, see especially the essay “L’Humaine Condition” in Auerbach. On Montaigne’s place in the history of introspection and psychoanalysis, see briefly Rieff, 65–​6. 48 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 887. 49 Montaigne, Works, III.9, 888–​91. 50 Shklar, “Liberalism of Fear” and “Putting Cruelty First”; and Levine, “Cruelty.” 51 Levine, “Conception”; Shanks; and Thompson.

References Auerbach, Erich. “L’Humaine Condition.” In Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Thought, 285–​311. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003 [1953]. Bakewell, Sarah. How to Live: Or, a Life of Montaigne. New York: Other Press, 2010. Cicero. De finibus bonorum et malorum. Translated by H. Rackham. London: William Heinemann, 1914. Frame, Donald A. “Introduction.” In The Complete Essays of Montaigne, translated by Donald A. Frame, v–​xiv. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957. —​—​—​ Montaigne’s Discovery of Man: The Humanization of a Humanist. New York: Columbia University Press, 1955. —​—​—​“What Next in Montaigne Studies?” French Review 36, no. 6 (1963): 577–​87. Friedrich, Hugo. Montaigne. Translated by Dawn Eng. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991 [1949]. Gray, Floyd. “The Unity of Montaigne in the Essais.” Modern Language Quarterly 22, no. 1 (1961): 79–​86. Kristeller, Paul Oskar. “Studies on Renaissance Humanism During the Last Twenty Years.” Studies in the Renaissance 9 (1962): 7–​30. Levine, Alan. “Cruelty, Humanity, and the Liberalism of Fear: Judith Shklar’s Montaigne.” Montaigne Studies 2008, no. 20 (2017): 157–​70. —​—​—​“Montaigne’s Conception of the Self: A Non-​Rights Basis for Toleration.” Perspectives on Political Science 28, no. 2 (1999): 82–​93. —​—​—​. “Skeptical Triangle? A Comparison of the Political Thought of Emerson, Nietzsche, and Montaigne.” In A Political Companion to Ralph Waldo Emerson, edited by Alan Levine and Daniel S. Malachuk, 233–​64. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2011. Logan, George M. “The Relation of Montaigne to Renaissance Humanism.” Journal of the History of Ideas 36, no. 4 (1975): 613–​32. Montaigne, Michel de. The Complete Works: Essays, Travel Journals, Letters. Translated by Donald M. Frame. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003. Rieff, Philip. Freud: The Mind of the Moralist. Third edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979 [1959]. Shanks, Torrey. “Toleration and Democratic Membership: John Locke and Michel de Montaigne on Monsters.” Political Theory 43, no. 4 (2015): 451–​72. Shklar, Judith N. “Putting Cruelty First.” Daedalus 111, no. 3 (1982): 17–​27. —​—​—​“The Liberalism of Fear.” In Political Thought and Political Thinkers, edited by Stanley Hoffman, 3–​20. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1998. Thompson, Douglas. Montaigne and the Tolerance of Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Villey, Pierre. Les sources et l’évolution des essais de Montaigne, vol. II: L’évolution des Essais. Paris: Hachette, 1908.

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19  When “Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave” Shakespeare’s King Lear and The Tempest Mary P. Nichols

He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help. —​King Lear, 3.7.70–​1

William Shakespeare (1564–​1616), English playwright, poet, and actor, wrote over thirty-​five plays, tragedies and comedies, histories, and romances. The themes of his plays—​ambition and honor, love and friendship, rulers and usurpers—​are resources for both humanists and political theorists. Reflections on life, of course, would be incomplete without reflections on death. Shakespeare’s tragedies typically end in death, some like Hamlet and King Lear even drawing to a close with several bodies on stage. Many of his comedies have tragic overtones, where death is threatened although escaped. Shylock is denied his pound of flesh in Merchant of Venice, for example, and Beatrice’s command to her lover in Much Ado About Nothing to “kill Claudio” is deadly serious, even if this deed proves unnecessary. History plays chronicle the lives and deaths of kings, while death haunts some of Shakespeare’s last plays, romances such as The Winter’s Tale. In The Tempest, the aging Prospero prepares for his own death, admitting that “every third thought shall be my grave” (5.1.311).1 In this essay, I examine the two Shakespearean plays, King Lear and The Tempest, whose protagonists are old men aware of their approaching deaths, who make provisions for the future in order for others to live well. Lear, king of England, is without a male heir, and divides his kingdom into three, planning a part for each of his daughters and their husbands. By settling the succession before his death, he hopes to prevent “future strife” (1.1.44–​5). His last act of statesmanship will also provide for his legacy: his good rule will continue to bear fruit after he has died. His well-​conceived plan goes awry when he asks his daughters for a public declaration of their love for him. After his elder daughters, Goneril and Regan, comply with expressions of unbounded love, his youngest daughter Cordelia, her father’s “joy,” cannot “heave [her] heart into [her] mouth,” and states merely that her love is commensurate with her duty (1.1.91–​3). It is not the answer her father wants to hear. Outraged at her response, he disinherits her and unwisely divides the kingdom between his two self-​ serving daughters and their spouses, the powerful dukes of Albany and Cornwall. Goneril and Regan’s cruel treatment of their now powerless father and his own remorse for his treatment of Cordelia eventually drive him to madness, while his elder daughters’ unleashed ambition produces the very political and personal strife Lear tried to avoid. Shakespeare deepens his play’s reflections on aging and death by adding a subplot, involving another aging father, the Earl of Gloucester, who appears to have no need to provide for his legacy, for he has a legitimate son Edgar. His bastard son Edmund, however, rises to prominence as the villain of the play, deceiving his father into disinheriting Edgar, and manipulating the affections of both Goneril and Regan, as he contrives to attain his father’s DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-20

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190  Mary P. Nichols title and eventually the throne of England. Lear’s abdication and Cordelia’s disinheritance leave a political vacuum that Edmund steps in to fill (3.5.10–​20; see also 1.2.107–​18). Like Lear after horrific suffering, Gloucester learns his error. Both fathers come to experience moments of joy and love before their deaths, Lear with Cordelia and Gloucester with Edgar. Prospero’s life, as we learn in The Tempest, has a different trajectory from either Lear’s or Gloucester’s. The one-​time Duke of Milan, Prospero seems as ill-​suited for the exercise of power as ruling seems natural to Lear. Far from wisely ruling his duchy, Prospero leaves political affairs to his unscrupulous brother Antonio, retreats to his library (“dukedom large enough”) and devotes himself to “bettering [his] mind” (1.2.90, 110). Antonio seizes power and throws Prospero and his young daughter Miranda to the mercies of the sea. Necessity—​ and his care for Miranda—​lead Prospero to learn how to rule, first, the various beings he encounters on the island they make their home, and then, his longtime enemies whose ship chance brings to his island. Prospero succeeds in checking the passions of some, educating those of others, and leading the best (his daughter and Alonso’s son and heir Ferdinand) to marriage and political power. He makes the sort of political and family arrangements for those he leaves behind that Lear attempted to make and Gloucester saw no need to make, both to their own peril. By contrasting Lear and Prospero, Shakespeare asks whether life must eventuate in tragedy, as Lear’s did, or whether even a life nearing its end might be captured in a romantic comedy, as Shakespeare does for Prospero in The Tempest. That play features appropriate matchmaking and a statesmanship that provide for the future. My essay, beginning with King Lear, traces the actions that lead to and intensify the play’s tragedy, as well as the resources that its characters draw on to deal with life-​crushing adversities. Politic and devoted ruler that he is, Lear attempts to determine the happiness of his country and family, even beyond his own life. Cordelia demonstrates an intransigence that matches her father’s when she rejects Lear’s “politics,” a rejection that Lear unfortunately understands as a rejection of him. Edgar, while coming close to Lear’s madness, learns how to succor his father and finds the strength to assist in restoring a political order informed by the tragic suffering he witnesses. While there is a glimmer of hope in Edgar’s ascension to the throne, there are no revels here, as Prospero provides in the Tempest’s finale, and as his actions make possible for those he leaves behind. Prospero has acquired the self-​knowledge that Lear lacks and that allows him to cede power to the future. In the Tempest, Shakespeare brings to fruition what we glimpse in Lear.

King Lear and the Sad Weight of Time Lear presents his plan for the tri-​partition of England and his abdication of his throne at a public ceremony at the beginning of the play. He intends “To shake all cares and business from our age, /​Conferring them on younger strengths while we /​Unburdened crawl toward death” (1.137–​41). The plan is politically savvy. Although Lear has more affection for Albany (Goneril’s husband) than for Cornwall (Regan’s husband), he gives them equal portions (1.1.1–​6), presumably to avoid the appearance of favoritism and conflict over their shares. And although he loves Cordelia most, her “more opulent” third of the kingdom (1.1.86,124), lying in-​between the other two portions, allows her and her future husband to serve as a buffer between her elder sisters and their husbands (see 3.3.8–​9). It is a political decision. Similarly, his answer to the suitors for Cordelia’s hand, the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France (1.1.46–​8), turns on political considerations. Burgundy is a better choice than France, for his stature and power will derive from his marriage rather than from his duchy in northern France.2 At the same time, his duchy will buttress the power of England. Lear will gain a son, so to speak, rather than lose a daughter, and England will gain an ally

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William Shakespeare  191 whose interests will align with its own. Lear’s own good is served by this plan, to be sure, for he hopes to spend his remaining days with Cordelia and to “set [his] rest /​On her kind nursery” (1.1.124–​5). Indeed, his last sight will not only be of his beloved daughter enjoying the fruits of his beneficence, but also of the prosperous unfolding of his plan for England. Shakespeare suggests many reasons that Lear’s plan unravels as the play proceeds. Marrying his eldest daughters to Albany and Cornwall, for example, may have served England’s good—​allowing Lear to keep these powerful dukes in check as his sons-​in-​law and members of the royal family, but neither daughter is happy in her marriage and each soon looks elsewhere, as they compete for the affections of Edmund. And although Cordelia’s marrying Burgundy may be a better match for England than her marrying France, is it better for Cordelia? When Lear is outraged at Cordelia’s refusal to pour out her love for him in court and disinherits her, Burgundy loses interest in the match. Claiming that Cordelia is herself a dowry, France claims her as a bride, further disrupting Lear’s plans (1.1.246). Shakespeare gives Lear a fool who speaks truth others would not utter, who later tells Lear that he did his youngest daughter “a blessing against his will” (1.4.101). Most important, Lear’s plan for the future cannot entirely satisfy his own desires. Lear is not only a dutiful king but a man who wants to know that he is loved, and even that he is loved because of himself and not merely because of the love due to a father and king. His outrage at Cordelia’s tracing her love to her duty may be intensified by his approaching death, and by his need for assurance of his own worth by the one he most loves and respects. He wants to know that Cordelia loves him. But the uncompromising Cordelia refuses to play along as do her sisters to give her father what he is looking for. She even answers “Nothing,” when Lear first asks her what she has to say (1.1.87–​9). Of course, had she answered in the manner of her sisters, Lear would have no clue as to which of his daughters loved him. Instead, Lear will come to know Goneril’s and Regan’s cruelty and Cordelia’s love only by their deeds (cf. 1.1.71). Once Cordelia leaves for France, Lear divides his time between his two remaining daughters, and his relations with them quickly deteriorate. They lock their doors to him, leaving him to the storm raging on the heath. Few loyal followers remain with him. Braving the thunder and lightning and trying to come to terms with their cruelty, the distraught king meets Edgar, also unjustly dispossessed and making his way in the storm. Here plot and subplot come together. When Edmund falsely accused Edgar of plotting their father’s death, Edgar escaped being apprehended and disguised himself to avoid detection. Griming his face with filth, blanketing his loins, tying his hairs in knots, and in general assuming “the basest and most poorest shape /​That ever penury, in contempt of man, /​Brought near to beast,” Edgar pretends to be a beggar, “Tom o’ Bedlam,” come from London’s madhouse (2.3.5–​12). Meeting the king in the storm, Edgar recognizes someone who is worse off than himself: whereas Edgar is only pretending to be mad, Lear is losing his sanity as a result of his “bemadding sorrow” (3.1.68, 3.2.20–​3, 68). Indeed, Edgar is so moved by the king’s plight that his “tears begin to take his part so much /​They mar [his] counterfeiting,” especially when the partially deranged king stages a mock trial of Goneril and Regan and appoints mad Tom as “a robed man of justice,” and the fool as “his yokefellow of equity” (3.6.35–​60). Lear for his part sees in the half-​ naked “Tom o’ Bedlam” “the thing itself; /​ Unaccommodated man,” who is “no more than but such a poor, bare, /​Forked animal as thou art.” Lear supposes that one who can strip himself of all conventions (including the clothing that indicates one’s place) is a philosopher, and begins to “disrobe” himself in the storm (“Off, off, you lendings! /​Come, unbutton here”). Lear’s wits, however, are turning (3.2.68). The fool must caution him against disrobing: “Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in” (3.4.107–​11, 172). The man who once considered himself “every

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192  Mary P. Nichols inch a king,” now sees only his mortality (4.6.107–​8, 132–​3). He forgets his kingly nature (see 1.4.27–​30, 3.4.124), just as he is mistaken about “Poor Tom,” since the poor, bare animal he sees is a disguise. Whereas Lear gave his daughters “all” (3.4.30–​1), the disguised Edgar saves something for himself, “reserv[ing] a blanket,” as the truthful Fool proclaims, “else we had been all shamed” (3.4.65–​7). Although Edgar proclaims, “Edgar I nothing am” when he adopts his disguise, he does remain Edgar. In his asides when he plays poor Tom, Edgar speaks as himself (e.g., 3.6.79–​ 80, 4.1.25–​8, 38–​9, 54, 4.6.33–​4, 141–​2). It is Edgar, after all, not poor Tom, who sheds tears for Lear, and is so moved when he sees his blinded and suffering father that he can barely play his part as Tom (4.1.54). When Edgar does speak as poor Tom, moreover, he typically speaks in the third person, using language that both imitates the madness of someone “out of his mind” and distances himself from the madness he impersonates. At times, moreover, Edgar speaks through his disguise, as when poor Tom claims that his “study is to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin” (3.4.156–​7). At least at the end of the play, when Edgar challenges his brother to a formal duel, we see that killing vermin has become Edgar’s “study.” He undertakes what Lear insufficiently studied as king and left undone before yielding power. Whatever Lear has learned from his suffering, it is too late for him and for England. The vermin whom Edgar kills has already ordered Lear’s death (5.3.27–​34). Edgar’s pain at the suffering of others, Lear’s as well as his father’s, leads him not only to fight evil, but also to succor others. By caring for his father and “nursing” his miseries (5.3.184), Edgar provides the “nursery” for his father that Lear expected from Cordelia, and that she returns from France to provide for him only when it is too late to do so. Edmund’s order is for her death as well, although Shakespeare dramatizes poignant moments that father and daughter share before they die (4.7.45–​ 85, 5.3.8–​ 26). Whereas Lear loves according to merit (1.1.52–​3), Shakespeare depicts a love as fundamental and as natural as that based on desert, in Cordelia’s love for Lear and Edgar’s for father. The folly of Lear in mistrusting Cordelia diminishes her love for her father no more than does Gloucester’s in not trusting Edgar diminish his son’s love (4.7.76–​8). Still disguised as a madman, Edgar guides his despairing father to the cliffs of Dover, where his father intends to take his life. Edgar misleads him into thinking that he jumps from a cliff although he is on safe ground. By teaching him that life is a miracle (“the clearest gods …have preserved thee,” 4.6.73–​4), he saves his father not simply from death, but from the hopelessness that leads him to seek death (4.6.33–​4). As he tells his father, “Men must endure /​Their going hence, even as their coming hither; /​Ripeness is all” (5.2.6–​11). Edgar’s wisdom involves his reverence for life, which comes from unfathomable sources that are beyond our mortal lives, and which we recognize by refraining from taking our lives. Our lives are not entirely our own. When Edgar reveals himself to his father, and asks his blessing, just before he leaves to challenge Edmund, his father’s heart “’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, /​Burst smilingly” (5.3.195–​202). Edgar’s account suggests that his death was a happy one in spite of his suffering; as Gloucester says earlier, “Might I live to see [Edgar] in my touch /​I’d say I had eyes again” (4.1.21–​4). We can assume that his father’s “ripeness” gave Edgar comfort, just as Edgar’s revelation of himself gave joy to his father. As to Edgar, he explains that it was because of life’s “sweetness” that he stooped even to “madman’s rags” in order to preserve it (5.3.187–​90). By challenging his brother to a duel and defeating him in public combat, Edgar acts as “the robed man of justice” that Lear called him, although he comes as justice clothed in armor with a sword. With his defeat of Edmund, he earns the title of Earl that is his by birth, exploiting the convention of a duel to prove his natural superiority (5.3.135–​7; see Richard II 1.3.14–​15, 35–​41). In the end, Edgar reluctantly accepts the vacated throne, for “The weight of this sad time we must obey.” The play ends with the prospect of a unified England rather

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William Shakespeare  193 than the partitioned country of Lear’s plan. Edgar holds the promise that England will be well governed, something Lear wished for England, but failed to bring about. Shakespeare, as it were, gives Lear this gift for his country, even including in his play the detail that Edgar is Lear’s godson (2.1.91). Edgar did not seek the crown, as did his brother. He recognizes that human beings must “obey” the weight of time as well as care for those who suffer its deprivations. He has shed tears for Lear and nursed his dying father. He may be a better ruler than either Lear or his own father, for he has seen the perils both of Lear’s “planning” and of his own father’s failure to provide for his illegitimate son. And Edgar has learned that one cannot “unburden” oneself of life’s responsibilities before one’s time has come, as Lear imagined he could do, and he knows that it is not for one to determine when that time has come, as his father attempted to do. By including the subplot involving Gloucester and his sons in his play about Lear and his daughters, Shakespeare does not merely intensify the tragedy by reproducing its suffering in the woes of a second family. The subplot allows this more hopeful ending and points to the good that might come from suffering. Edgar’s observation that we must “Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say” reminds us of the play’s opening scene in which Cordelia said neither what she felt nor the conventional words she was expected to say in the public ceremony. Edgar’s closing remark, that the “oldest hath borne most; we that are young /​Shall never see so much, nor live so long” does not signify the decline of the new generation that he represents but his hope that the tragedy that he has witnessed will not be repeated. It would be a blessing if Edgar does not live long enough to “see”—​or experience—​what Lear and Gloucester have “seen,” but Edgar has seen their suffering and death. Their tragedy has prepared Edgar for a better death, and therefore for a better life, and for being a better ruler. The fool’s observation to Lear, “Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise” (1.5.41), which is too late for the old Lear may hold for the young Edgar.

The Tempest and the Beneficent Weight of Time During the first scene of The Tempest, an audience might be reminded of Lear. We meet the crew and passengers on a ship who face a storm so fierce that “not a soul /​But felt a fever of the mad and played /​Some tricks of desperation” (1.2.208–​10). Order breaks down, as the boatswain dismisses the entreaties of the royal party aboard and tells them to withdraw to their cabins for safety, unless they can “command these elements to silence” (1.1.20–​1). It is as the fool said to Lear during the tempest in that play, as he too begged the king to take shelter from the storm, “’tis a naughty night to swim in” (3.4.110–​11). No more than the royal party can command the elements can the mariners hold off the storm. The ship splits, and its occupants are scattered on shore and believe that the others in their party have not survived. Alonso, the king of Naples, believes that he has lost his son and heir Ferdinand to the sea. Whatever his plans for the future of his country and family—​and we soon learn that the group is returning to Italy after the marriage of the king’s daughter to the king of Tunis (2.1.66–​7)—​Alonso’s plans are wrecked without his son. Sebastian, his brother, conspires with Antonio, the nominal Duke of Milan, to murder the king. Ferdinand’s supposed death and Alonso’s grief for his son leave a political vacuum similar to the one Edmund tried to fill in Lear. Death, destruction, and threats of more death and destruction seem everywhere. Shakespeare’s audience soon learns that the situation in The Tempest is not as dire as it looks. In the second scene of the play, we meet Prospero and his daughter Miranda, denizens of the island, and learn that Prospero’s magic directed the “airy sprite” Ariel who does his bidding to cause the storm and shipwreck and to disperse the ship’s occupants on the island. Whereas Lear tried to command the elements during the tempest on the

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194  Mary P. Nichols heath (3.2.1–​9), Prospero is able to control the tempest. He is like a stage director, making events unfold according to his script. The “tempest in [his] mind” that the storm mirrors, is not a sign of his madness, as it is for Lear (3.4.14), but an instrument of the drama he is staging. Miranda, who has watched the ship dashed to pieces and heard the anguished cries of those aboard, is dismayed. Prospero, who has not confided his plan to his daughter, has let her respond to the suffering of others before he relieves it. Not random or indifferent nature has been at work, but he himself has produced the storm, he assures Miranda, and there has been “no harm done” (1.2.15). The play thus moves quickly from tragic territory aboard the ship, in which all order, rank, and authority collapse, to what we soon learn is the beneficent care of Prospero, who is himself planning for the future, replacing whatever Alonso, as well as Sebastian and Antonio, may be intending. At the center of his plan is making a good political match for his beloved daughter (as it was of Lear’s), but one he prepares for by allowing her time to know, love, and choose her mate. Prospero’s “education” and “checking” of others provide the ordering in which this match and its political benefits for both Naples (of which Ferdinand will one day be king) and Milan (his own duchy) might occur. Prospero informs Miranda not only of his control of the tempest but of how they arrived on the island through the perfidy of his brother and Alonso. It seems that Prospero had been as trusting of his brother as Edgar was of Edmund and as easy a prey for his brother’s treachery (1.2.95–​6). Also like Edgar, Prospero learns the need for vigilance and control, lessons he attempts to teach to Miranda as he tells her about the past. After all, she will soon meet those who have been cast from the past onto their island. Prospero has learned to rule those who co-​habit the island with them. There is the “dainty” spirit Ariel who executes his plans, and whom he keeps compliant by a promise of freedom, and the “savage and deformed” Caliban, who tried to rape Miranda, and whom he keeps enslaved for manual tasks around the island (1.2.243, 311–​13, 345–​8). Most of all, we see the careful steps Prospero takes to regain his duchy in the course of the play. Prospero has magic to produce storms that confound the senses, music to soothe grief, and visions to tempt as well as to counsel moderation, but magic does not tell him what he should do with his magic, or what effects he should seek for the different characters who have come to his island. Prospero’s learning and wisdom involve the purposes for which he uses his magic. When cast to sea with his daughter, Prospero acknowledges, it was Miranda “that did preserve me,” for when he groaned under his burden, she raised in him the resolve to endure, “to bear up /​Against what should come” (1.2 153–​8). The child preserved her father by needing his care. His books, which a kindly councilor Gonzalo included among their provisions and which he “prized above his dukedom” (1.2.165–​8), were not enough to sustain him. For that it took Miranda, and the responsibility that he had for her—​reminiscent of Edgar’s being sustained by his responsibility for caring for his father. Love sustains duty rather than serve as alternative motive. Like Edgar’s, Prospero’s care extends to teaching, for he became Miranda’s “schoolmaster” (1.2.172–​4). His library did not remain “dukedom large enough” but became a means for Miranda’s education. Whatever good he continues to attribute to his books, they are not everything, for Miranda is “a third of mine own life, /​Or that for which I live” (4.1.3–​4). Presumably, his books (and knowledge) constitute another third, for as Gonzalo knew he “loved them dearly,” and his own power, his capacity for thinking, acting, and loving, provide the other third. Like Lear who attempts to divide his kingdom among his three daughters, and like Cordelia, who divides her love, Prospero divides his life, and love, even though it is Miranda for whom he lives. He seems to reserve something for himself at the same time as he gives her all. Whatever justice and advantage he seeks in the restoration of his duchy, “I have

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William Shakespeare  195 done nothing but in care of thee,” Prospero tells her (1.2.16). His love for Miranda has led him to the “worldly concerns” that he earlier neglected. Moreover, he is getting old, and Miranda growing into a woman. What can her future on the island offer? Prospero wants her to marry Ferdinand, heir to Naples, for it is an alliance that serves his political plans. But unlike Lear in the case of Cordelia and Burgundy, he wants Miranda and Ferdinand to choose each other out of love (1.2.420–​1). And he gives them time to test each other by imposing on Ferdinand laborious tasks of hauling wood, allowing Ferdinand to accept them for Miranda’s sake, and Miranda to support him in his work (1.2.452–​4, 3.1.1–​31). Prospero is setting the scene for a return to civilized life, for him and Miranda, and for those aboard ship, with lives better ordered than they were when they arrived. But the love-​ struck Ferdinand is so moved by the pageant of the female deities Prospero has created for him and Miranda that he wishes to “live here ever!” for such a wise father “Makes this place Paradise” (4.1.122–​4). Ferdinand’s wish reminds us of the young Prospero, who found something better than politics to occupy his time. An older and wiser Prospero corrects him, for he has learned the weight of time, suddenly dissolving the pageant, and delivering one of his most remembered speeches to the young lovers. “Our revels now are ended. These our actors, /​As I foretold you, were all spirits /​And melted into air.” As he continues, he seems to be speaking not merely about the pageant: “the great globe itself /​Yea, all that which it inherit, shall dissolve /​And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, /​Leave not a rack behind” (4.1.39–​56). If there is Paradise, we should not expect to find it on earth. Still, to think in terms of such dissolution is “an infirmity,” a product of his “old” and “troubled” brain (4.1.146–​63). Far from yielding to a vision of the world’s dissolution, Prospero immediately turns to deal with a conspiracy of Caliban and his newfound confederates, a jester and a drunkard from the ship. The threat at hand will not dissolve without his action. Unlike the pageant, the world is all too real. Even the inept conspiracy must be addressed. Once Prospero thwarts the conspiracy, he attends further to worldly matters. Whereas the mad Lear “disrobes” himself in the storm in order to become “the thing itself; /​Unaccommodated man,” Prospero “discases” himself to dress in his courtly attire as Duke of Milan (5.1.85). It is Prospero, not Lear, who “resume[s]‌the shape which [his enemies] think /​I have cast off forever,” as Lear brags he will do (1.4.304–​6). Lear, in contrast, “bedecks himself in weeds” (4.6.80, although 5.3.280–​3). Prospero is more like Edgar, who must throw off his “nakedness” and dress as himself when he appears to the court party at the end of Lear. With Prospero attired as the Duke of Milan, it is time for him to appear to the court party of his play in a pageant he has been preparing from the outset. That preparation included introducing Ferdinand and Miranda and letting their love emerge. It also included his separating Alonso from Ferdinand at the time of the shipwreck. When Ariel’s voice (at Prospero’s bidding) reproaches Alonso with the name of Prospero, he confirms Alonso’s suspicion that his loss of his son is punishment for his crime (3.3.95–​100). When Prospero appears as the wronged duke at the end of the play, guilt-​ridden Alonso seeks his forgiveness (5.1.117–​18). Although Antonio does not ask for forgiveness, Prospero forgives him as well. Prospero nevertheless knows he must keep his brother and Sebastian in check, for he lets them know in an aside that he is aware of their latest conspiracy and could tell tales if he were so minded (5.1.126–​9). His duchy restored, Prospero relieves Alonso’s grief for his son by bringing forth Ferdinand alive and well, in love, and playing chess with Miranda. They are discussing the game—​what is “fair play” in “wrangling for kingdoms” (5.1.172–​5). They are presumably ready to return to political life. Perhaps a wise Gonzalo included a chess board with the volumes from Prospero’s study. The good-​hearted Miranda sees a “brave new world” in the ship’s company, and Prospero warns her that “’Tis new to thee” (5.1.182–​4). Her lessons,

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196  Mary P. Nichols he suggests, will continue beyond the confines of the play. With the appearance of the ship and the mariners, who have enjoyed an afternoon nap, the voyage back to Italy is almost underway. Prospero himself learns something new, when Caliban shows remorse for his folly in confusing the drunkard Stephano with a god and claims that he will be “wise hereafter /​ And seek for grace” (5.1.95–​8). The confederacy of Caliban with his “strange bedfellows” from the ship may have been the only event of the play not foreseen by Prospero once the ship touched shore. He does not control everything; beneficence can come from without, whether it be providence or fortune that brought him and Miranda safely to the island many years ago and recently brought the ship within reach of his magic (1.2.159, 178). Prospero recognizes his dependence for both his coming hither and going hence. Perhaps it is the prospect of death at sea, his own as well as Miranda’s, that taught him in Lear’s words that he is “not ague-​proof ” (4.6.105), and hence the need for grace and forgiveness. The pageant ends not in dissolution, but in a political restoration that precedes the return to Italy. Prospero does not hesitate to return with the company, which of course includes Miranda. He hopes to attend her wedding to Ferdinand in Naples, before returning to his duchy in Milan. He has more work to do, and he will leave his daughter and son-​in law to do theirs in the kingdom they will one day rule. While, old man that he is, “every third thought shall be [his] grave” (5.1.308–​11), not his every thought, or even most of his thoughts, will be on his approaching death rather than life. He returns to the burdens of governing, not choosing like Lear “unburdened” to “crawl toward death” (1.1.41). Prospero prepares for his return to Milan in the play’s only soliloquy, in which he abjures the “rough magic” by which he has given fire to “the dread rattling thunder” and “rifted Jove’s stout oak with his own bolt” (5.1.44–​6). Although he describes the divine-​like power over the tempest that we have seen him exercise through Ariel at the beginning of the play, at the same time he sounds like a playwright who is giving stage directions. The first lines of The Tempest, before any of the characters themselves speak, are “a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard.” And when Prospero proceeds in his soliloquy to claim that “graves at my command /​Have waked their sleepers, oped and let ’em forth, /​By my so potent art” (5.1.48–​50), Prospero has stepped out of character, for there are no graves on the island, unless it be that of the witch who gave birth to Caliban, and that is one we assume Prospero would rather not open. It is Shakespeare as a playwright who has metaphorically opened graves to give his characters a new life on stage, who possesses the magic of his poetry, if not so “rough” as Prospero’s, and whose magic he now abjures, “requir[ing] heavenly music” as he approaches death (5.1.52). In his wisdom, he appears to be seeking grace (see 1.1.296). We might suppose that Ariel would deliver the play’s epilogue, fulfilling his last duty before assuming the freedom that Prospero has now granted him, but the epilogue is spoken by Prospero himself. He remains out of character, or rather speaks in the character of the playwright, for he asks for the audience’s “good hands” to release him from the island and its gentle breath to blow his sails homeward. The playwright, as Prospero did, and as Lear attempted to do, has been providing for the future by pageants that affirm the goodness of life and that death itself cannot dissolve.

Death and Life Near the end of his own life—​The Tempest was one of Shakespeare’s last plays—​Shakespeare returns to the reflections on aging and mortality that animate the plot of Lear. In both plays, he dramatizes how an elderly ruler responds to his need to provide for the future for his country and family, as well as to his need to yield his power and control to others, and even to yield his life to death. Prospero succeeds where Lear fails. Chance, or perhaps providence,

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William Shakespeare  197 gives him time to act on what he learns from his mistakes. He seizes the opportunities that come, such as the ship that happens to sail near enough to his island that his magic can go to work, and he finds in his one-​time enemy’s son a suitable match for his daughter. He puts what he has learned from his love of Miranda into effect for the sake of Miranda. His statesmanship proceeds by way of reform of those who can be reformed (Alonso) and by way of caution concerning those who must be kept in check (his brother). Lear does neither. So too Prospero’s matchmaking proceeds by recognizing those who might flourish by loving each other, by bringing them together, by teaching them, by giving them opportunities for their love to grow, and by allowing choice. Lear does none of these things. In a way, unlike Prospero, Lear is such a natural ruler that he does not know until it is too late he has anything to learn. Shakespeare writes a tragedy for Lear that is so moving that it is analogous to his weeping for him, almost as if the words he gave to Edgar—​that his tears endanger his “counterfeiting”—​were his own. Even in the midst of horrific suffering, however, Shakespeare dramatizes moments when his characters experience the sweetness of life (Lear and Cordelia, when they are reunited before their deaths, Gloucester and Edgar, when Edgar reveals himself to his father), which is even sweeter because of their awareness of their mortality. It is a sweetness that grounds Shakespeare’s more hopeful vision in The Tempest. Prospero’s revels may end, but Miranda and Ferdinand’s will continue. Writing King Lear—​ and grieving with Lear and Cordelia—​prepared Shakespeare to write The Tempest.

Notes 1 References to Shakespeare’s plays in this chapter refer to The Pelican Shakespeare. I am grateful to Rachel Alexander and Kimberly Hale for their helpful suggestions. 2 See Jaffa for the brilliance of Lear’s plan, given the English history of civil war and conflict over the crown.

References Jaffa, Harry. “The Limits of Politics: King Lear, Act I, scene i.” In Shakespeare’s Politics, edited by Allan Bloom, 113–​45. New York: Basic Books, 1964. Shakespeare William. King Lear. Edited by Stephen Orgel. New York: Penguin Books, 1999. —​—​—​ The Tempest. Edited by Northrop Frye. New York: Penguin Books, 1959.

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20  Francis Bacon on “the Dolours of Death” Erin A. Dolgoy

Illuminating humanity and ameliorating mortality are the foundations of Francis Bacon’s (1561–​1626) grand, lifelong project, which he ambitiously calls the Instauration. This title not only names one of his published works, but also unifies the entirety of his writing and points to the practical project that he hopes will be adopted as a result of his arguments. In his Great Instauration (published in 1620), Bacon describes his project as “a total reconstruction of sciences, arts, and all human knowledge, raised upon the proper foundations.”1 Bacon advocates for the advancement of human learning, evidenced in the conquest and mastery of nature—​which includes human nature, physical bodies, and our environment. His political philosophy promises to diagnose the human condition; his emphasis on natural philosophy and the mechanical arts promises its relief.2 While themes of mortality and death permeate his work, Bacon’s most sustained considerations of death are found in two unambiguously titled works: the 1625 publication of his essay “Of Death,” included in his Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral; and his 1623 publication of Historia Vitae et Mortis, translated from the Latin and first published in 1638 as “History of Life and Death,” which is part of his Natural and Experimental History for the Foundation of Philosophy, the third part of his Instauration and an example of future learning. Unlike some philosophers and individuals who begin to worry about death as they age and their bodies decay, Bacon’s preoccupation with the relationship between humanity and mortality predates his own old age. In Of the Advancement of Learning (published in 1605), Bacon identifies our “fear of death or adverse fortune … [a]‌s one of the greatest impediments of virtue and [causes of the] imperfection of manners.”3 Our fears of death and accompanying “considerations of the mortality and corruptible nature of things” are one of “the diseases of the mind.”4 Both fear and death, essential features of the human condition, are intertwined in Bacon’s thought; they serve as the inspiration for his Instauration and a justification for the advancement of knowledge. Bacon is most often remembered (either favorably or unfavorably) as an architect of what we have come to understand as modern science—​especially the ideas of experimentation, falsification, and replication—​and an enthusiastic advocate of learning and progress.5 Like many educated young men of his time, Bacon was formally trained as a lawyer. Unlike many men of his time, his political career was exceptional: he rose to prominence in England under King James I, becoming Lord Chancellor; then, in 1621, having been convicted of taking bribes (from both sides of a petition) while adjudicating a dispute, he was briefly imprisoned in the Tower of London, fined, and expelled from the King’s Court. He spent the last few years of his life petitioning the King and the King’s surrogates for a pardon and writing the texts that comprise the architecture of the Instauration,6 so that future generations would have a guide for the work that is to be done.7 Bacon’s promises are not unique; all political philosophy is predicated on the hope of explaining and improving our experience as humans.8 The uncertainty that results from the DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-21

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Francis Bacon  199 decline of our bodies and the termination of our corporeal functions, culminating in the inevitable cessation of our mundane lives, is an essential human experience and therefore a central concern of politics and philosophy. Mortality is not a passing concern for Bacon, nor does he treat bodily decline and death as inevitabilities. Rather, Bacon recommends concrete medical reforms and a more experimental approach to science. Bacon challenges us to confront fearlessly the inevitable decline of our bodies—​honestly, without illusions or false hopes—​in order to understand death as a biological process that human ingenuity, scientific discovery, and mechanical arts can ameliorate.9 Those who study Bacon’s texts have long recognized the centrality of death in his thought and his preoccupation with the prolongation of life.10 Much of the new scholarship concerning Bacon and death has focused on Bacon’s Of the Wisdom of the Ancients (first published in 1609),11 his Historia Vitae et Mortis,12 and, most recently, his practice of self-​ medication.13 While Bacon’s considerations of aging, decay, death, and the prolongation of life are extensive, this chapter addresses four aspects of his argument: first, why we should desire longer life and increased health; second, why we should not fear death (too much); third, how we can temper the effects of physical decay; and fourth, how we can achieve immortality by managing our reputations. In this chapter, I suggest that Bacon’s arguments regarding death do not simply concern the desire for longer life and better health, but are an intentional attempt to solicit support for the Instauration. By confronting our (very natural) fears of death, we open opportunities to examine nature and reform it to human ends. The promise of health and longevity inspires Bacon’s supporters to embark on the conquest of nature in hopes of understanding and relieving the human condition. Bacon’s challenge, therefore, is to present aging and mortality as sufficiently terrible that we aspire to overcome them, but not so terrible that we accept our subjugation to them. Overcoming the physiology of death is a task for science; overcoming the psychology and politics of death is the task of a philosopher and propagandist.

The Utility of a Longer, Healthier Life In “Magnalia Naturae, Praecipue quoad usus Humanos,” posthumously published in 1626 at the conclusion of his Silva Silvarum and New Atlantis, Bacon presents a list of 33 items, which Vera Keller describes as part of Bacon’s “wish list.”14 These “Lists of desired, not-​ yet existent things,” Keller notes, “indicat[e]‌the expanded borders of knowledge’s future empire.”15 Each of these items is an incremental, innovative step that Bacon believes will be possible as a result of his Instauration. These desiderata—​or lists of desires—​form the architecture of the Instauration that Bacon constructs for future generations. The first and fundamental task that Bacon establishes is “The prolongation of life”16 or the extension of the natural human lifespan. In Of the Advancement of Learning, Bacon identifies the “shortness of life” as an “impediment” to “the mind of man.”17 If human beings had more time to live (and live well), we would also have more time to learn, thereby increasing our capacity for knowledge and understanding. Bacon is not being hyperbolic, nor is he writing metaphorically. He genuinely believes that the human lifespan can be radically elongated. Long life is not a goal in itself, but is useful for the benefits it brings. A longer lifespan would allow humans more time to cultivate our intellects, undertake studies, make discoveries, and create mechanical helps and monuments for posterity. Prolonged life would likely be torture were it not accompanied by prolonged youth and physical health. Bacon’s fable “Tithonus; or Satiety” from his Of the Wisdom of the Ancients reminds us of the dangers of eternal life without the caveat of eternal youth and health. Aurora, goddess of dawn, asks that her human lover, Tithonus, be granted immortality;

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200  Erin A. Dolgoy she neglects, however, to ask that he also be granted eternal youth.18 As political theorist Heidi Studer explains, the problem with the pleasures is not that one will tire of them, but that one may no longer be able to fulfill them: “immortality is insufficient as the ultimate goal. Eternal youth, or the renovation of corruptible bodies must be included. This is what is important for men.”19 While Tithonus has been “exempted from the condition of dying … there came upon him a strange and miserable old age.”20 Jupiter, pitying the condition of Tithonus, turns him into a grasshopper, which, as Bacon explains, mirrors the condition of the aged, “whose vigour is only in their voices.”21 After life extension, the first task delineated in “Magnalia Naturae,” Bacon establishes our second task as “the restitution of youth in some degrees,” and our third task as “the retardation of age.”22 Increased lifespan, the restoration of youth, and the delay of decay are the most important tasks for the Instauration, since they potentially facilitate increased human learning.

Fears of Death In order to promote the Instauration and encourage the prolongation of life and the amelioration of illness, Bacon must overcome the accounts of the Schoolmen—​Aristotelian scholastics—​and the priests. Traditional accounts of death are incompatible with Bacon’s visions for the Instauration. Aging, illness, and death, according to most accounts, are considered inevitable and terrifying.23 In his essay “Of Death,” Bacon addresses two popular approaches to death: those of the philosophers who recommend that one accept one’s inevitable death as necessary according to nature; and those of the divines who present death “as the wages of sin.”24 Both explanations appeal to our fears of death, and both, albeit for different reasons, inhibit the conquest of nature and impede the project for the prolongation of life. Bacon’s “Of Death” emphasizes the relationships among age, decay, ignorance, and fear. Since we are incapable of actually knowing what happens to us after we die, Bacon explains, these fears of the unknown are irrational.25 Fears of death, Bacon notes, are similar to a child’s fears of the dark. Children are ignorant of what happens in the shadows; adults are ignorant of what happens when we die. “Of Death” begins not with death, but with fear of death.26 Our childhood fear of the unknown is natural: it is born of ignorance about the world. We naturally fear that which we cannot see and that which we do not know. In his essay “Of Truth,” Bacon explains that we live in shadows because we are ignorant about the world, and this ignorance compels us to create and believe imaginative stories.27 Tales about the unknown can be designed either to perpetuate or to ameliorate our fears.28 Bacon’s opening sentence in “Of Death”—​“Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other”29—​serves a second purpose: it reminds us that we begin life as children, young and healthy, but over time grow, age, decay, and cease to exist. Twice in this sentence, Bacon uses the word “children”—​ reiterating the natural progression of human existence and pointing to the culmination of our lives in the moments prior to the cessation of life. It is unlikely that most adults would choose to spend their entire lives locked either in their childhood bodies and childhood minds or in a state of perpetual aged decrepitude. As children age, slowly becoming adults, their understanding of the world increases and their list of things unknown evolves. The immature and irrational childhood fears of dark corners, closets, and the abyss under one’s bed are replaced, for most people, by fears of a greater darkness—​the enduring darkness of no longer being embodied in our mundane world. As bookends to his discussion of death, this consideration of children and the naturalness of death is reaffirmed by Bacon at the end of the essay. He states, “It is as natural to die as to be born.”30 For the infant, he surmises, birth and death are equally painful. Since most

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Francis Bacon  201 human beings have no memory of the pain of their birth, there is, by extension, no reason to presume that we will be meaningfully affected by “the dolours”31 associated with our death. Philosophers, theologians, and scientists may capitalize on our fears of the unknown for their own ends.32 As Michel de Montaigne, whom Bacon references elsewhere in his Essays or Counsels,33 notes, stories and rituals concerning death imbue death with an unwarranted horror.34 Bacon agrees with Montaigne; these trappings of death are mere ceremonies: mourners appear “benumbed” because that is how they have been taught to ritualize the death of a friend, family member, or loved one.35 We have learned that death is to be feared and ought to be marked with sadness, but this need not be the case. In fact, Bacon claims, our fear of death is but one of our many cares and is “weak” compared to many other passions of the mind.36 Human beings have countless concerns—​including revenge, love, honor, and grief—​which direct our attentions from and supersede37 our apprehensions regarding death. Our other passions, however, do not simply compete with death for our attention; Bacon contends that when we are forced to consider our fear of death in light of other passions, we are compelled to acknowledge the possible instances in which we might willingly sacrifice our life for other ends. Therefore, Bacon concludes, the true cause of our fear is not death itself, but the unknowns that accompany the cessation of life. If one adheres to a religious account of an afterlife, the manner in which one lives in the mundane world influences how one will spend eternity in the next life.38 Bacon suggests that Christian interpretations depict death, first, as an aberration from God’s original plan and, second, as part of original sin. Christians understand death as a consequence of humanity’s expulsion from Eden after the Fall.39 If there is, indeed, an afterlife, one is left to wonder what it is like: is it a place of pleasure and eternal happiness, or of agony and eternal damnation? One question concerns whether we have a soul; if we do, the second question concerns what happens to our soul when we die. Depending on the type of life one has lived, death understood “as the wages of sin” may be terrifying.40 If death initiates a cumulative judgment of one’s life, dying may reasonably induce apprehension. Bacon disregards the accounts of the Christians. Much like the children’s imaginings about what happens in the dark, our concerns about an afterlife, Bacon posits, are speculative. Instead, following arguments by Cicero41 and Lucretius,42 Bacon is quick to dismiss our alleged “passage to another world.”43 Death is nothingness, he seems to suggest in “Of Death.” Since we cannot know if the soul passes to an afterlife when we die, we must live as though the soul is not immortal and there is no afterlife. As such, Bacon condemns popular religious contemplations of death as empty musings, devoid of actual substance and ill-​ founded. If death is not the beginning of a new life but rather the end of life—​cessation of experience and a nothingness (that we neither experience nor understand)—​there is nothing to fear. Why, then, is death so terrifying? Our fear of death, Bacon notes, is actually a fear of the physical suffering that accompanies bodily decay and is reinforced by the ritualization of death, which he describes as the “Groans and convulsions, and a discoloured face, and friends weeping, and blacks [funeral fabrics], and obsequies, and the like.”44 Bacon refers to “the friars’ books of mortification,”45 which Michael Kiernan, editor of the Oxford Edition of Bacon’s Essayes, associates with Robert Parsons,46 a Jesuit Priest who claims that death is perpetual torment compounding the pain that we suffer during life.47 In “Of Death,” Bacon paraphrases the accounts in these “books of mortification” and writes that Christians believe it necessary to contemplate death with terror, since anticipating the putrefaction of the body must be accompanied by the knowledge that one’s body is dying: death is unspeakably painful because death is associated with sin. As a rebuttal to “the friars’ books,” Bacon argues that accounts of death as painful are speculative, since no one has returned from death to recount to those alive the precise feeling at the moment of death. We may have seen

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202  Erin A. Dolgoy and even experienced the pain that accompanies illness or injury, but not the pain of death itself. Death, Bacon claims, need not be accompanied by pain. Bacon references Seneca, who “well said, Pompa mortis magis terret, quam mors ipsa [it is the accompaniments of death that are frightful rather than death itself].”48 In his twenty-​ fourth Epistle, “On Despising Death,” Seneca argues that “death is so little to be feared.”49 Death, as the Stoics understand it, is a gift: we were born to die; the moment of our actual demise is the conclusion of a process that began at our birth. While Bacon agrees that death is not necessarily painful, he disagrees that it is a gift. Although death may not be frightening, it should neither be embraced, as suggested by the Stoics, nor accepted, as suggested by the Epicureans. Bacon agrees with Lucretius that death is part of the process of life: “It is as natural to die as to be born.”50 To readers of Bacon, this raises the question: if death is not to be feared and is natural, why should it be conquered? First, the fear of death, as explained in Of the Advancement of Learning, impedes virtue and the cultivation of knowledge.51 Second, Bacon believes that “the facilitating and assuaging of the pains and agonies of death” are essential to relieve the human condition.52 The Instauration is the systematic conquest of nature. Death, therefore, if natural, can be overcome by human ingenuity. In order to help us overcome our fears of death, Bacon teaches us how to accept death as part of life. As long as death is depicted as a subject to be feared, we remain susceptible to exploitation by those who provide unverifiable accounts of the unknown. Since our irrational fears concerning death are the cause of our apprehensions regarding our own death, these same fears once tempered and controlled by curiosity can be used to examine our mortality.

Interlude: Natural Philosophy and the Decay of All Bodies A systematic examination of the physiology of bodily degradation, Bacon argues, requires a reevaluation of medicine with an emphasis on experimentation. The new approach to learning that Bacon recommends is inductive and, as he explains, involves a slow, methodical, experimental procedure based on the accumulation of evidence and the process of falsification. Patient observation and externally induced conditions help us to gain “knowledge of Causes and secret motions of things.”53 With the exception of natural experiments, all scientific discoveries and attendant technological innovations involve human intervention;54 in order to evaluate that which is possible through human intervention, nature must be manipulated. In Great Instauration, Bacon famously proclaims: “the secrets of nature reveal themselves more readily under the vexation of art than when they go their own way.”55 Bacon does not attempt to obfuscate the nature of his project: in order to command and control nature, nature must be bent to human ends, which, Bacon is clear, involves experimenting on animals and humans. Bacon writes the “History of Life and Death” as an appeal to “the higher physicians” in an attempt to “raise their thoughts” above cures for common ailments and towards the “prolonging and renewing” of life, which he identifies as “God’s power and mercy.”56 Unlike in the openings of his other Histories, at the start of his “History of Life and Death” Bacon appends a “Greeting,” explaining that he has chosen to write this history earlier than originally planned, because of “the extreme profit and importance of the subject.”57 He “hope[s]‌ and desire[s] that it will contribute to the common good.”58 He likens our “frail bodies” to “shoes and garments” provided by God and worn by us during “our pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world.”59 Bacon begins “History of Life and Death” by distinguishing death caused by an accident or disease from “death which proceeds from bodily decay and the atrophy of old age.”60 Accidental death, murder, and death in war, Bacon states, are not medical concerns; they are social and political concerns. “History of Life and Death” concerns the preservation of human physiology, rather than the implementation of public policy. Bacon’s account of the

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Francis Bacon  203 mechanics of bodily decay and death is not uncommon for his time. As do many of his contemporaries, Bacon believes that “ ‘Death’ [i]‌s the extinction of the flame of life.”61 Bodies, as Bacon explains in “History of Life and Death,” require heat and moisture to function. When we are no longer able to maintain temperature or replenish fluids, we begin physically to break down. Bodily functions, as Bacon understands them, are cyclical processes of moisture acquisition and moisture loss. Consequently, following the scientific beliefs of his own time, he believes that bodily decay and natural death can be controlled through moisture retention.62 For this reason, Bacon’s prescriptions often involve imbibing fortified liquids and substances, or being submerged in various fluids. Bacon provides a long list of possible preventions for aging, including a detailed regimen of opiate consumption. Most shockingly, Bacon recommends bathing in the tepid blood of kittens and infants (a practice that he admits is abhorrent to most people—​and is not endorsed by the author of this chapter).63 Unlike the young, who have regenerative capabilities superior to those of the elderly, our aging bodies, when no longer able to self-​repair, begin to manifest external indicators of decline (including wrinkles, graying hair, and liver spots); eventually, our internal systems fail, and we die. Human learning, if properly applied, can help us to overcome physical decay. The prolongation of life is nothing less than “the stopping and turning back of the powerful course of nature.”64 Some of Bacon’s aspirations for science may be foreshadowed in New Atlantis, his dense and opaque scientific utopia. The scientists on his fictional island, Bensalem, experiment with “coagulations, indurations, refrigerations, and conservations of bodies,”65 conducting experiments on hermits and animals.66 They use barometric chambers and medical baths to promote health. The scientists complete transplants and resuscitate the dead.67 On a more cosmetic level, the scientists are able to alter the physical appearances of animals, as well as enhance their lifespans, strength and speed, dispositions, sensory perceptions, and fertility.68 Finally, the Bensalemites have a special elixir that they use “for health, and prolongation of life.”69 On Bacon’s fabulous fictional island, the scientists possess biomedical technologies similar to many innovations that are available to us in our own time. In a more tempered discussion of bodily health, in “Of Regiment of Health,” the thirtieth essay in his Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral, Bacon admits that “age will not be defied,”70 yet health can be preserved. Although Bacon does not outright promise immortality of the body, in “History of Life and Death,” he does present it as a possibility: “Whatever can be repaired gradually without destroying the original whole is, like the vestal fire, potentially eternal.”71 Bacon’s promise is increased health and creature comforts, made possible through his Instauration. His willingness to challenge nature results from his clear understanding of the goal of his project: to relieve our human condition, which includes our mortal condition. To this end, Bacon is willing to do whatever is necessary. In order to experiment on nature and examine human bodies, we must overcome our fear of death and recognize death for what it is: a challenge to be understood, overcome, and (potentially) mastered.

Human Philosophy and the Importance of Reputation While the human healthspan and average lifespan have certainly increased since Bacon’s time, biological immortality is still just a scientific hope. Since Bacon is explicit that the Instauration is a project that may span centuries, he also directs our attention to alternative forms of immortality. As Bacon teaches, our “lives” also endure in the legacy of our reputations, perpetuated and kept relevant in the memories of those who succeed us. In his essay “Of Death,” Bacon notes that death “openeth the Gate, to good Fame, and extinguisheth Envie.”72 Death, if properly managed, presents an opportunity for enduring

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204  Erin A. Dolgoy reputation and memorialization. This section in “Of Death” illustrates Bacon’s use of the History of Lives, a subset of Civil History73—​which he describes in Of the Advancement of Learning, quoting Cicero—​as an example “that bona fama propria possessio defunctorum [good fame is all that a dead man can possess].”74 Bacon presents the examples of notable historical figures to help us think through the question of death and reputation. Bacon cites five Roman Emperors who “appear to be the same men till the last instant”:75 Augustus Caesar (27 BC E –​14 CE ), Tiberius (14–​ 37 C E ), Galba (68–​ 9 C E ), Vespasian (69–​79 C E ), and Septimius Severus (193–​211 C E ). Four of these emperors took power by force: Augustus Caesar, the first Emperor of the Roman Empire, seized power after the death of his uncle, Gaius Julius Caesar; Galba took power after Nero’s (54–​68 C E ) (alleged) suicide, precipitated by rebellion; Vespasian, the final Emperor of the Year of the Four Emperors, took power after the deaths of Galba, Otho, and Vitellius; and Septimius Severus killed the incumbent Emperor. Only Tiberius inherited the office, bestowed upon the death of his stepfather, Augustus Caesar. Three of these emperors died of illness—​Augustus Caesar, Vespasian, and Septimius Severus. Galba was murdered by Otho, and Tiberius either died of natural causes or was murdered. What do these five historical exemplars have in common? In addition to being emperors, each man is remembered for his final moments. Bacon suggests that the precise medical cause of one’s death may be irrelevant; rather, one’s self-​control at the time of one’s death matters. History remembers that these five emperors maintained their composure, and none appeared fearful of his imminent death. In addition to these five emperors, Bacon cites the example of Otho, the short-​reigned Emperor of Rome (January–​April, 69 CE ), supported by the army after the death of Galba. Bacon presents Otho earlier in “Of Death” as an example of the ways in which pity overcomes our natural fears of death. According to Bacon’s account, Otho’s suicide “provoked many to die, out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and as the truest sort of followers.”76 Bacon intimates that enduring love and adoration inspired Otho’s supporters to elect to die with him. Bacon chooses not to mention that Otho and Galba had been allies in the rebellion that overthrew the Emperor Nero. Galba assumed rule, and Otho expected to be named his successor. When Galba denied him that honor, Otho mounted a rebellion, assassinated Galba, and declared himself Emperor. War ensued. Otho and his allies were defeated; rather than be captured, Otho committed suicide. Bacon suggests that Otho’s followers committed suicide to ritualize and honor their beloved leader, but politics may have played a more central role. Otho’s followers were failed rebels whose involvement in the murder of the two previous Roman Emperors—​Nero and Galba—​left them open to punishment. Perhaps, the followers of Otho, I argue, were not motivated solely by pity and love, as Bacon asserts, but rather by fear of retaliation and the pain associated with torture and violent death. No scientific innovation or medical remedy can prevent the desire for political honor and glory in human beings. The importance of reputation and the ways in which we are remembered after we die seem to be an antidote to our fears of death and a reminder that physical immortality is not the only way that we can continue to “live” after we die. Intellectual historian Guido Giglioni explains, “Having failed to perpetuate life, human beings try to perpetuate the memory and glory of their accomplishments by producing imperishable records of their spiritual life.”77 Bacon encourages those of us who care about our reputations to cultivate the perpetuation of memories through our works, leaving artifacts of our existence for posterity.

Conclusion: Reputational Immortality and Enduring Legacy Bacon’s overarching concern with his own legacy evidences the importance of honor and reputation. Bacon’s own death and the mythology that surrounds it highlight the importance

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Francis Bacon  205 of opinion management. In his Brief Lives, John Aubrey recounts a story told to him by Thomas Hobbes, who served as Bacon’s secretary. According to Hobbes, Bacon’s death is the consequence of “trying an experiment.”78 On a cold and snowy day, while being driven in his coach in the company of the King’s physician, Bacon considers “why flesh might not be preserved in snow as in salt.”79 From a peasant, the two men purchase a disemboweled hen and stuff its body with snow. In Aubrey’s account, Bacon himself participates in the stuffing. Bacon is chilled, falls ill, and dies within two or three days. This story is often repeated by those who recount Bacon’s life. Aubrey depicts Bacon as a man who sacrifices his own life to pursue knowledge. Bacon dies as he has lived, advancing human learning. The legacy of Bacon’s life is framed by his death. That this account of Bacon’s death is likely false, does not appear to impede his legacy and, in fact, seems to enhance his enduring reputation. Bacon has certainly achieved immortal glory. Nearly four hundred years after his death, we read and study his ideas, reproduce his works, argue over his intentions, and continue his project to promote knowledge and improve the human condition. Bacon’s promise that the advancement of human learning and human ingenuity would both diagnose and relieve the human condition has, in many ways, proven true. Many individuals now live healthier, longer lives than did our ancestors. Yet, the benchmark for mastery of nature and alleviation of suffering is always moving; the dark corners of human understanding shift and change as our knowledge and understanding increase. Our expectations for the possible extend with each new discovery and innovation. Bacon’s warning about our irrational fears of death may be applied to all aspects of our lives: while we must treat the things that we do not yet know, or cannot yet do, with sufficient respect so as to understand their challenge, we must not allow our fear of the unknown to prevent action. Wisdom, as Bacon understands it, is knowledge concerning outcomes evidenced by action.80 The Instauration promotes this form of wisdom, since it empowers human beings to alter nature to our own ends. Bacon’s philosophy does not accept the inevitability of death or bodily decay, nor does it provide a mythology concerning an afterlife. Death is not to be feared; it is an aspect of nature to be studied and understood. Bacon challenges us to examine death in order to live longer, healthier, more productive lives dedicated to the ongoing advancement of knowledge and the continual relief of the human condition.

Notes 1 Bacon, Great Instauration, 4:8. The author thanks Michelle Schwarze and Brad Jackson who read early versions of this argument when it was still a conference paper, as well as Natalie Elliot, Kimberly Hurd Hale, Bruce Peabody, and Francie Ratner. Parts of this chapter have been adapted from the author’s doctoral dissertation. Dolgoy, 2013. 2 Bacon, Advancement, 3:294. 3 Bacon, Advancement, 3:314. 4 Bacon, Advancement, 3:315. 5 Vickers, 117. 6 Bacon, Great Instauration, 4:8. 7 The provisional nature of Bacon’s political project is a subject of controversy in the Bacon literature. See Weinberger; and White Peace, 58–​92. 8 Strauss. 9 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:156; Sibley, 262; and White, “Political Faith,” 354. 10 As examples, see Faulkner; and Minkov. 11 As examples, see Paterson; Elliot; and Giglioni. 12 Gemelli. 13 Everest.

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206  Erin A. Dolgoy 14 Keller, Knowledge, 3. 15 Keller “World of Sciences,” 730. 16 Bacon, “Magnalia Naturae,” 3:167. 17 Bacon, Advancement, 3:265. 18 Bacon, “Tithonus,” 6:727. 19 Studer, 162; Elliot follows Studer’s argument, 361–​3. 20 Bacon, “Tithonus,” 6:727. 21 Bacon, “Tithonus,” 6:728. 22 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:167. 23 Kubler-​Ross, a psychiatrist who studies death, argues, “The more we are making advancements in science, the more we seem to fear and deny the reality of death” (21). 24 Romans 6:23; and Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 25 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379–​80. 26 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 27 Bacon, “Of Truth,” 6:377. 28 It is possible that with the proper tales, our natural fears can be decreased. Certain lies are, perhaps, even noble. Plato, 414b–​c. 29 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 30 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 31 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 32 Bacon, New Organon, 4:55. 33 Bacon, “Of Truth,” 6:379. 34 Montaigne. 35 Montaigne, 68. 36 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379–​80. 37 Bacon uses the term “mate”; see OED mate, v., February 21, 2011: “To overcome, defeat, subdue.” 38 Lucretius, III.102–​35. 39 Cressy, 380. 40 Romans 6:23; and Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 41 Cicero, I.48. 42 Lucretius, III.830. 43 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 44 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. See OED blacks, adj. and n., November 5, 2020: “Hangings of black cloth used in churches, etc., at funerals; funereal drapery.” 45 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 46 Kiernan, 180. Parsons (1546–​1610) was forced to resign as a result of his Catholic sympathies. 47 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 48 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:379. 49 Seneca, 24. 50 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 51 Bacon, Advancement, 3:314. 52 Bacon, Advancement, 3:373–​4. 53 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:156. 54 Pesic, 86–​7. 55 Bacon, Great Instauration, 4:29. 56 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:215. 57 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:215. 58 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:215. 59 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:215. 60 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:217. 61 Cressy, 379. 62 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:217. 63 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:268–​307. 64 Bacon, Advancement, 3:294.

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Francis Bacon  207 65 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:156. 66 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:156–​8. 67 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:159. 68 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:159. 69 Bacon, New Atlantis, 3:158. 70 Bacon, “Of Regiment of Health,” 6:453. 71 Bacon, “Life and Death,” 5:218. 72 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 73 Bacon, Advancement, 3:333–​40. 74 Bacon, Advancement, 3:338. 75 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 76 Bacon, “Of Death,” 6:380. 77 Giglioni, 169. 78 Aubrey, 6.68. 79 Aubrey, 6.68. 80 Kass, 1.

References Aubrey, John. Brief Lives. Edited by Andrew Clark. Project Gutenberg: www.gutenberg.org/​files/​ 47787/​47787-​h/​47787-​h.htm. Bacon, Francis. The Works of Francis Bacon. Edited by James Spedding, Robert Leslie Ellis, and Douglas Denon Heath. 14 volumes. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Cicero. Tusculan Disputations. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927. Cressy, David. Birth, Marriage, and Death: Ritual, Religion, and the Life-​Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Dolgoy, Erin Alexandra. “Propaganda of Progress: Francis Bacon’s Essays as Popular Enlightenment.” PhD diss., Michigan State University, 2013. Elliot, Natalie. “The Politics of Life Extension in Francis Bacon’s Wisdom of the Ancients.” Review of Politics 77, no. 4 (2015): 351–​75. Everest, James. “Francis Bacon’s Body and His Experiments on the Prolongation of Life.” In Testimonies: States of Mind and States of the Body in the Early Modern Period, edited by Gideon Manning, 41–​57. Switzerland: Springer, 2020. Faulkner, Robert. Francis Bacon and the Project of Progress. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1993. Gemelli, Benedino. “The History of Life and Death: A ‘Spiritual’ History from Invisible Matter to Prolongation of Life.” Early Science and Medicine 17, nos. 1–​2 (2012): 134–​57. Giglioni, Guido. “Cupido sive Atomus; Dionysus, sive Cupiditas: Francis Bacon on Desire.” In Francis Bacon on Motion and Power, edited by Guido Giglioni, James A. T. Lancaster, Sorana Corneau, and Dana Jalobeanu, 153–​73. Switzerland: Springer, 2016. Kass, Leon. Beyond Therapy: Biotechnology and the Pursuit of Happiness. New York: Regan Books, 2003. Keller, Vera. Knowledge and the Public Interest, 1575–​ 1725. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. —​—​—​“The ‘New World of Sciences’: The Temporality of the Research Agenda and the Unending Ambitions of Science.” Isis 103, no. 4 (2012): 727–​34. Kiernan, Michael. Sir Francis Bacon: The Essayes or Counsels, Civill and Morall. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985. Kubler-​Ross, Elizabeth. On Death and Dying. New York: Scribner, 1997. Lucretius. De Rerum Natura. Translated by W. H. D. Rouse and revised by Martin Ferguson Smith. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997. Minkov, Svetozar. Francis Bacon’s “Inquiry Touching Human Nature”: Virtue, Philosophy, and the Relief of Man’s Estate. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2010. Montaigne, Michel de. “That to philosophize is to learn to die.” In The Complete Essays of Montaigne, translated by Donald M. Frame, 56–​68. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1958.

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208  Erin A. Dolgoy Paterson, Timothy. “Bacon’s Myth of Orpheus.” Interpretation 16, no. 3 (1989): 427–​44. Pesic, Peter. “Francis Bacon, Violence, and the Motion of Liberty: The Aristotelian Background.” Journal of the History of Ideas 75, no. 1 (2014): 69–​90. Plato. The Republic of Plato. Edited and translated by Alan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1991. Seneca. Epistulae Morales I. Translated by R. M. Gummere. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979. Sibley, Mulford Q. “Utopian Thought and Technology.” American Journal of Political Science 17, no. 2 (1973): 255–​81. Strauss, Leo. “What is Political Philosophy?” Journal of Politics 19, no. 3 (1957): 343–​68. Studer, Heidi. “ ‘Grapes Ill-​Trodden…’ Francis Bacon and the Wisdom of the Ancients.” PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1992. Vickers, Brian. “Francis Bacon, Feminist Historiography, and the Dominion of Nature.” Journal of the History of Ideas 69, no. 1 (2008): 117–​41. Weinberger, Jerry. “The Politics of Bacon’s ‘History of Henry the Seventh.’ ” Review of Politics 52, no. 4 (1990): 553–​81. White, Howard B. Peace Among the Willows: The Political Philosophy of Francis Bacon. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1968. —​—​—​“The Political Faith of John Dewey.” Journal of Politics 20, no. 2 (1958): 353–​67.

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21  Descartes on How We Should Relate to Death Frans Svensson

How should we relate to our own death?1 According to René Descartes (1596–​1650), in order for us to live well, or as we, on the whole, ought to do, it is necessary that we do not fear death. However, we must not desire or long for it either.2 In this chapter, I will examine Descartes’s arguments for these two theses in sections three (“Descartes on Why We Should Not Fear Death”) and four (“Descartes on Why We Should Not Long for Death”) respectively. In the fifth and final section of the chapter (“Conclusion: Descartes on How We Should Relate to Death”), I will focus on what he takes to be the correct approach for us to have towards death. There I will also consider some possible political implications of Descartes’s view, regarding what must be done to ensure that people have a fair chance of actually learning to relate correctly to death and, more generally, to what is good and bad in relation to ourselves. I will begin with some general background, however, and then a short introduction to Descartes’s ethical philosophy (sections one and two).

Background René Descartes (Latin name, Renatus Cartesius) is one of the most important philosophers from the early modern period (a period lasting roughly from 1500 until the French Revolution in 1789). He was also a very prominent mathematician and natural scientist. As a mathematician, Descartes is probably best known as the founder of analytic geometry. As a natural scientist, he played an important role in the scientific revolution. Among other things, he developed a new mechanistic conception of the material world. Descartes’s most influential works in philosophy, Discourse on the Method (1637), Meditations on First Philosophy (published together with six sets of objections and replies in 1641, and then in an extended version in 1642), and The Principles of Philosophy (published in Latin in 1644, and then in French in 1647), are concerned primarily with epistemology and metaphysics. His attempt to establish a secure foundation for human knowledge, as well as his arguments for the existence of an external world and for the existence of God, are still widely discussed by philosophers. The same is true of his substance dualism, i.e. of his fundamental distinction between non-​extended, immaterial mind or soul, on the one hand, and extended matter, on the other hand. In light of this distinction, Descartes famously conceived of human beings as mind–​body unions, in which the soul interacts with the body through certain life-​spirits located in the pineal gland. Descartes lived in France until 1618 when he, despite having been raised and educated as a Catholic, left for Breda in the Netherlands to serve in the army of the protestant Prince Maurice of Nassau. He returned to France in 1622, but then moved more permanently to the Netherlands in 1628, where he came to spend most of his time until 1649 when he relocated to Stockholm in Sweden, invited by the Swedish regent Queen Christina (1626–​89). Once DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-22

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210  Frans Svensson in Stockholm, however, Descartes soon contracted pneumonia, from which he never fully recovered.3

A Short Introduction to Descartes’s Ethics Since we will be concerned in what follows with Cartesian arguments for how we should—​ and, especially, for how we should not—​relate to our own demise in order for us to live well, we need to say a few things about Descartes’s ethics. Descartes in fact never wrote a treatise devoted exclusively to ethics. But in his later works, including the Meditations on First Philosophy, The Principles of Philosophy, and The Passions of the Soul (1649), important parts concern various ethical issues. There are also several letters on ethics from the same period, in particular a series of letters from 1645–​6 to Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia, as well as a few letters from 1646–​7 to his friend, the French ambassador in Stockholm, Pierre Chanut (1601–​62), and one to Queen Christina of Sweden (letter of November 20, 1647).4 What emerges from these sources are at least the outlines of a distinctive and arguably quite interesting conception of how we should live.5 Descartes proffers a kind of ethical perfectionism, according to which each person’s basic duty is to do everything in their power to secure the highest degree of intrinsic perfection that is possible for themselves.6 The degree of intrinsic perfection—​or, equivalently in Descartes’s view, the degree of being or reality—​that a person contains in herself, is determined by her possession of other intrinsic goods or perfections, such as knowledge, power (e.g. free will), being part of loving relationships, health, and noble heritage. The more that a person has of these things, the better or more perfect she is intrinsically.7 To meet or fulfill our basic duty, according to Descartes, it is both necessary and sufficient that we live the life of virtue. In Descartes’s conception, virtue is itself an intrinsic good or perfection, which is constituted “by a firm and constant resolution [in the will] to carry out to the letter all the things which one judges to be best, and to employ all the powers of one’s mind in finding out what these are.”8 Cartesian virtue is a second-​order good or perfection, in the sense that it consists in “a firm and constant resolution” in the will to respond well to such first-​order goods or perfections that were mentioned just above (knowledge, power, health, etc.).9 Responding well, in turn, should be thought of as a matter of first forming the best judgments that one is capable of about how to promote one’s possession of first-​order goods or perfections as far as possible in the circumstances, and then deciding to act in accordance with that judgment. Given our limited cognitive powers, though, there is no guarantee that the consequences of what we do after having used our will in this way will actually turn out in the way we planned or intended. According to Descartes, however, that need not worry us: “What we do after such examination may be bad, but none the less we can be sure of having done our duty.”10 But why does Descartes think that the life of virtue, as he conceives of it, is both necessary and sufficient for securing the highest degree of intrinsic perfection that is possible for oneself ? The answer to this question has to do with Descartes’s view of what is in fact possible for us with respect to our possession of different intrinsic goods or perfections. In The Passions of the Soul (article 145), Descartes writes that “we can desire only what we consider in some way to be possible; and,” he continues, things which do not depend on us can be considered possible only in so far as they are thought to depend on Fortune—​that is to say, in so far as we judge that they may happen and that similar things have happened at other times.11 However, with the exception of how we choose to use our free will, which is indeed up to us, “nothing can possibly happen other than as Providence has determined from all eternity.”12

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René Descartes  211 Indeed, “reflection upon divine Providence” teaches us that it “is a fate or immutable necessity,” which exposes “Fortune … as a chimera which arises solely from an error of our intellect” regarding “the causes which contribute to each effect.”13 In light of this, virtue, i.e. the “firm and constant resolution” to use our will well, is the only good or perfection that is in our power, and therefore the only respect in which the degrees of intrinsic perfection that we contain in ourselves could be different from what they are. The life of virtue is thus necessary for living well, within the Cartesian framework, since if we fail to live virtuously, then it will be impossible for us to obtain a higher degree of intrinsic perfection in ourselves than the one that we are currently at. The life of virtue is also sufficient for living well, since our degree of intrinsic perfection is in all other respects forever determined by God; to aim for some other intrinsic goods or perfections than virtue in our lives “would be a waste of time.”14

Descartes on Why We Should Not Fear Death The prospect of our own demise terrifies most of us. According to Descartes, however, fear of death constitutes an important obstacle to living well, i.e. to living the life of virtue, and it should therefore be avoided. But if fear of death is indeed an obstacle to living well, then how come most of us are nevertheless afraid of it? And why does fear of death, in Descartes’s view, prevent us from living well? Let us consider each of these questions in turn. Descartes does not deny that death is something bad. On the contrary, he is quite clear about our finitude being one among several respects in which human being is defective or imperfect. This can be contrasted to God, who is such “that nothing can be added to His perfection.”15 God, Descartes writes in the Meditations on First Philosophy, is “a substance that is infinite, independent, supremely intelligent, supremely powerful, and which created both myself and everything else … that exists.”16 Now, in The Passions of the Soul (article 58), Descartes claims that humans “are prompted to desire the acquisition of a good or the avoidance of an evil simply if [they] think it possible to acquire the good or avoid the evil.”17 Furthermore, depending on whether we judge that “there is much or little prospect of our getting what we desire, then whatever points to the former excites hope in us, and whatever points to the latter excites anxiety … When hope is extreme,” Descartes continues, “it changes its nature and is called ‘confidence’ or ‘assurance’,” whereas anxiety, when extreme, instead becomes fear or despair.18 As I read Descartes, people’s fear of death is grounded in ignorance about the possibility of continuously delaying death. Some people may think there is some way in which it is up to themselves to keep avoiding death, while others may think instead that it lies in the hands of Fortune whether they will do so or not. On the basis of their belief that it is somehow possible for them to avoid the evil of death, they form a desire to avoid it. At the same time, though, they also believe that the prospect of getting what they desire in this respect is very bleak indeed (after all, no one else seems to have gotten it so far!), and they are therefore struck with great fear of their own demise. According to Descartes, however, the belief that it is possible for us to delay death continuously is mistaken. As embodied creatures—​as unions of mind and body—​we are essentially finite beings: as all other physical objects, we start to exist at a certain time, and we will cease to exist at a certain time.19 In the Cartesian picture, there is in fact no room for us to postpone our death at all; not even for a short while. As we saw in the previous section, with the exception of how we choose to use our free will, “nothing” (including the time of our death, we must suppose) “can possibly happen other than as Providence has determined from all eternity.” Now, correcting for the ignorance that constitutes the source of people’s fear of death would perhaps not be of very great importance, in Descartes’s view, if it was not for the fact

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212  Frans Svensson that he thinks fear of death is incompatible with living well for humans. But why, then, does he think so? To answer this question, we need to begin by saying a few things about how Descartes conceives of the passion of fear in general. In The Passions of the Soul, Descartes suggests that our passions generally serve an important function in our lives, namely as sources of motivation for conduct that tends to render ourselves more perfect—​in particular, for conduct that tends to be beneficial to, or to preserve, the body.20 The passion of fear is a special case, however. Descartes writes that he fails to “see that it can ever be … useful.”21 Instead he suggests that fear by its very nature is an excess, more specifically “an excess of timidity [lâcheté], wonder, and anxiety,” and as such it “is always bad for us.”22 Fear is “a disturbance … of the soul” that “deprives [the soul] of the power to resist the evils which it thinks lie close at hand.”23 We become paralyzed, or completely absorbed, by the object of fear, unable to do much of anything. We are thereby also prevented from specifically virtuous deliberation and decision-​making—​from forming the best judgments that we are capable of regarding how to maximally increase our degree of intrinsic perfection, and then deciding to act accordingly—​and thus from living as we, on the whole, ought to do. Applying this to the case of fear of death, let us consider two different examples to illustrate what Descartes may have in mind. The first example is quite extreme. In the beginning of Steven Spielberg’s well-​known film Saving Private Ryan, we get to follow a few small landing crafts filled with American soldiers as they are approaching Omaha Beach on D-​day, June 6, 1944. Then the ramps on the boats are let down, and the soldiers, under heavy enemy fire, start running the last bit through the water to take cover on the beach. The scenes that follow are excruciating. In these scenes, however, we get glimpses of soldiers who—​quite understandably!—​get so overwhelmed by fear that they at some point fail to move forward. They crouch together where they are, and thereby become easy targets. Because they are paralyzed by fear, they fail to do the best they can in these dreadful circumstances, i.e. they fail to continue running together with the other soldiers and look for cover on the beach. It is, of course, far from clear that they would have survived even if they had run for the beach. But in the awful circumstances that they are in, we may suppose that their best judgment, had they not been struck by fear, would have told them to run, and if they had then also decided to act accordingly, they would have acted virtuously, according to Descartes’s account. It should be emphasized that Descartes’s view does not entail that these soldiers should be regarded as blameworthy for failing to act virtuously in this situation. As we will return to in the last section of the chapter, learning to be virtuous, according to Descartes, takes hard work, and there may be many reasons for why only a very few people are likely to ever become so virtuous that they would be able to stick to it even under the kind of circumstances that we are considering here.24 The soldiers’ fear makes them less able, though, to resist the evil that they (quite correctly) think lies “close at hand” in the sense that they are less able to reason as well as they would have otherwise done about what it would have been best for them to do, and then decide to act accordingly. In more ordinary circumstances, what might happen instead is that someone, perhaps because of something he reads or hears from a friend, starts to think seriously about his own demise, and, when coming to think that it is indeed extremely unlikely that he will be able to avoid death forever, he is taken over by fear of it. Once he is in that state, he may be unable, for a longer or shorter period, to e.g. leave his bed and get on with all the things that otherwise fill his life with a sense of meaning or purpose. Instead of giving each intrinsic good or perfection its due in his practical deliberation and decision-​making, he becomes unable to resist the thought of his own death, and thus also unable to live well or virtuously.

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Descartes on Why We Should Not Long For Death In the small group of people who do not fear death, according to Descartes, we commonly find a desire or longing for death instead. However, such an attitude towards death also constitutes an obstacle for humans to live well, and it too should therefore be avoided. As in the case with fear of death, Descartes suggests that people’s desire or longing for death is grounded in ignorance about important aspects of the human condition. In his letter of June 15, 1646 to Pierre Chanut, Descartes writes that these people’s “wisdom is drawn entirely from the teaching of others, and rests on foundations which depend entirely on human prudence and authority.”25 Descartes does not explain what he means by this more specifically, but I want to suggest that what he has in mind is roughly the following. People who long for death commonly believe, in part as a result of what they have learned from others, and in part as a result of their own experience and prudence, that avoiding death is beyond their power: that they are beings who, due to their very nature, will necessarily die one day, even though the exact time of their demise lies in the hands of Fortune. However, this has made them convinced that nothing they do in this life is of any real importance. Since we will all die one day—​indeed, since we, depending on what Fortune has in store for us, may die at any given moment—​there is, they think, no point to anything that we do. And this, in turn, gives rise to existential ennui or boredom, the only escape from which that they can see is death. These people therefore also form a desire for death—​for being released from the predicament that their earthly existence, as they believe, entails. And they do so all the more easily, Descartes suggests, if they in addition harbor a firm belief in “the immortality of the soul, and … the felicity of which it will be capable after this life.”26 In Descartes’s view, though, it is a crucial error to believe that nothing we do in this life really matters. Even though “nothing can possibly happen other than as Providence has determined from all eternity,” there is, as we have stressed before, one exception to this within the Cartesian framework, namely how we choose to use our free will. It is up to us to use our will well or badly. And whether we use our will well or badly is the one and only respect in which we can affect our degree of intrinsic perfection. How we choose to use our will therefore matters greatly. It is furthermore a mistake, in Descartes’s view, to be too firmly convinced of the immortality of the soul. Descartes is very well known for his conception of human beings as unions of mind or soul and body, i.e. as unions of two fundamentally distinct substances, one of which has extension (the body), whereas the other (the mind) lacks it. In the Second Set of Replies that are included in the Meditations on First Philosophy, he writes: Our natural knowledge tells us that the mind is distinct from the body, and that it is a substance. But in the case of the human body, the difference between it and other bodies consists merely in the arrangement of the limbs and other accidents of this sort; and the final death of the body depends solely on a division or change of shape. Now we have no convincing evidence or precedent to suggest that the death or annihilation of a substance like the mind must result from such a trivial cause as a change in shape, for this is simply a mode, and what is more not a mode of the mind, but a mode of the body which is really distinct from the mind.27 In the words of scholar Fred Ablondi, “Descartes is arguing [here] for the immortality of the soul, claiming that a change in a mode of the body could certainly not bring about the destruction of the soul.”28 However, what Descartes says in the passage just above certainly

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214  Frans Svensson falls short of constituting a proof of the immortality of the soul.29 As Descartes puts it (again in the Second Set of Replies): [I]‌t does not follow from the fact that the soul is distinct from the body that it is immortal, since it could still be claimed that God gave it such a nature that its duration comes to an end simultaneously with the end of the body’s life. Here I admit that I cannot refute [this].30 This also accords with the Synopsis of the Meditations. Descartes says there that while his arguments in the book “are enough to show that the decay of the body does not imply the destruction of the mind, and are hence enough to give mortals the hope of an after-​life,” they do not establish with certainty that the soul is immortal.31 Moreover, even if the soul would continue to exist after the annihilation of the mind–​ body union, and then (due to its freedom from the body) be capable of greater felicity than what is possible here on earth, Descartes makes it clear that we cannot know with certainty what the state of our soul will actually be in the afterlife. He writes thus to Princess Elisabeth: As for the state of the soul after this life, I am not so well informed … Leaving aside what faith tells us, I agree that by natural reason alone we can make many favourable conjectures and have fine hopes, but we cannot have any certainty.32 We can be certain that we will live well in the present life—​that we will achieve the highest degree of intrinsic perfection that is possible for us—​as long as we use our will correctly (something that is entirely up to us). It must therefore be a mistake, Descartes suggests, to long for leaving this life in favor of another existence (if indeed there is such an existence) where we cannot be certain what our state or condition will be like.33 Correcting for the (alleged) mistakes above would perhaps not be a very big issue, in Descartes’s view, were it not the case that he thinks a desire or longing for death, to which the relevant mistakes tend to give rise, is incompatible with living well. The problem this time is not, of course, that people who long for death get overwhelmed or paralyzed by fear. The problem, from the Cartesian perspective, is instead that such people get lazy or sloppy in their practical reasoning and decision-​making. Instead of judging their situations as well as they are “morally able” to do, and then deciding to act accordingly, they do not bother to pay much attention to what is really at stake in their present circumstances.34 Choosing to rely on their conviction that nothing really matters anyway, their focus is instead on their future release from this valley of boredom. As a consequence they fail to live well or virtuously, and thereby also fail to do everything in their power to obtain the highest degree of intrinsic perfection that is possible for them.

Conclusion: Descartes on How We Should Relate to Death According to Descartes, as we have seen in this chapter, in order for us to live well, we need to avoid either fearing or longing for death. But how should we then relate to death, in his view? He is not advocating that we adopt an attitude of indifference towards death, at least not insofar as that would entail not giving any weight at all to death in our practical reasoning and decision-​making. Descartes’s ideal for how we should live requires instead that we give everything that is good or bad in relation to ourselves, including our death, the weight that it deserves in the best judgments that we are “morally able” to form about what we should do in the circumstances. Objectively speaking, these judgments may very well

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René Descartes  215 turn out to be incorrect or mistaken, but as long as we do the best we can, and decide to act accordingly, we can be sure that we promote our degree of intrinsic perfection as far as it is in our own power to do so. To succeed in reliably living this way, however, we must learn to desire nothing but virtue, the one good or perfection that is up to us. Learning this is no easy matter, though. According to Descartes, it requires not only practice aimed at developing a firm habit—​“a firm and constant resolution”—​to first form, and then decide to act in accordance with, one’s own best judgments about what to do, but also knowledge about ourselves (about our shared human nature) and about our condition in the world. Lack of such knowledge can easily give rise to feelings or attitudes in us that are incompatible with living well. In this chapter, we have seen examples of this both in Descartes’s account of the cause of fear of death in people, and in his account of the cause of a desire or longing for death. The former, according to Descartes, is grounded in ignorance about the possibility of avoiding our demise, whereas the latter is grounded instead in ignorance about what matters to us in this life, on the one hand, and in ignorance about the state of our soul after the annihilation of the mind–​body union, on the other hand. Now, even though the best or most ideal way of avoiding harmful ignorance, in Descartes’s view, would be to acquire a quite extensive knowledge in metaphysics, physics, psychology, and all other fields of human enquiry,35 he suggests in a letter to Princess Elisabeth that there are in fact four truths that are more important than others for us to know, in order to live well: “the goodness of God”; that the soul “subsists apart from the body, and is much nobler than the body”; “the immensity of the universe”; and that the interests of the whole, of which each of us is a part, must always be preferred to those of our own particular person –​with measure, of course, and discretion, because it would be wrong to expose ourselves to a great evil in order to procure only a slight benefit to our kinsfolk or our country.36 To really come to know or understand these truths requires hard work. But Descartes seems optimistic here, at least in the sense that he seems to think that most of us, if we only learn to use our reason well, can come to know the relevant truths (as well as many others). And many of Descartes’s own works, including the unfinished Rules for the Direction of Mind, as well as Discourse on the Method, and Meditations on First Philosophy, are indeed at least partly attempts to teach us how to use our reason correctly. Furthermore, The Passions of the Soul contains important parts that are clearly meant to help readers to take control or become masters over their passions, especially to learn how to desire only what is dependent on us, which, in Descartes’s view, is crucial for successfully living the life of virtue. Potentially, Descartes’s views on these matters have important political or social implications. Descartes does not himself say anything explicitly about this. But granted the seemingly very plausible assumption that one important duty or obligation of the state is to provide its citizens with sufficiently good conditions for living well, it should be of great importance, against the Cartesian background, for the state to provide education for everyone—​education consisting not only in learning about discoveries made by others, but also (and perhaps especially) in learning how to reason well or correctly on our own.37 Furthermore, it seems it would be important to try and make sure that young people, both at home and outside of it, are raised in a way that encourages practice in controlling one’s passions, and to continuously use one’s will to first form the best judgments that one is capable of about what to do in the circumstances, and then decide to act accordingly.38

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Notes 1 Although I often refer simply to death, this chapter is concerned with Descartes’s view of how we should relate to our own death or demise. Much of my argument could arguably be applied to how we should relate to the death of others, according to Descartes, but detailed discussion of that issue will have to wait for another occasion. 2 To Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia (1618–​80), Descartes writes thus: “although we should not seriously fear death, we should equally never seek it” (letter of November 3, 1645, CSMK 277 /​ AT 4:333); and to his friend, the Catholic priest, theologian, and physicist, Marin Mersenne (1588–​1648): “One of the main points in my own ethical code is to love life without fearing death” (letter of January 9, 1639, CSMK 131 /​AT 2:480f). In line with what has become standard practice in the scholarly literature on Descartes, I will throughout the chapter use the following abbreviations of sources: CSM: The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, 2 vols., trans. J. Cottingham, R. Stoothoff, and D. Murdoch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); CSMK: The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, trans. J. Cottingham, R. Stoothoff, D. Murdoch, and A. Kenny (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); and AT: Œuvres de Descartes, 12 vols., edited by C. Adam and P. Tannery (rev. edn Paris: VRIN/​CNRS, 1964–​76). 3 There are several very readable and interesting intellectual biographies about Descartes. For just a few examples, see Clarke; Cottingham; Gaukroger; Gombay; and Rodis-​Lewis. 4 Descartes clearly considered Princess Elisabeth an important philosophical interlocutor. He dedicated The Principles of Philosophy to her, and their correspondence provided the impetus for him to write The Passions of the Soul. The letter to Queen Christina was written in response to a request from the Queen to learn about Descartes’s view of the highest good “understood in the sense of the ancient philosophers” (CSMK 324 /​AT 5:81f). To this letter, Descartes also attached copies of some of the letters on ethics that he had written originally to Princess Elisabeth in 1645 for the Queen to read, as well as a draft version of The Passions of the Soul. During this period, letters were an important medium for philosophical discussions. Many of Descartes’s letters (just as letters by many other intellectuals at the time) are recognized and used as important sources in the scholarly literature. 5 While there has been an important shift in the last few decades, Descartes’s ethical thought has been generally neglected by scholars. For extensive lists of references, see Rutherford; and Parvizian. 6 I defend this claim particularly in my 2020 and 2010 works. See also Schneewind, 184–​93; and Faye. 7 This kind of metaphysical theory of value, in which each thing in the universe constitutes a link in the great chain of being, to use A. O. Lovejoy’s famous expression (see Lovejoy), can arguably be traced back, via e.g. Augustine and Plotinus, all the way to Plato. I will not pursue the historical origins any further in this chapter, however, nor pause to consider in what respects Descartes’s version of it differs from the versions held by his predecessors. One notable consequence of Descartes’s view, is that “evil is nothing real, but a privation” (letter of October 6 to Princess Elisabeth, CSMK 269 /​AT 4:308). Thus, ignorance is an evil since it is a privation of knowledge; cruelty since it is a privation of compassion; and so on. 8 Letter of November 20, 1647 to Queen Christina, CSMK 325 /​AT 5:83; see also e.g. CSMK 257f. /​ AT 4:265 (letter of August 4, 1645 to Princess Elisabeth); CSMK 262 /​AT 4:277 (letter of August 18, 1645 to Princess Elisabeth); CSM 1:191 /​AT 8A:2f. (Dedicatory Letter to Princess Elisabeth in The Principles of Philosophy); CSM 1:384 /​AT 11:446 (The Passions of the Soul, article 153). 9 I believe this distinction was first introduced in relation to Descartes by Marshall, 117. 10 Letter of November 20, 1647 to Queen Christina, CSMK 325 /​AT 5:84. 11 CSM 1:380 /​AT 11:438. 12 CSM 1:380 /​AT 11:438. 13 CSM 1:380 /​AT 11:438. 14 Letter of August 4, 1645 to Princess Elisabeth, CSMK 257 /​AT 4:265. 15 Meditations on First Philosophy, Third Meditation, CSM 2:32 /​AT 7:47. 16 CSM 2:31 /​AT 7:45. 17 CSM 1:350 /​AT 11:375. This is obviously very much in line with what he says also in article 145 of the same work, which was discussed briefly in the previous section.

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René Descartes  217 18 CSM 1:351 /​AT 11:375. 19 This leaves the mind or soul (the second component of the union) intact. There therefore remains a question here about whether at least one component of ourselves continues to exist after the death of our body. We will return to this question in the next section. 20 See e.g. Passions of the Soul, article 52, CSM 1:349 /​AT 11:372. 21 Passions of the Soul, article 176, CSM 1:392 /​AT 11:463. 22 Passions of the Soul, article 176, CSM 1:392 /​AT 11:463. 23 Passions of the Soul, article 174, CSM 1:392 /​AT 11:462. 24 In Passions of the Soul, article 154, Descartes writes that virtuous persons—​or, more specifically, what he there refers to as persons in possession of generosity—​“readily come to believe that any other person can have the same [virtue], because this involves nothing which depends on someone else. That is why such people never have contempt for anyone. Although they often see that others do wrong in ways that show up their weakness, they are nevertheless more inclined to excuse than to blame them and to regard such wrong-​doing as due rather to lack of knowledge than to lack of a virtuous will” (CSM 1:384 /​AT 11:446). 25 CSMK 289 /​AT 4:442. 26 Letter of October 6, 1645 to Princess Elisabeth, CSMK 272 /​AT 4:314f. 27 CSM 2:109 /​AT 7:153. 28 Ablondi, 48. 29 I should say that Ablondi (if I understand him correctly) does not think so either. 30 CSM 2:108f. /​AT 7:153. 31 CSM 2:10 /​AT 7:13. 32 Letter of November 3, 1645, CSMK 277 /​AT 4:333. 33 Letter of November 3, 1645, CSMK 277 /​AT 4:333. The same natural reason teaches us also that we have always more good than evil in this life, and that we should never leave what is certain for what is uncertain. Consequently, in my opinion, it teaches that though we should not seriously fear death, we should equally never seek it. 34 Letter of November 20, 1647 to Queen Christina, CSMK 325 /​AT 5:84. 35 In the Letter Preface to the French edition of The Principles of Philosophy, Descartes stresses repeatedly that the search for wisdom—​by which “is meant not only prudence in our everyday affairs but also a perfect knowledge of all things that I capable of knowing” (CSM 1:179 /​AT 9B:2)—​is what “human beings, whose most important part is the mind, should devote their main efforts to” (CMS 1:180 /​AT 9B:4). 36 Letter of September 15, 1645, CSMK 265 /​AT 4:291ff. 37 In the Letter Preface to The Principles of Philosophy, Descartes writes that for the individual, it is not only beneficial to live with those who apply themselves to [the study of philosophy]; it is incomparably better to undertake it oneself … Living without philosophizing is exactly like having one’s eyes closed without ever trying to open them (CSM 1:180 /​AT 9B:3). 38 For comments and criticisms on earlier versions of this chapter, I wish to thank Martina Reuter, Ylwa Sjölin-​Wirling, Valtteri Viljanen, and, in particular, the editors of the present volume.

References Ablondi, F. “Death According to Descartes: Why the Soul Leaves the Body.” Iyyun: The Jerusalem Philosophical Quarterly 44 (January 1995): 47–​53. Clarke, D. M. Descartes: A Biography. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Cottingham, J. Descartes. Oxford: Blackwell, 1986. Faye, E. “Descartes, the Humanists, and the Perfection of the Human Being.” In Early Modern Philosophers and the Renaissance Legacy, edited by C. Muratori and G. Paganini, 155–​ 67. Cham: Springer, 2016.

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218  Frans Svensson Gaukroger, S. Descartes: An Intellectual Biography. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Gombay, A. Descartes. Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. Lovejoy, A. O. The Great Chain of Being. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936. Marshall, J. Descartes’s Moral Theory. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998. Parvizian, Saja. “René Descartes: Ethics.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, https://​iep.utm.edu/​ desc-​eth. Rodis-​Lewis, G. Descartes: His Life and Thought. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998. Rutherford, Donald. “Descartes’ Ethics.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, https://​ plato.stanford.edu/​entries/​descartes-​ethics. Schneewind, J. The Invention of Autonomy: A History of Modern Moral Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Svensson, F. “Descartes as an Ethical Perfectionist.” Journal of Modern Philosophy 2, no. 1 (2020): 1–​12. —​—​—​“The Role of Virtue in Descartes’ Ethical Theory, or: Was Descartes a Virtue Ethicist?” History of Philosophy Quarterly 27, no. 3 (2010): 215–​36.

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22  “The Wages of Sin” Morality and Mortality in John Milton’s Paradise Lost Kimberly Hurd Hale

In Enlightenment political thought, the philosophical account of the state of nature (as a pre-​political existence) forms an alternative to the predominant creation myth of Western society: the Biblical account of the Garden of Eden in Genesis. Although a variety of thinkers, such as Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, and Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, offer significantly different accounts of the state of nature, each understands human nature as decidedly secular, and seeks to uncover the most basic, fundamental, animalistic essence of human beings. The idea of the state of nature, with its emphasis on self-​preservation and individual natural rights, is enormously influential in the development of modern politics; yet the tale of Eden never quite loses its hold on the Western imagination. Christianity remains the dominant religion in the West, along with its conception of humanity as Fallen creatures yearning for the divine. One especially influential rendering of this vision is John Milton’s (1608–​74) Paradise Lost which offers an epic retelling of the myth of the Garden of Eden, imbuing the story of humanity’s Fall from grace with political lessons derived from Milton’s own experience as an ardent republican partisan during England’s Civil War (1642–​6). No stranger to violence, war, or death, Milton’s epic work is consumed with questions of human mortality. In this chapter, I apply Milton’s four-​degree characterization of death, a conception developed in his incomplete A Treatise on Christian Doctrine, to explore the fates of Adam, Eve, and Satan as depicted in Paradise Lost, and what they teach us about Milton’s views on the relationship between human morality and mortality. Milton, who defended both the regicide of Charles I in 1649 and the problematic rule of Oliver Cromwell from 1653–​8, was a radical republican, who did not hesitate to endorse the use of violence in support of his cause. Like many of his Enlightenment contemporaries, Milton conceived of political society as springing both from an innate desire for self-​ government, and a desire to escape the harsh realities of nature. Milton wrote in many forms: political treatises, letters, pamphlets, and poems. He is an astute political thinker, well known for his defense of the morality of divorce in The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, and his attack on censorship of the press in Areopagitica, perhaps his most widely read political tract. Yet rather than present his full account of human nature in the form of a treatise, Milton chooses epic poetry. Paradise Lost, acclaimed as one of the greatest pieces of English literature, allows its readers access to Milton’s philosophical argument through the lens of a myth that is simultaneously familiar and fantastical. As literary scholar Marshall Grossman argues, “as a text in which death has always already occurred, Paradise Lost is never read but always re-​read, as it is itself a re-​reading of Genesis 1–​4 … and of countless other hexameral writings.”1 Accordingly, most readers will already be familiar with the basic premise of Paradise Lost. According to the account in Genesis, God created a perfect paradise during the initial act of Creation, known as the Garden of Eden. God then created Adam and Eve to rule over all of the rest of God’s creations. Adam and Eve had but one rule: they could not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-23

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220  Kimberly Hurd Hale and Evil, which grew in the center of the Garden next to the Tree of Life. Satan, jealous of Adam and Eve’s happiness, seduces Eve into eating the forbidden fruit. Eve, in turn, convinces Adam to do the same. As punishment, God expels the couple from the Garden and proclaims that humanity will henceforth be mortal, and their lives marked by pain. As Grossman notes, we do not read Paradise Lost to discover a new account of human creation—​the story of Adam and Eve is one of the most well-​known creation myths in human history. Instead, we read Paradise Lost to reflect on how even the most familiar stories can reveal new lessons when viewed through the lens of political philosophy.

The Nature of Death As literary scholar John Erskine notes, “If there is a central doctrine in Paradise Lost, it would seem to be that death is the inevitable result of sin.”2 Prior to the Fall, according to the Biblical account, human beings were immortal in both their bodies and souls. Milton is quite clear that the two forms of humanity are inseparable, with each forming half of our nature. It is not sufficient, therefore, for human beings who are confident in the immortality of their souls to simply accept that bodily death is a result of natural law (the natural decay of the body as we age), independent of divine judgment. Human beings are made in the image of God and are thus a different category of being from the rest of the natural world. Humanity is not naturally bound by the same sort of limitations as other creatures; this distinctiveness extends to our mortality, which is not innate, but imposed as divine punishment. It is only our inability to mirror divine sinlessness that renders us vulnerable to death in both body and soul. These claims, and Milton’s understanding of death, are clearly articulated in A Treatise on Christian Doctrine. Milton explains that, “Under the head of death, in Scripture, all evils whatever, together with every thing which in its consequences tends to death, must be understood as comprehended.”3 Moreover, Milton argues that Inasmuch then as the whole man is uniformly said to consist of body, spirit, and soul, (whatever may be the distinct provinces severally assigned to these divisions), I will show, that in death, first, the whole man, and secondly, each component part suffers privation of life.4 Milton rejects those who would define man’s nature as confined simply to the body, and those who argue that the body and soul can somehow exist separately. Body, spirit (which Milton understands as divine grace), and soul are equally important components of human nature. This distinguishes Milton from most Enlightenment thinkers, who tend to focus their attention solely on physical death. Because humanity has been raised above other natural creatures, through the possession of soul and spirit, each aspect of human nature must be punished through death, and each aspect may aspire to immortality as part of a reunited whole. Milton categorizes death as punishment into four degrees: (1) guiltiness, (2) loss of divine grace, (3) bodily death, and finally (4) death of the soul. These four degrees of death are progressive; each degree builds in severity, and culminates in the complete destruction of the human being.

First Degree: Guiltiness as Bad Conscience The first degree of death, as categorized by Milton, is “guiltiness; which, though in its primary sense it is an imputation made by God to us, yet it is also, as it were, a commencement or prelude of death dwelling in us.”5 Milton seems to argue that the

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John Milton  221 presence of a conscience in human beings, the feeling of guilt that arises whenever we do wrong, is a remnant of our Fall. Human beings are not permitted, for the most part, to simply do as we please without remorse. Even if no political or legal authorities detect our wrongdoing (or if our wrongdoing is legal, but immoral), we do not escape from punishment. Our consciences produce an internal condemnation that causes us to suffer, even going so far as to occasionally cause us to wish for oblivion. It is this recourse to self-​abnegation that links guiltiness to death for Milton. Our guilt can propel us to seek the destruction of ourselves, or to suffer anguish at the prospect that our sins will surely result in divine punishment once we die. This first type of death is illustrated clearly by Adam and Eve following their Fall. When informed that their punishment for disobeying God’s edict to refrain from eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge will be “Of our loins to bring /​Into this cursed world a woeful race, /​That after wretched life must be at last /​Food for so foul a monster [death],”6 Eve resolves to prevent the guilt that comes from being “others cause of misery”7 by remaining childless. Then, doubting that Adam will be able “to abstain /​From love’s due right, nuptial embraces sweet,”8 she resolves “Let us seek death, or he not found, supply /​ With our own hands his office on ourselves,”9 reasoning that at least through suicide she and Adam will be able to choose a short, painless form of death. Eve’s dread of her looming death is all-​consuming. She is willing to forfeit the remainder of her life, and her prophesied children, to escape the feeling. As literary scholar and poet Linda Gregerson notes, “The prospect takes one’s breath away. For Eve’s proposed self-​murder is quite consciously an act of genocide as well: the suicide she is drawn to is not single, nor merely double, but racial.”10 Adam correctly reasons that suicide would only incur God’s further wrath, and instead convinces Eve to “prostrate fall /​Before him reverent, and there confess /​Humbly our faults, and pardon beg, with tears.”11 The couple’s plea does not successfully persuade God to pardon them, but he does agree with Christ’s characterization of Adam and Eve in Book XI as “Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed /​Sown with contrition in his heart, than those /​Which his own hand manuring all the trees /​Of Paradise could have produced, ere fallen /​From innocence.”12 God is pleased by Adam and Eve’s guilt –​their contrition makes their worship sweeter to the jealous and wrathful deity. God will therefore make no effort to alleviate the guilt that Adam and Eve feel. It is now a permanent feature of humanity’s connection to the divine. Guiltiness is more elusive in the character of Satan, who because of his angelic nature, does not fear bodily death or permanent death of the soul. Satan, whose degradation is traced “relentlessly”13 throughout the first books of Paradise Lost, enters the story immediately following his own Fall. At first, he is not afflicted by the bad conscience that is meant to accompany the loss of divine grace. He frames his fall as an injustice, as proof of God’s tyranny:       Furthest from him is best Whom reason hath equaled, force hath made supreme Above his equals … The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free … Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.14

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222  Kimberly Hurd Hale Satan views himself as equal to God in reason, yet inferior to God in terms of sheer power. God is characterized by Satan as a tyrant who rules through force, not through virtue. Satan claims not to regret his rebellion—​he wishes to be free more than he wishes to remain safe in heaven. Of course, one can question Satan’s judgment on this point—​he is, after all, in hell, a fact which does begin to sink in after Satan begins to experience the degradation of his spiritual and physical forms. Satan’s guilt fully manifests when he comes in sight of Eden and is reminded of his lost happiness. He contemplates begging God for mercy, but ultimately concludes that there is no hope for repentance unless he is willing to unconditionally submit to God’s rule. Satan is unwilling to submit because of his “dread of shame /​Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced” with boasts that he could overthrow God. Satan declares,       Ay me, they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain, Under what torments inwardly I groan: While they adore me on the throne of hell, With diadem and scepter high advanced The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery; such joy ambition finds.15 Though he clearly regrets his current state, Satan’s nature makes true repentance impossible. Somewhat ironically, Satan’s inability to truly die prevents him from seeking God’s mercy. Satan is immortal—​he does not fear the death of his body or the death of his soul. He does not fear what type of divine punishment may be awaiting him in the afterlife, as Satan’s punishment is clearly laid out before him. His guilt does not propel him to try to alleviate the other degrees of death that can be experienced by a human.

Second Degree: Loss of Divine Grace The second degree of death, according to Milton, is “spiritual death; by which is meant the loss of divine grace, and of that innate righteousness, wherein man in the beginning lived unto God … And this death took place not only on the very day, but at the very moment of the fall.”16 This loss of divine grace opens humanity to the other forms of death. The Fall, as described in Genesis and Paradise Lost, altered every aspect of humanity’s experience in the world. Not only do we die, we also age. We experience pain—​physical and emotional. We are vulnerable to the natural world, and fight with our loved ones. We must live our lives conscious of our inevitable, impending death, casting a pall over all our actions and forcing us to act with urgency to delay our deaths and secure our legacies. In Paradise Lost, the Fall, and the loss of divine grace, is not portrayed as a momentary lapse in judgment; rather, it is the culmination of the distinctive characters of Adam and Eve, especially Eve’s growing (and perhaps justified) dissatisfaction with her role in Eden. According to Milton’s account, Eve is created in order to provide Adam with a companion, and to facilitate procreation. She immediately displays an interest in self-​examination and fascination with her own beauty, which could be dismissed as vanity by the casual reader.17 Eve views herself as initially superior to Adam because of her beauty, noting that when she first awakened, she “pined with vain desire” over her own reflection, initially rejecting the approaching Adam as “less fair … than that smooth watery image.”18 While Eve’s description is certainly humorous, and clearly invokes the Greek myth of Narcissus, who fell so deeply in love with his own reflection that he ultimately perished, this passage deserves

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John Milton  223 closer consideration. After all, Eve’s beauty is prized by both Adam and Satan. As Adam proclaims before the Fall,       Yet when I approach Her loveliness, so absolute she seems And in her self complete, so well to know Her own, that what she wills to do or say, Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; All higher knowledge in her presence falls Degraded.19 We should not be so quick to dismiss Eve’s regard for beauty; after all, her beauty is so great that it overwhelms the “superior” reason of Adam. And while one may be tempted to simply condemn Adam as weak, it is worth considering the inherent power and worth of beauty. Eve’s beauty does not make her wise, but her allure does grant her power over all who see her. Because of her physical beauty, Eve has the potential to wield outsized influence over others. Both Adam and God should be concerned with her education—​teaching her to use her innate reason to govern her passions and desires, and control her desire for power; unfortunately, neither Adam nor God exhibits an interest in cultivating Eve’s wisdom. Adam’s supposed superiority is established by God’s edict, and by his education at the hands of the archangel Raphael, according to Milton. Though Adam believes that Eve is “Of nature … the inferior, in the mind /​And inward faculties, which most excel, /​In outward also … resembling less /​His image who made both,”20 the reader has already learned that Adam’s judgment on such matters is suspect, as his love for Eve prevents him from seeing her clearly. In the Garden, Eve participates in the naming of the flowers, which as Deirdre Keenan McChrystal notes, lends her an authority over the Garden equal to that of Adam.21 Moreover, she supersedes Adam in her love of arguments, marking her a proto-​ Socratic figure.22 Adam, though he converses with the archangel Raphael about the nature of creation, declines to engage in reasoned debate with Eve. He does not wish to combine the public life of learning with his private life of matrimony. Eve, on the other hand, views dialectic as one more source of marital pleasure. Adam’s refusal sparks the first disagreement between the pair, leading Eve to suggest that they work apart for the first time since their creation. Eve’s request for autonomy will prove fateful, as Satan uses Eve’s isolation as an opportunity to approach her free from interference. Milton’s account of the serpent’s seduction of Eve deserves much attention. While it is true that the serpent flatters Eve’s beauty, he primarily appeals to her reason in convincing her to eat the forbidden fruit. Like Satan, Eve values reason, much more than she values innate righteousness; as a result, she is already predisposed to be suspicious of God’s rule. Satan convinces her that knowledge of good and evil will render her a more equal companion to Adam, and will free her from the burden of dependency. Eve reasons that God’s prohibition is “Irrational,” as knowledge must always be good, and “good unknown, sure is not had.”23 Once she eats the fruit, and gains understanding of moral philosophy, Eve does not regret her decision, aside from apprehension at Adam’s possible reaction. She reasons that her new knowledge will “add what wants /​ In female sex, the more to draw his love, /​And render me more equal, and perhaps, /​A thing not undesirable, sometime /​Superior; for inferior, who is free?”24 Readers inclined to view Eve, and thus all women who desire independence, unfavorably will undoubtedly read the preceding passage as an example of Eve’s hubris and lack of humility. Sympathetic readers, however, are likely to simply nod in agreement. Eve’s reasoning merely asserts her intention

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224  Kimberly Hurd Hale to partake fully in the governing of her own life, and the life of her family. To some readers, Milton’s Eve is an offensive stereotype of a patriarchal society’s vision of womanhood;25 to others, she is a proto-​feminist who asserts her agency even in the face of God.26 To some, Milton’s Eve brings sin and death into humanity’s world. To others, she is the Promethean gifter of moral philosophy and champion of human reason. If Eden represents the separation of man from God, one can say that through the Fall Eve transcends the Garden of Eden, breaking with divine law, but gaining an understanding of divine things. She forces humanity out of a state of nature that is happy, but devoid of philosophy. Several scholars argue that Milton presents prelapsarian Adam and Eve as a glimpse into the ideal state of matrimony, a blissful example for conjugal unions.27 While it is true that prelapsarian Adam is blissful, Eve almost immediately indicates her lack of fulfillment. She is open to Satan’s persuasion, because his arguments echo her existing nascent resentments of Adam and Raphael.28 Eve does not fully understand the implications of her actions, but she is not a naïf easily seduced by Satan’s manipulations. Eve has desires all her own, and she acts to make those desires reality. In Milton’s account, Eve is still ultimately seduced by Satan, but her Fall from grace is motivated by a desire for reason and equality, not vanity or foolishness. The loss of divine grace, which for Milton is the second degree of death, is less clearly bad than the other degrees of death. While the loss of divine grace separates humanity from God and reduces our happiness, it also propels us to develop the capacity for philosophy, to reclaim a sort of divinity that is all our own.

Third Degree: Death of the Body The third degree of death, death of the body, invokes perhaps the most interesting of Milton’s theological arguments. He maintains that “bodily death from which we are to rise again, originated in sin, and not in nature; contrary to the opinion of those who maintain that temporal death is the result of natural causes, and that eternal death alone is due to sin.”29 As discussed earlier in this chapter, Milton views humanity as created separately from the rest of nature, and thus not bound by the same natural laws that govern other living things. Our bodily deaths are a result of Adam and Eve’s sin. With respect to humanity’s Fall, Milton argues that “the mind … is the part principally offending.”30 Yet, Adam and Eve’s sin is also physical. They do not simply rebel against God in their minds; their rebellion manifests in the physical act of eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Adam’s immediate reaction, in particular, to the consumption of the fruit is an inflaming of “carnal desire” towards Eve.31 The effects of the fruit of knowledge of good and evil are not confined to the minds, or even emotions, of Adam and Eve. Their bodily responses are greatly affected by their Fall from grace. As a consequence, each part of their immortal beings, body, soul, and spirit, must undergo the punishment of death. After all, “For what could be more just, than that he who had sinned in his whole person, should die in his whole person?”32 In Milton’s view, the initial death of the human body is accompanied by the death of the human soul. He argues: The common definition, which supposes [death] to consist in the separation of soul and body, is inadmissible. For what part of man is it that dies when this separation takes place? Is it the soul? This will not be admitted by the supporters of the above definition. Is it then the body? But how can that be said to die, which never had any life of itself ? Therefore the separation of soul and body cannot be called the death of man.33 The accepted Christian doctrine of the immortal soul presupposes that the body cannot live without the presence of a soul, though a soul may exist independently of the body. As

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John Milton  225 Milton points out, however, if the body cannot live without the soul, then it cannot be properly said to have life of its own. Death, as it is commonly understood, must consist of the death of both the body and soul in order for God’s punishment to be complete.34 Of course, Satan represents a complication to Milton’s argument about the physical death of the body. Satan, though he experiences the second degree of death when he rebels against God and is cast out of heaven, is still immortal. This is not a mercy, however. Satan’s punishment for precipitating the fall of Eve does take a physical form in addition to the spiritual torment he displays throughout the text. Upon returning to hell to announce his corruption of humanity, Satan and his devils find themselves transformed into lowly serpents. They experience great physical pain, stemming from their inability to quench their hunger and thirst in hell, before finally returning to their immortal, demonic shapes.35 It is said, by Milton, that this punishment will be ongoing, afflicting the fallen angels periodically for the rest of eternity. Though Satan and his devils cannot die bodily deaths, they do lose their beautiful angelic forms, becoming twisted and degraded, and temporarily suffering the pains and indignities of mortal bodies, without the hope that the fourth degree of death, permanent death of the body and soul, will one day bring an end to their suffering.

Fourth Degree: Permanent Death The third degree of death, in which the death of the human body is accompanied by the death of the spirit and soul, is not permanent. Resurrection of the complete human being—​ body, soul, and spirit—​will occur during the end of days so that each person can face divine judgment. Those who are found to be righteous, having repented of their sins, will have their original prelapsarian nature returned to them, and enjoy a state of “immortal happiness.”36 Those who have not repented, on the other hand, will experience the fourth type of death, which is “death eternal, the punishment of the damned.”37 Milton is much less specific in describing his thoughts on what “death eternal” will actually look like in practice. It could be either permanent death, from which no resurrection is possible, or it could mean eternal torment in hell, existing in a constant state of dying—​with all of the guilt, hardship, and pain that accompany death. The latter possibility is raised by Adam, as he contemplates his own death. As Rachel Trubowitz elucidates, This ‘thought /​Horrid’ brings Adam to the ultimate impasse, to the ‘strange contradiction’ that death might not represent a final rest … ‘Will he draw out,’ Adam miserably wonders, ‘For anger’s sake, finite to infinite /​In punisht Man’ (10.801–​3). The thought that this unthinkable state of never-​ending negation –​that ‘death’, is, in fact, the essential condition of postlapsarian ‘life’ –​drives Adam into a self-​made prison house of ‘horrors’, an ‘Abyss of fears /​And horrors … out of which /​I find no way’ (10.840–​2.)38 The contemplation of existing in a constant, ceaseless state of dying, akin to the punishment of Satan and his devils, is much more horrific (to Adam and to the reader) than the possibility of permanent death. As Erskine notes, it is uncertain in Paradise Lost whether death ultimately is a side-​effect of Satan’s corruption of Eve or a gift that God bestows on humanity.39 In the early books of Paradise Lost, the reader is introduced to Death not just as a concept, but as an incarnate character. Death incarnate is revealed to have been conceived as a result of Satan’s incestuous dalliance with his daughter Sin, who had burst fully formed, “a goddess armed,” from Satan’s head while he still resided in heaven.40 Satan’s incestuous coupling with Sin corresponds to his rebellion against God, after which Sin was stationed

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226  Kimberly Hurd Hale by God to guard the gates of hell. Sin recounts the birth of Death, an “odious offspring” who first deformed her body and then raped her until she conceived vicious hellhounds, who continuously devour her womb. Sin describes Death as her “son and foe, who sets [the hellhounds] on, /​And me his parent would soon devour /​For want of other prey, but that he knows /​His end with mine involved.”41 Milton’s description of Death is grotesque, by far the most viscerally disturbing passage in the poem. Even Sin is desperate to escape Death’s attentions, bargaining with Satan that she will unlock the gate of hell for him in exchange for Satan’s promise to bring both Death and herself to Earth, which would allow for Death to feed freely on creatures other than herself.42 Death would therefore seem to be a great evil, afflicted upon humanity by Satan. Yet in the latter books of Paradise Lost, death is portrayed as a gift bestowed on sinful humanity by a merciful God. God, having heard Christ’s appeal for leniency towards Adam and Eve, responds:      I at first with two fair gifts Created him endowed, with happiness And immortality: that fondly lost, This other served but to eternize woe; Till I provided death; so death becomes His final remedy, and after life Tried in sharp tribulation, and refined By faith and faithful works, to second life Waked in the renovation of the just, Resigns him up with heaven and earth renewed.43 In this passage, death is characterized as a gift from God. Having lost our innate righteousness (the second degree of death), human life will be plagued by guilt (the first degree of death) and the pain of physical injury and aging (the third degree of death). The death described here by God as man’s “final remedy” seems to be Milton’s fourth degree of death, permanent death of the entire human being. The just will be “waked” and either ascend to heaven or reside in a restored Eden; they will not experience this fourth degree of death. As Elizabeth Jane Bellamy and her co-​authors argue, In Paradise Lost, then, we see Death move from ferocious predatory monster to a necessary scavenger, and from a physical and psychological torture to a rite of passage to eternal life. Throughout the epic, Milton prosecutes the transformation of Death with imaginative force and persuasive eloquence, perhaps best convincing us of the justice of God’s ways in the ultimately benign portrait of Death’s role in God’s larger plans.44 Throughout Paradise Lost, no character refers to the present or future presence of damned human souls residing in hell, indicating that permanent death is more akin to simple non-​ existence than to eternal torment. Satan describes himself and his fellow fallen angels as eternally condemned to hell, but he never anticipates the arrival of humans in hell after the day of judgment. And, as seen in the passage quoted above, God seemingly indicates that only the just will be awakened on that day. It seems, then, that Milton’s view of death is ultimately more positive than his initial descriptions indicate. Adam and Eve (and Satan) must undergo the various degrees of death as a punishment for their sins, but it seems that only Satan’s punishment is to be unending. Adam and Eve, and their descendants, will either be reborn into a glorious second life, or will find peace in the permanence of oblivion. In

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John Milton  227 the meantime, though humanity must suffer, we are also able to philosophize, seemingly because of Eve’s choices, capacities, and example. Though death cannot be said to be good, for Milton, it may be a worthwhile price for the possibility of wisdom.

Conclusion In addition to his obvious gifts as a poet and philosopher, Milton was an ardent, active republican, opposing the English monarchy in both his actions and writings. Paradise Lost, as his magnum opus, reflects not only Milton’s theological concerns and literary ambitions; it also contains serious contemplation about human nature, reason, sovereignty, and the role that death plays in the human condition. The poem can be read as sympathetic to the arguments of all of the characters—​God, Satan, Adam, or Eve. It can be read as a defense of God’s rightful rule over creation, a defense of republican rebellion against monarchy, an account of humanity’s frailty, and a celebration of humanity’s thirst for reason and knowledge. This ambiguity is purposeful, reflecting the complicated relationship between humanity, nature, and the divine. Milton views the story of Adam and Eve as much more complex than a simple allegory about humanity’s innate sinfulness and the promise of divine mercy. There are no clear villains or heroes in the story of humanity’s Fall from grace. Milton’s four degrees of death help us to trace the ambiguous nature of death in Paradise Lost. Milton maintains that each part of the human being—​ body, soul, spirit—​ must undergo death as a consequence of the Fall. The first three degrees of death are a punishment. During our lives we are plagued by guilt, beset by sinfulness (in ourselves and others), and tormented by the knowledge that our bodies will die, either naturally through a painful decline in health or prematurely through violence. Yet these three degrees of death are not the end of Milton’s teaching. The righteous amongst us will gain eternal life through God’s grace. Even if we fail to achieve salvation and eternal life, we will not be condemned to an eternity spent in the torment of ceaseless dying. The fourth degree of death, permanent death of the whole human being, remains as a possible respite, as the unjust will simply pass into nothingness. Death is neither a harsh punishment bestowed on a sinful humanity by a wrathful God, nor is it a natural part of human life. The truth is, as usual, somewhere in between.

Notes 1 Grossman, 118. 2 Erskine, 573. 3 Milton, Christian Doctrine, 272. Hereafter abbreviated as CD. 4 CD, 279–​80. 5 CD, 273. 6 Milton, Paradise Lost, 10.983–​6. Hereafter abbreviated as PL. 7 PL, 10.982. 8 PL, 10.993–​4. 9 PL, 10.1001–​2. 10 Gregerson, 114. Eve’s suicide will effectively eliminate the human race from existence. 11 PL, 10.1086–​8. 12 PL, 11.26–​30. 13 Erskine, 575. 14 PL, 1.247–​64. 15 PL, 4.83–​92. 16 CD, 273. 17 PL, 4.460–​80.

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228  Kimberly Hurd Hale 18 19 20 21

PL, 4.465, 478–​80. PL, 8.546–​52. PL, 8.541–​3. McChrystal, 493 recounts that Eve’s naming power is typically ignored or dismissed by scholars, since she only names the flowers while Adam names the animals. She rightly notes that an argument that naming the plants is less important than naming the animals is both illogical and arbitrary. 22 Kuzner, 117–​18. 23 PL, 9.756. 24 PL, 9.822–​5. 25 See Wittreich; Miller; Shullenberger; and Jordan for extended discussions of past and current scholarly and critical debate on this topic. 26 Webber, 10; Vogel, 22; McChrystal, 493; Miller, 59; Kuzner, 117–​18; Wittreich, 100. 27 Anderson, 126; Shullenberger, 73–​8; Jordan, 79–​114. 28 Webber, 16 argues that Eve’s association with nature and dreaming, as opposed to Adam’s association with the sky and speculation, make her more open to education than Adam. One can extrapolate the argument that Eve’s receptiveness to Satan’s persuasion is partially a result of Raphael’s uninterest in educating her. 29 CD, 279. 30 CD, 279. 31 PL, 9.1013. 32 CD, 279. 33 CD, 279. 34 Erskine (footnote 8) argues that, Milton seems to have made the acquaintance of this idea [that both body and soul die together and are resurrected together] in Calvin’s Psychopannychia (Opera, ed. Baum, Cunitz, Reuss, vol. v, p. 168), a tract written in 1534 against the idea. The doctrine had been taught by certain of the early Anabaptists, whom Calvin felt it necessary to answer. 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44

PL, 10.513–​79. Erskine, 574. CD, 293. Trubowitz, 142. Erskine, 573. PL, 2.757. Sin’s description of her birth mirrors that of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, who emerged fully formed from her father Zeus’ head. PL, 2.804–​7. Trubowitz, 143, argues, “In the prelapsarian world, Death feeds exclusively on Sin’s entrails; in the postlapsarian universe, however, Nature would appear to breed life for the sole purpose of supplying Death with a never-​ebbing flow of corroding bodies and souls upon which to feast.” PL, 11.57–​66. Bellamy, Cheney, and Shoenfeldt, 21.

References Anderson, Douglas. “Unfallen Marriage and the Fallen Imagination in Paradise Lost.” Studies in English Literature 1500–​1900 26, no. 1 (1986): 125–​44. Bellamy, Elizabeth Jane, Patrick Cheney, and Michael Shoenfeldt. “Introduction: Towards Defining a Poetics of Death in Spenser and Milton.” In Imagining Death in Spenser and Milton. Edited by Elizabeth Jane Bellamy, Patrick Cheney, and Michael Shoenfeldt, 1–​27. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Erskine, John. “The Theme of Death in Paradise Lost.” PMLA 32, no. 4 (1917): 573–​82. Gregerson, Linda. “Anatomizing Death.” In Imagining Death in Spenser and Milton. Edited by Elizabeth Jane Bellamy, Patrick Cheney, and Michael Shoenfeldt, 95–​115. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

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John Milton  229 Grossman, Marshall. “Reading Death and the Ethics of Enjoyment in Spenser and Milton.” In Imagining Death in Spenser and Milton. Edited by Elizabeth Jane Bellamy, Patrick Cheney, and Michael Shoenfeldt, 116–​30. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Jordan, Matthew. Milton and Modernity: Politics, Masculinity, and Paradise Lost. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001. Kuzner, James. “Habermas Goes to Hell: Pleasure, Public Reason, and the Republicanism of Paradise Lost.” Criticism 51, no. 1 (2009): 105–​45. McChrystal, Deirdre Keenan. “Redeeming Eve.” English Renaissance Studies 23, no. 3 (1993): 490–​508. Miller, Shannon. “Serpentine Eve: Milton and the Seventeenth-​Century Debate over Women.” Milton Quarterly 42, no. 1 (2008): 44–​68. Milton, John. A Treatise on Christian Doctrine. Translated by Charles R. Sumner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1825. —​—​—​ Paradise Lost. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Originally published 1674. Shullenberger, William. “Wrestling with the Angel: Paradise Lost and Feminist Criticism.” Milton Quarterly 20, no. 3 (1986): 69–​85. Trubowitz, Rachel. “Sublime/​Pauline: Denying Death in Paradise Lost.” In Imagining Death in Spenser and Milton. Edited by Elizabeth Jane Bellamy, Patrick Cheney, and Michael Shoenfeldt, 131–​50. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Vogel, Dan. “Eve –​The First Feminist: John Milton’s Midrash on Genesis 3:6.” Jewish Bible Quarterly 40, no. 1 (2012): 19–​24. Webber, Joan Malory. “The Politics of Poetry: Feminism and Paradise Lost.” Milton Studies 14 (1980): 3–​24. Wittreich, Joseph. Feminist Milton. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1987.

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23  A Liberation from Fear Benedict de Spinoza on Religion, Philosophy, and Mortality Aaron L. Herold

Benedict de Spinoza (1632–​77), a philosopher and excommunicated Jew notorious during his lifetime for his anti-​religious views, was one of the theoretical founders of modern science, modern politics, and modern Christianity. His Theologico-​Political Treatise (1670) laid the basis for contemporary liberal interpretations of the Bible, founded the discipline of biblical criticism, and made the first and most important argument for a “free republic” in which “each is permitted both to think what he wants and to say what he thinks.”1 His other major finished work, the Ethics (1677), articulates “in geometric order” a seemingly complete picture of a mechanistic universe—​which he terms “God”—​and it also claims on that basis to illustrate the possibility of a summum bonum in the life of understanding. Spinoza’s thought has thus puzzled interpreters and defied categorization. First described by Pierre Bayle as a “Systematic Atheist,”2 he was later regarded as a pantheistic mystic—​a “God-​intoxicated man,” in Novalis’3 words. His critique of teleology, his embrace of determinism, and his support for modern politics align him with Thomas Hobbes and John Locke; but his claim that philosophy is our Finis Ultimus places him closer to the classical tradition for which he otherwise had much contempt.4 He has thus been called “the last of the mediaevals” and “the first of the moderns.”5 In this essay, I will illustrate Spinoza’s thoughts on mortality and our awareness of it. In the Ethics, he famously declares that “A free man thinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is a meditation on life, not on death.”6 By freedom Spinoza means not—​or not only—​ political freedom, but the “freedom of mind” and intellectual liberation from “superstition” which he calls “human blessedness”: “I call him free who is led by reason alone.”7 Such a person will accept that the universe is non-​teleological and governed by impersonal necessities indifferent to human concerns. At the same time, Spinoza’s claim that such a person will think of “nothing less” than of death, while not precisely a claim that a free person will not think about death at all, nonetheless could not be farther from the Socratic maxim that to philosophize is to learn how to die8 (to say nothing of religious traditions emphasizing the importance of the hereafter). Spinoza apparently denies that accepting an indifferent universe entails an anguished coming-​to-​grips with our finitude and irrelevancy—​with the fact that each of us is merely “a particle” in a vast universe which will eventually cease to be.9 In contrast to Socrates and the classical tradition, Spinoza denies that humans are unfulfilled erotic beings deeply troubled by their mortality and longing to escape it. Like his Enlightenment allies Hobbes and Locke, Spinoza insists that our concerns can be limited to the present life. At the same time, in claiming a free man will no longer fear death, Spinoza also breaks from these thinkers, both of whom placed fear at the forefront of their psychological and political teachings. Hobbes, of course, based his entire political project on the fear of death (“that terrible enemy of nature”)10—​which he regarded as healthy for avoiding a return to the horrors of the natural condition. For his part, Locke, in a probable critique of Spinoza, characterized all human psychology as a desire to escape DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-24

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Benedict de Spinoza  231 some pain or “uneasiness”.11 Against his contemporaries and in agreement with the classical tradition, Spinoza insists that human beings are positively directed. In our actions, we seek to attain the beneficial rather than to avoid the harmful, and those in the grip of fear are therefore in the same kind of psychological bondage that gives rise to superstition—​the theological enemy Spinoza shares with Hobbes and Locke. To see what Spinoza means by superstition, and to understand his place with respect to both classical and modern rationalism, it is necessary to begin with his critique of the biblical tradition, which also regards human beings as restive and never fully at home in this world. In the Theologico-​Political Treatise, Spinoza honors the Bible by identifying it as the great challenger and alternative to the life of reason, and thus to his own conception of human blessedness. As the most developed form of “superstition,” Christianity teaches that our condition of anxious preoccupation with our mortality can be transcended, and our hopes for another life fulfilled. As I will argue in this essay, both the Ethics and the Treatise attempt to refute that challenge by demonstrating that superstition is a natural product of fear, and by pointing us towards a self-​satisfied existence in which the fear of death has been significantly dampened. According to Spinoza, I suggest, this liberation from fear has the potential to remove superstition as a theoretical (and not merely a political) rival to philosophy. But, as I will note at the end of this essay, this Spinozistic project leaves us with some large unanswered questions.

Philosophy and the Problem of Superstition Spinoza opens the preface to the Theologico-​Political Treatise with a declaration of the fundamental problem besetting the human condition: “If human beings could regulate all their affairs with certain counsel, or if fortune were always favorable to them, they would not be bound by any superstition.”12 Our psychology, Spinoza suggests, is such that in fortunate circumstances we become “overconfident, boastful, and proud.” But when we are in desperate straits and overcome by fear, we will “seek counsel on bended knees from anyone” and listen to absolutely any advice, no matter how absurd.13 Repelled back and forth between the “hope for better things” and the “fear of worse ones,”14 we alternately believe ourselves wholly self-​sufficient and entirely dependent on outside forces. In the latter moments, and especially when our desperation is accompanied by ignorance, we regard natural occurrences with “great wonderment” and seek to propitiate “God” or “the Gods” with “sacrifices and prayers” so we can attain the “vain things” we long for.15 And lest one think Spinoza is speaking here only of the primitive or hopelessly backward, the sole example he gives of a superstitious man is Alexander the Great. Alexander, he says, gave no thought to divinity when his victories were piling up, but he repeatedly turned to prognosticators and ordered sacrifices performed when his circumstances became desperate.16 From this example and “very many” others with which he presumes his readers will be familiar, Spinoza concludes “that all human beings are by nature vulnerable to superstition (whatever others say who deem that it arises in that all mortals have some confused idea of the deity).”17 Spinoza thus denies that human beings are continually troubled by a concern with their mortality. Like Alexander, they will certainly be terrified of death when they are gravely injured or seriously ill, but (he suggests) in more fortunate times the prospect of non-​ being does not deeply trouble them. The idea that human beings in the prime of life who enjoy goods of fortune like prosperity, comfort, and longevity might still be deeply anxious about death—​if only in hard to detect ways—​is foreign to Spinoza.18 In its most mature form, according to Spinoza, superstition manifests itself as a robust anti-​rationalism—​a way of thinking (so to speak) that calls “human wisdom vain and reason blind”19 and castigates the natural light as “by nature corrupt.”20 Spinoza thus says

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232  Aaron L. Herold that his contemporaries, despite their monotheism, are “still vulnerable to the superstition of the Gentiles”21—​the clear implication being that Christianity arises from the same psychological causes as Greco-​Roman religion. To understand those causes more fully, we must begin with the fact that all human beings are fundamentally and necessarily self-​interested: it is a universal law of human nature that no one neglects what he judges to be good, unless in hope of a greater good or on the basis of a dread of greater harm. Nor would he prefer some evil, unless to avoid a greater one.22 That each person will “love himself ” and “seek his own advantage” is “as necessarily true as that the whole is greater than its part.” Thus, self-​sacrifice is strictly speaking impossible. Those who commit suicide, for example, are “conquered by external [psychological] causes” which lead them to see death as advantageous.23 To Spinoza, so fundamental is our natural selfishness that it leads most of us, who have not reconciled ourselves to the reality of an indifferent universe, to interpret the whole of nature as though it were designed for our advantage. In the appendix to Part I of the Ethics, Spinoza identifies as the chief rival of his account of the cosmos the idea that the universe acts with a view to an end, or that divinity directs “all natural things as a means” to human advantage.24 Teleology always implies anthropocentrism, not only because humans imaginatively project their selfish needs and desires onto the universe when they create their religions, but also because moral categories like “good, evil, order, confusion, … beauty, [and] ugliness” are themselves human creations arising from and reflecting our self-​interested desires.25 In Spinoza’s account human beings will first posit a beneficent universe, and only then, on the basis of God’s goodness, will they seek to explain “storms, earthquakes, diseases, and the like” as arising on account of our sins.26 Now, while Spinoza’s critique of superstition is clearly directed primarily against biblical theology, it also entails a correction of the psychological teaching of Hobbes (who was otherwise his ally in the fight against superstition). In denying the primacy of the good, Hobbes had placed fear (especially of death) at the forefront of our existence. In contrast, Part IV of Spinoza’s Ethics (“Of Human Bondage”) emphasizes fear as a passion that has the potential to enslave us and thus prevent us from living a rational, or truly human, life: “He who is guided by fear, and does good to avoid evil, is not guided by reason.”27 Spinoza, like Hobbes, defines the good as the advantageous, but he claims that those who are enthralled by fear, who seek primarily to avoid evils rather than to attain goods, suffer from a kind of psychological illness which he illustrates by analogy: “The sick man, from timidity regarding death, eats what he is repelled by, whereas the healthy man enjoys his food, and in this way enjoys life better than if he feared death, and directly desired to avoid it.”28 To understand this argument better, it is necessary to examine the particular good Spinoza says all men seek. This good is the striving (conatus) to preserve one’s being which he identifies as the essence of all beings: “the highest law of nature is that each thing strive[s]‌ … to persevere in its state—​and do so for its own sake and not for another.”29 As Spinoza explains, cats wish to continue as cats, dogs as dogs, plants as plants, fools as fools, and the wise as wise.30 To do so, all these must avoid dying, but it is the joy arising from their desire to go on being as they are, rather than the painful prospect of not doing so, that forms the core of who they are and what they do.31 Existence is non-​teleological—​insofar as it is not oriented towards a (moral) end outside itself—​but it is positively directed: just as lions would not want to be house-​cats, human beings would not want to go on living as beasts.32 But the converse is true also: just as cats do not long to become lions, human beings do not seek to become gods. The desire for self-​sacrifice is as impossible as that for self-​transcendence: “that a man should, from the necessity of his own nature, strive not to

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Benedict de Spinoza  233 exist, or to be changed into another form, is as impossible as that something should come from nothing.”33 “Superstition” (i.e. Christianity) of course, understands our psychology—​and consequently our blessedness—​quite differently than does Spinoza. Christianity “seems to maintain that the good is what brings sadness, and the evil, what brings joy.”34 Paradoxically praising humility and martyrdom, the New Testament teaches that he who loses his life will save it, and that those who are last will ultimately be first.35 As a replacement, Spinoza proposes his own, perhaps no less paradoxical, portrait of human excellence. He claims our summum bonum or finis ultimus can be attained only by understanding that the universe is non-​teleological and therefore in no way supportive of such claims of human dignity and greatness. Man’s “blessedness” or “highest happiness” “is nothing but that satisfaction of mind which stems from intuitive knowledge of God.”36 By “God,” Spinoza here means not the biblical God but that infinite, deterministic, and wholly indifferent nexus of causation which we might more accurately term “the laws of nature.”37 Since “no one does anything except on the basis of the predetermined order of nature,”38 all human actions are links in a causal chain dating back (and forward) ad infinitum.39 Everything we do could not have been done otherwise, although that same necessity requires that we not think of our actions this way but instead “consider things as open possibilities.”40 In such a universe, each of us is but a mere “particle” in relation to the whole of nature,41 and a mortal one at that: “There is no singular thing in Nature than which there is not another more powerful and stronger. Whatever one is given, there is another more powerful by which the first can be destroyed.”42 The Bible teaches that God rewards the just and punishes the unjust in another life, but “Philosophy alone teaches” that God “cares equally for all.”43 The same fate awaits the righteous and the wicked.44 Spinoza’s teaching, however, is that it is precisely by recognizing this truth, that we inhabit a universe in which we have no special status and to which moral categories are inapplicable, that we can attain our greatest good. The “whole of our knowledge, that is, our highest good [summum bonum], not only depends on knowledge of God, but consists of it altogether.”45 For although we might make great strides towards becoming less vulnerable to nature or fortune (i.e. to unknown natural causes),46 such efforts face inevitable limits.47 As parts of nature, “we do not have an absolute power to adapt things outside us to our use.” However, Spinoza insists, if “we understand this clearly and distinctly, that part of us which is defined by understanding, the better part of us, will be entirely satisfied with this, and will strive to persevere in that satisfaction.”48 The “true happiness and blessedness of a human being” therefore “consists solely in wisdom and knowledge of the true.”49 Our minds seek out and are satisfied with a life of thought not “for the sake of some end” but rather because the very essence or conatus of our minds determines that we strive for such an existence.50 Minds seek to understand the universe for the same reason hearts seek to pump blood.51

Love, Death, and Politics Considering what we have learned so far, Spinoza’s philosophy might appear to point to a life of individual detachment and sober resignation. It would seem plausible to read his opening claim in the Treatise about our vulnerability to misfortune as suggesting stoicism as the only certain cure for superstition. In one of that work’s endnotes, Spinoza writes that in “whatever city a human being may be, he can be free,”52 a statement that conjures up the image of an elite thinker living alone, spiritually liberated from, even if outwardly conforming to, the manners and superstitions of his society.53 One of the greatest questions besetting Spinoza’s thought, then, is why he does not limit himself to that kind of internally radical but outwardly conservative enterprise. For, unlike the classical thinkers, Spinoza

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234  Aaron L. Herold undertakes a supremely ambitious project of religious, political, and cultural transformation. His Treatise seeks to undermine the authority of the Bible in toto and to replace a religiously based political order with a secular liberal democracy. Spinoza writes in that work’s preface that “it is equally impossible to take away superstition from the vulgar as to take away dread,”54 but in the final chapter he claims that the “ultimate aim [finem … ultimum]” of a free republic is “to free each from dread.”55 Perhaps if circumstances were altered and fortune so manipulated to give human beings more of the things they long for, then the fear of death could be lessened and the prevalence of superstition reduced. In both the Treatise and the Ethics, Spinoza (despite his frequent derogatory descriptions of the “vulgar”) undertakes a project of mass enlightenment that seeks to move ordinary people—​ albeit to varying degrees—​ to something approximating his own philosophic understanding of the world. In ­chapter 16 of the Treatise, he articulates a teaching of natural right that, outstripping even the radicalism of Hobbes, provides a moral approximation of the properties of his “God.” According to this teaching, one’s natural right is coextensive with one’s power, and everything has a right to do whatever it has been determined by nature to do—​i.e. to strive to preserve its being. “[F]‌ish take possession of water, and large ones eat small ones, by the highest natural right,”56 and “it is permissible for everyone to do by the highest right of Nature, what he judges will contribute to his advantage.”57 For reasons we cannot fully sketch here, Spinoza is confident that this new understanding of morality will provide a firm (if occasionally conflict-​laden) basis for a democratic republic characterized by freedom of speech and thought.58 As just one example of his confidence, we might consider some remarks Spinoza makes in the Ethics about the potential social effects of his doctrine of determinism. This doctrine contributes to social life, insofar as it teaches us to hate no one, to mock no one, to be angry at no one, to envy no one; and also insofar as it teaches that each of us should be content with his own things, and should be helpful to his neighbor, not from unmanly compassion, partiality, or superstition, but from the guidance of reason, as the time and occasion demand … Finally, this doctrine also contributes, to no small extent, to the common society insofar as it teaches how citizens are to be governed and led, not so they may be slaves, but that they may do freely the things which are best.59 Spinoza, in this quotation, blends notions of intellectual and political freedom. He suggests the informed citizen of his future republic will view liberty in a way analogous to the philosopher—​as a quality that is primarily if not exclusively intellectual, that allows him to fulfill himself via civic engagement as a rational being. Throughout the Treatise, Spinoza often speaks of devotion to the republic as the “summum bonum”60 and he describes the liberal citizen as animated by the same desire for intellectual independence—​for living “full of his own sense of things”61—​that he attributes to the philosopher. Animated by that spirit, as Spinoza suggests in the beginning of the long passage previously quoted, a public inculcated with the scientific worldview of the Ethics will be characterized by tolerance, gentleness, and mutual generosity. Believing that misfortune is not a cause for blame and that harmful actions on the part of others are products of causes beyond human control, the Spinozistic citizen will treat his neighbors with indulgence and forgiveness. And, applying this thinking to his mortality and other prospective misfortunes, he will know that what cannot be overcome must be accepted—​and even, in a peculiar way, celebrated, for he will also understand himself as having been liberated from the pains and confused passions that are symptoms of the vain hope to escape death. Just as the “sadness over some good which has perished is lessened as soon as the man who has lost it realizes that this good could not, in any way, have been kept,” “insofar as we understand, we can

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Benedict de Spinoza  235 want nothing except what is necessary, nor absolutely be satisfied with anything except what is true.”62 To summarize, according to Spinoza a scientifically educated population will be less afraid, more accepting, and (going one step further) more public-​spirited and willing to carry out active duties on the community’s behalf. “[T]‌he more a human being is led by reason, the more he is free, the more steadfastly he will keep the city’s rights and execute the commands of the highest power whose subject he is.”63 Throughout the Ethics—​a work which we can now see as forming the basis for the outlook of the elite intelligentsia of a future liberal society—​Spinoza is at pains to defend his Machiavellian conception of the priority of human selfishness from the charge that it will lead people to seek to exploit one another.64 On the contrary, he insists, human beings who are aware of their innate drive for self-​preservation will work for “the common advantage of all.”65 But Spinoza’s attempts to demonstrate that human beings in a liberal republic would work for the common good are often unsatisfying, and may suggest a limit to how far popular enlightenment—​or a liberation from the fear of death—​can go. Lacking the space to provide a full account of Spinoza’s purported proofs of these propositions, we limit ourselves to noting the way that Spinoza is forced to dilute the true character of the philosophic life in order to popularize it. For example, whereas Spinoza had claimed God (or the universe) is entirely indifferent and non-​teleological—​that he (or it) lacks anything like human passions or reason—​as he closes the Ethics he backtracks considerably. Part V of the Ethics (“Of Human Freedom”) begins by declaring that the fully rational have had “love, hate, and the like” destroyed in them,66 and also that God too has no passions: “God loves no one, and hates no one.”67 Almost immediately after stating this, however, Spinoza contradicts himself. He begins to speak of an “intellectual love”68 with which God loves himself and with which we too can love Him.69 Abandoning the fundamental insight that the universe is neither providential nor anthropocentric, Spinoza closes the Ethics by stating that “our salvation, or blessedness, or freedom, consists … in a constant and eternal love of God, or in God’s love for men.”70 In the end, it seems, Spinoza finds it necessary to cater to and draw upon the same kind of superstitious and teleological thinking he had criticized in the appendix to Part I.

Some Unanswered Questions Spinoza, as noted in the opening, has been regarded as both an atheist and (posthumously) a pantheistic mystic—​someone who saw divinity everywhere and regarded all things as being literally “in God.” The Ethics is replete with religious language and imagery, and it repeatedly suggests that those who know God, and who thus comprehend what is necessary and unchangeable, somehow join what is eternal. In his famous phrase, those understanding the permanent and inevitable do so “sub specie aeternitatis.”71 Perhaps nowhere is the cultivation of such thinking more apparent than in Spinoza’s teaching, at the end of Ethics V, that “something of ” the mind “is eternal” and endures after death. The arguments Spinoza employs to support this extraordinary (but nonetheless carefully worded) claim are complex, but they do not purport to demonstrate—​though they will leave many with the impression—​that consciousness continues after the body’s demise.72 Indeed, as Spinoza writes a few propositions later, most people misunderstand the nature of the mind’s eternity because “they confuse it with duration, and attribute to it the imagination, or memory, which they [falsely] believe remains after death.”73 So what, then, are we to make of Spinoza’s ultimate return to a reliance on superstition—​ albeit one that will admire and take its bearings from the insights of reason—​in giving the impression that he has proven the mind’s immortality? As previously mentioned, the

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236  Aaron L. Herold possibility that some superstition will need to remain even in an advanced scientific society calls into question whether Spinoza believed human beings could be entirely liberated from the fear of death. But, we must also ask, has Spinoza himself been able to vindicate his own claims about the character of the summum bonum and the superiority of the philosophic life against religious alternatives? Consider the following: Spinoza may not believe (because he cannot demonstrate) that consciousness endures after death, but can he provide an adequate explanation of how consciousness arises in the first place? At the opening of Ethics V, Spinoza notes that René Descartes failed to explain the nature of the mind and its union with the body and so had ultimate recourse to God.74 But since Spinoza limits his own account only to the proximate causes of which we do have some knowledge, can he provide a satisfactory alternative explanation? In a notable scholium, Spinoza refuses to deny that “the human body can be changed into another nature entirely different from its own.” He claims to have heard stories of a poet, who, after an illness, lost all memory of his former self. From this example, Spinoza concludes that death does not necessarily require a corpse, but he then hastily breaks off his analysis: “rather than provide the superstitious with material for raising new questions,” he says, “I prefer to leave this discussion unfinished.”75 The question the superstitious individual would ask Spinoza, of course, is not just how his scientific perspective could account for such an experience—​surely modern neuroscience would have much to say about it—​but, more fundamentally, whether it could prove that this explanation has actually uncovered the phenomenon’s first cause. Spinoza’s acknowledgment that one’s consciousness can be transformed calls to mind the Bible’s description of prophecy.76 Spinoza, of course, like many modern psychologists and sociologists of religion, can provide a rational explanation of such experiences—​but in the quarrel between philosophy and revelation it is precisely the validity of reason that is at issue.77 With this problem under consideration, we must ask whether Spinoza may have had an alternative vindication of philosophy in mind—​and whether this may explain his otherwise puzzling decision to undertake a radical and ambitious transformation of society. Put succinctly, even if it is true that superstition, and the fear of death from which it springs, cannot be eradicated completely, perhaps these things could still be considerably dampened. Our own democratic society, after all, has witnessed an unprecedented weakening of religion, which has gone together with the achievement of similarly unprecedented levels of prosperity and longevity. Granted, as this volume makes clear, advances in modern medicine have created an aging population and hence also the need for a recovery of social discussion of death. But that such a discussion would indeed be a recovery also indicates the tremendous success Spinoza and his allies have had in banishing the experience of mortality as far as possible from our everyday lives and from our minds. For most people under seventy in the West today, it is fair to say, the deaths of friends or family members are exceptional if highly meaningful events, and the deaths of those in youth or the prime of life are rare tragedies.78 Does our trust in the power of modern science to keep death at bay therefore vindicate Spinoza’s portrait of our psychology (and his political project)? In other words, does our relative lack of attention to death in “normal” times provide support for Spinoza’s argument from the Treatise’s preface that human beings are not naturally preoccupied with their mortality? And since religion has weakened as science has spread and as our possession of the “goods of fortune” has increased, does this demonstrate that “superstition” really is a product of fear, ignorance, and a lack of access to those goods? Spinoza compels us to ask whether the success of his transformative theologico-​political project can provide, as a kind of Machiavellian “effectual truth,” the authentic refutation of religion which is not directly present in his two major completed works. If this admittedly tendentious suggestion is correct, it may be that Spinoza’s attempt to cultivate a new kind of human being via

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Benedict de Spinoza  237 his educational project has a theoretical, as well as a philanthropic, purpose. As he writes, “because, among singular things, we know nothing more excellent than a man who is guided by reason, we can show best how much our skill and understanding are worth by educating men so that at last they live according to the command of their own reason.”79 In the present context, such a suggestion must be raised as no more than a possibility. Allow me to close, then, by pointing to some doubts Spinoza raises, even on his own terms, about our capacity as human beings to become wholly reconciled to our mortality. It is true that at the very end of the Ethics Spinoza writes that the wise man, insofar as he is considered as such, is hardly troubled in spirit, but being, by a certain necessity, conscious of himself, and of God, and of things, he never ceases to be, but always possesses true peace of mind.80 But here as elsewhere Spinoza has chosen his words carefully. It may be that the wise man “insofar as he is considered as such” will give his whole attention to the good and none to what is evil—​i.e. that he will think of nothing less than death—​but will every human being who also happens to be a philosopher adhere at all times to this attitude? When he is old or sick or otherwise forced to confront his mortality, will the free man remain such? Indeed, at several points throughout the Ethics Spinoza speaks of the free man’s happiness in a curiously qualified way. For example, he writes that insofar as the mind understands all things as necessary, it is “less affected toward them.”81 He states that the more the mind understands things adequately, “the less it is acted on by affects which are evil, and the less it fears death.”82 Here and in several other places, Spinoza indicates that we should be guarded in our hopes for the kind of tranquility philosophy can offer. To Spinoza, the man living a life of reason will have much more tranquility than the superstitious man enslaved to the imagination and the affects. But insofar as he remains human and therefore inevitably bound to a body, there may be an ultimate limit to the extent of his liberation. At the same time, however, the sobriety underlying this insight may also form an essential aspect of that liberation itself.

Notes

1 Spinoza, Theologico-​Political Treatise, 229. 2 Bayle, vol. 5, 199, s.v. “Spinoza.” 3 This is the pen-​name for Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg. 4 Hobbes, Leviathan, ch. 11, para. 1; Locke, 269 [II.21.55]. 5 Wolfson, vii. For Spinoza’s contempt for Plato and Aristotle, see Letter 50 (Complete Works, 905–​6). 6 E IV P67, 151. I cite the Ethics (E) using Spinoza’s demarcations (initial roman numerals refer to parts, A to axiom, D to definition, Dem. to demonstration, Cor. to corollary, P to proposition, Pref. to preface, S to scholium), followed by the page number in the Curley edition. 7 E V Preface, 160; E IV P68 Dem., 151. 8 More precisely, “those who happen to have gotten in touch with philosophy in the right way devote themselves to nothing else but dying and being dead” (Plato, 34 [64a]). 9 TPT xvi.10, 180. I cite the Theologico-​Political Treatise (TPT) by chapter and Bruder number, followed by the page number in the Yaffe edition. I have occasionally altered this translation slightly. 10 Hobbes, Elements of Law, XIV.6 11 Locke, 248–​9. 12 TPT pref.1, xv. 13 TPT pref.2, xv. 14 TPT pref.2, xv. 15 TPT pref.3–​4, xvi.

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238  Aaron L. Herold 16 TPT pref.5, xvi. 17 TPT pref.7, xvii, emphasis added. 18 Cf. Tocqueville, II.2.12–​13, with Herold, Tocqueville, 527–​9). I have provided a more detailed treatment of Spinoza’s psychology of superstition in the Treatise’s preface in Herold, “Liberal Republicanism,” 241–​3. 19 TPT pref.4, xvi. 20 TPT pref.17, xix. 21 TPT pref.13, xviii. 22 TPT xvi.15, 181. 23 E P18 S, 125. 24 E I App., 26–​7. 25 E I App., 29; cf. IV D1–​2, 116. Even more radically, Spinoza states that “order … in Nature” is nothing more “than a relation to our imagination”—​it is something our minds impose on the cosmos, not the other way around (E I App., 29). After writing that a free man thinks of nothing less than death, Spinoza claims that if human beings were born free (i.e. rational [which they are not]), they would have no concept of good or evil (E IV P68 Dem., 151–​2). 26 E I App., 27. 27 E IV P63, 149. 28 E IV P63 S, 150. 29 E III P7; TPT xvi.4, 179. 30 TPT xvi.5, 179–​80. 31 E IV P18. 32 Cf. TPT xvi.7, 180. 33 E III P20 S, 127. 34 E IV App. Para. XXI, 159. 35 Matthew 16:25, 20:16. 36 E IV App. Para. IV, 155. 37 TPT iii.8, 32. 38 TPT iii.10, 32. 39 E I P28, 19. 40 TPT iv.4, 44. 41 TPT xvi.10, 180. 42 E IV A1, 117. 43 TPT vi.37, 74. 44 Cf. TPT xix.20, 222. 45 TPT iv.12, 45. 46 TPT iii.11, 33. 47 Cf. E IV P2–​4, 118–​19. 48 E IV App. Para. XXII, 160, emphasis added. 49 TPT iii.2, 31. 50 E IV 26 Dem., 128. 51 Cf. also TPT iv.10–​13, 45. 52 TPT annot.33, 249. 53 Cf. also TPT v.36–​7, 62. 54 TPT pref.33, xxiii. 55 TPT xx.11, 230. 56 TPT xvi.2, 179. 57 E IV App. VIII, 156. 58 One possible way this could occur would be if both the people and the government were to view one another with suspicion, each knowing the other has the power (and hence the right) to do it harm. Thus, a balance of power (or right) could be established between rulers and ruled (cf. TPT xvii.1, 191). 59 E II P 49 S, 68. 60 TPT xvi.21, 182.

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Benedict de Spinoza  239 61 TPT xx.4, 229. 62 E V P6, Schol., 165; E IV App. XXII, 160. Cf. also E IV P47 S, 141, where hope is described as inevitably accompanying fear and sadness, and V P18 S: “insofar as we understand God to be the cause of sadness, we rejoice.” 63 TPT annot.33, 249. 64 For Spinoza’s professed debt to Machiavelli, see the opening of the unfinished Political Treatise (Spinoza, Complete Works, 680–​3). 65 E IV P18 S, 125–​6; cf. also E IV P72, 153–​4 and TPT xvi.21, 182, xvii.16, 193. 66 E V P4 S. 67 E V P17 Cor., 169. 68 E V P35, 176. 69 E V P20 S, 171; cf. TPT annot.34, 250. 70 E V P36 S, 176, emphasis original. 71 E V P22, 172; P23 S, 172; P29 Dem., 174; TPT vi.25, 71. 72 See E P23 and Dem., 172. 73 E P34 S, 176. 74 E V Pref., 161–​2. 75 E IV P39 S, 138. 76 Cf. 1 Samuel 10:6, where Samuel tells Saul that when God’s spirit comes upon him he “will be changed into a different person.” Cf. also TPT i.3, 1–​2. 77 Cf. Strauss, 28–​9. 78 As I write this, the COVID-​19 pandemic may have significantly reduced this sense of insulation from mortality. But that the renewed sense of vulnerability arising from this disease has been so shocking (and so socially and economically destructive) may show it to be the exception proving the rule. As the pandemic began to rage, most Americans were nonetheless confident—​accurately as it turned out!—​that a vaccine or cure would be found within a year. www.pewresearch.org/​fact-​tank/​2020/​05/​21/​most-​americans-​expect-​a-​covid-​19-​vaccine-​within-​a-​ year-​72-​say-​they-​would-​get-​vaccinated. 79 E IV App. IX, 156. 80 E V P42 S, 181. 81 E V P6, 165, emphasis added. 82 E V P38, 177, emphasis original.

References Bayle, Pierre. The Dictionary Historical and Critical of Mr. Peter Bayle. 5 vols. London, Printed for J. J. and P. Knapton [etc.] 1734–​8. Herold, Aaron L. “Spinoza’s Liberal Republicanism and the Challenge of Revealed Religion.” Political Research Quarterly 67, no. 2 (2013): 239–​52. —​—​—​“Tocqueville on Religion, the Enlightenment, and the Democratic Soul.” American Political Science Review 109, no. 3 (2015): 523–​34. Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan: With Selected Variants from the Latin Edition of 1668. Edited by Edwin Curley. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1994. —​—​—​The Elements of Law, Natural and Politic: Part I, Human Nature, Part II, De Corpore Politico; with Three Lives. Edited with an Introduction and Notes by J.C.A. Gaskin. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Locke, John. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Peter H. Nidditch. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979. Plato. Phaedo. Edited by Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Eric Salem. Newburyport, MA: Focus, 1998. Spinoza, Benedict. Complete Works. Edited by Michael L. T. Morgan and translated by Samuel Shirley. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2002. —​—​—​ Ethics. Edited and translated by E. Curley. London: Penguin Books, 1996. —​—​—​ Theologico-​Political Treatise. Edited by Martin D. Yaffe. Newburyport, MA: Focus, 2004.

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240  Aaron L. Herold Strauss, Leo. Spinoza’s Critique of Religion. Edited by E. M. Sinclair. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965. Tocqueville, Alexis de. Democracy in America. Edited and translated by Harvey C. Mansfield and Delba Winthrop. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Wolfson, Harry Austryn. The Philosophy of Spinoza: Unfolding the Latent Processes of His Reasoning. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934.

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24  Thomas Hobbes on the Uses and Disadvantages of Death for Political Life Bradley R. Jackson

Death is central to the political thought of Thomas Hobbes (1588–​1679). His most well-​ known contribution to political theory, his idea of the state of nature, is characterized by the “continuall feare, and danger of violent death” that plagues humanity in the absence of government.1 When he famously pronounces life in the state of nature “solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short,” it is the shortness of life which is given rhetorical emphasis, with the word “short” ending a long sentence (92 words) as well as a paragraph.2 Death, or more precisely the fear of death, especially violent death, is the primary motor driving Hobbes’s mechanistic political theory; it is because humans fear violent death above all else that they are each willing to enter into a social contract with other human beings to ensure peace, willing to abridge their own natural right to all things, and willing to obey the sovereign power. If humans did not fear violent death, the mechanism underlying social order, according to Hobbes, would cease to function, and government would appear to be impossible, perhaps even unnecessary. In this chapter, I investigate the role that death plays in Hobbes’s political thought. I show that his thinking on the subject is more complex than the standard, pocket description of his theory suggests. For Hobbes, political philosophy, if it is to be well-​grounded, must be based on how humans actually are and upon their real motivations, rather than upon how we might wish them to be. The great, brutal fact of human mortality is a tremendous motivator of human activity, and these activities can have all manner of effects for good or ill. Hobbes must come to grips with the human reaction to death in order to provide his politics with a firm foundation based upon real human motivation. We will first see how fear of death appears to Hobbes as a great political danger, which threatens to fundamentally unsettle human life, rendering it perpetually insecure. We will see that humans, according to Hobbes, are driven by their desire for self-​preservation to crave unlimited acquisition. Our Promethean foresight drives us to always require greater stores of goods, to hold out against unknown future challenges. This cupidity, combined with our natural ignorance of science, produce a situation in which our attempts to avoid death ironically lead to violent death becoming even more common as we come into conflict over scarce resources with others, whom we distrust. Following this, we will study the ways in which Hobbes seeks to turn this danger into an advantage, by using the human fear of death to provide stability for his political framework. Throughout, we will see that much depends upon what, exactly, humans understand death to be, and thus we will be drawn with Hobbes into admittedly brief discussions of theology and epistemology.

Fear of Death as a Political Danger Death first appears in the works of Hobbes within the context of his treatment of politics. Hobbes does offer a more purely scientific account of death, in his book De Homine, DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-25

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242  Bradley R. Jackson published in 1658, after the topic had already been treated in such political works as The Elements of Law, De Cive, and Leviathan.3 Death, Hobbes tells us in his political works, is “the terrible enemy of nature … from whom we expect both the loss of all power, and the greatest bodily pains in the losing.”4 According to Hobbes, “There is no such Finis ultimis, (utmost ayme,) nor Summum Bonum, (greatest Good,) as is spoken of in the Books of the old Morall Philosophers,” but there is death, and it is the “summum naturae malum,” the greatest natural evil.5 For Hobbes, the human desire to avoid death constitutes a “most certain postulate of human nature.”6 Following his characteristic geometric method,7 Hobbes deduces much from this postulate. Human life is typified, in Hobbes’s famous phrase, by “a perpetuall and restlesse desire of Power after power, that ceaseth onely in Death,”8 and this anxious acquisition is itself driven by gnawing “feare of death, poverty, or other calamity” which the prudent man “endeavoureth to secure himselfe against.”9 It is the very essence of a human being, for Hobbes, to desire to avoid death. All of our restless striving is ultimately motivated by this desire. But how shall we satisfy it? Death and Human Ignorance Chief among the inconveniences of human nature is that there is no ready answer to this most pressing question of how to avoid death. True, reason can help to delay death, once we follow its lead, but most humans cannot ascertain the true causes of death, because they are ignorant of science: “for Science is of that nature, as none can understand it to be, but such as in a good measure have attayned it,” and thus “The Sciences, are small Power; because not eminent.”10 It is science which provides us with a true account of the causes of phenomena, including death. Knowledge of these causes increases the power of the knower, “because when we see how any thing comes about, upon what causes, and by what manner; when the like causes come into our power, wee see how to make it produce the like effects.”11 In the absence of education, not to say enlightenment, humans lack certain knowledge of causes, and they thus cannot take the active role in creating the natural effects that distinguishes sapience, or wisdom, from prudence.12 Without the powerful knowledge provided by science, humans are left to their own “naturall Prudence” or “naturall judgment,” which unlike “infallible Science” is “all Uncertain.”13 We are not born with the knowledge of all that can cause death, nor of all that can forestall it. We are not naturally in possession of the wisdom necessary to live long, pleasant lives; we do not even naturally know in what direction to begin looking for answers. In this state of fear and unease, our imaginations run wild. The cost of such ignorance is very high when the stakes are death, and the anxiety caused by such ignorance is, according to Hobbes, psychologically intolerable. “This perpetuall fear, always accompanying mankind in the ignorance of causes, as it were in the Dark, must needs have for object something.”14 Something must be the cause of my good or ill fortune, and if I cannot know what it is for certain, I would rather put some image of it before my imagination, than settle for an unfathomable, anxiety-​inducing nothing-​in-​particular. The first step in reimagining this nothing is to imagine it as a certain, invisible something, “some Power, or Agent Invisible.”15 Our fear of death, thus, gives rise to superstition. And this, according to Hobbes, has baleful consequences for political life. Death and Superstition When we say that a stone, precariously balanced on a cliff overlooking a town, has the power to fall and do great harm, we do not thereby impute to the stone a will to do so. So too, humans need not impute either benevolence or malevolence to the invisible fate-​causing

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Thomas Hobbes  243 beings they imagine inhabiting the world. Nonetheless, for us these beings become willful agents. This reflects our desire for human agency and control, since a nonvolitional cause acts by necessity, whereas a volitional agent may be, we believe, persuaded. Ceremonial worship develops, according to Hobbes, as a method of propitiating the invisible agents and bending them to our will.16 The ill effects of bad fortune can be avoided, it is thought, through appropriate ceremonial intervention. In this process of ritualization, much of the blame for the evil done by blind nature is foisted back upon humankind, specifically those fools who failed to persuade the deity: “they were to believe … that ill success in war, great contagions of Sicknesse, Earthquakes, and each mans private Misery, came from the Anger of the Gods; and their Anger from the Neglect of their Worship.”17 Such a system has all the trappings of a valid science of causation (perform action A to yield effect B) without any of the benefits derived through sound premises. Due to this lack of soundness, it will often seem as though our ceremonies have no effect on the powers that be. But that is no reason to give up on ceremonies, according to this superstitious logic; rather, it is a reason to make absolutely and precisely sure that the ceremony is being done in the most honorable way possible, with no detail omitted which may sway the will of the invisible powers. From this desire to be rigorous in worship in order to propitiate the fickle gods, according to Hobbes, arose the priest. Hobbes has an extremely low opinion of priests, whom he blames for much of the civil strife that had overtaken Europe in his lifetime.18 Hobbes accuses clergymen of preying on the ignorance of their flocks by pretending that they have secret knowledge which will help in making appeals to God, whereas in reality they have only discovered a formula to increase their own worldly power. Such power is not inconsiderable. To claim knowledge of the preferences held by the invisible forces that surround us is to claim the ability to forestall flood and famine, to protect mother and infant, hearth and border. To claim knowledge of divine preferences is to make oneself a representative of the God who superintends our fate. According to Hobbes’s political doctrine of representation, the priests’ alleged claim to supernatural knowledge is tantamount to claiming to act with and by the authority of the divine, much as sovereigns are the representatives of the people, who have authorized, and thus pre-​approved, the sovereign’s actions.19 The authority of the truly divine, according to Hobbes, is limitless due to its omnipotence.20 These self-​styled prophets, in other words, arrogate to themselves unlimited power by claiming to speak for such an authority.21 Humans hatch such schemes for domination because of our insatiable cupidity, which is driven by our great need, and our irrational vanity, which causes us to prefer ourselves to all others. At the same time, we are willing to be mystified by priestly legerdemain because of our anxious fear of the unknown evil that awaits us and our profound desire to find some sure guide to self-​preservation. But we must remember that insatiable human cupidity is itself a rational reaction to the human desire to prolong life indefinitely. Thus, both sides of the religious impulse, the desire to believe and the desire to abuse the trust of other people for cynical gain, have death, or rather its avoidance, as their ultimate motive. And insofar as death is ineradicable, so too the “first seeds, or principles,” of religion “can never be so abolished out of humane nature, but that new Religions may againe be made to spring out of them, by the culture of such men, as for such purposes are in reputation.”22 Death, Immortality, and the Seeds of Rebellion It is surely a pity and a fit subject for a cautionary tale that ignorant and frightened humans fall prey to the self-​serving prophecies of crafty individuals. Hobbes’s concern is deeper, however. In addition to merely making mischief for the misled, superstitious beliefs have a dire effect on peace and order in society. Since self-​preservation is a fundamental desire, we

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244  Bradley R. Jackson are naturally driven to conceive of immortality, which we reserve, at first, to those “invisible agents” more powerful than ourselves. We know our own bodies to be corruptible, and thus, we cannot reasonably wish to live eternally. But the invisible powers, which seem to lack corruptible bodies entirely, could perhaps last eternally. Incorporeal substances, incapable of age and putrefaction, would seem to be capable of a pleasant, if somewhat abstract, immortality. Thus, our instinctive and displaced desire for immortality gives rise to an ontology of spirits, which itself provides the basis for the belief in human immortality, on the supposition that at least part of man’s nature is composed of some similar spiritual substance, which might last forever without wearing out. This notion of human immortality—​in which the soul survives the death of the body to endure eternally—​is fraught with the most serious political dangers according to Hobbes. Why is this? To begin with, conceiving of human immortality in these terms would invite nihilism and rampant immorality, for of what significance is today when there is a never-​ ending supply of tomorrows? If our time is limitless the importance of any particular action would drastically lessen, since it could only be one in an infinite series, the significance of each one falling asymptotically to zero. The purveyors of superstitious belief took a different path. For them, the significance of particular actions taken before death, especially in the ceremonial context, have enormous, eternal consequences. Even as the numerical significance of the days of our life shrink to nothingness beside the vast stretches of time, our fate will forever have been set in that fleeting instant. And the stakes are as significant as possible: utter satisfaction of the unlimited human desire for pleasant self-​preservation, on the one hand, and the gruesomely complete fulfillment of every human nightmare, on the other.23 Here we have the crux of the political issue as Hobbes understands it: heaven or hell, salvation or damnation eternal. This issue becomes political precisely because of the infinite disproportion between the this-​worldly concerns of politics and the other-​worldly concerns of salvation and damnation. The greatest evil occurs, Hobbes explains, when this-​worldly demands are made on the basis of other-​worldly concerns, as when, for example, the faithful are called upon to revolt against the government to secure salvation or else risk hell. With eternity on the line, it would be irrational to worry about the finite, short-​term power of the earthly sovereign.24 We may thus include in the powers that accrue to those who lead religious sects, the power to bring down governments and foment civil war.25 The two postulates of human nature with which Hobbes begins, cupidity and fear of death, left to run their natural course lead to the disastrous consequence that fear of death will be magnified by the dread of infinite pain and sorrow in the afterlife. Furthermore, under these circumstances, death becomes far more common and far more brutal through religious and civil warfare, reinforcing both cupidity and superstition in a vicious and unprofitable circle.

Fear of Death as Political Good Yet, whereas nature left to itself produces effects without reference to human desires, human reason armed with science may either duplicate beneficial events by reproducing their causes, or else hinder the emergence of ill effects by suppressing their causes. According to Hobbes, those who would improve human life must take humans as we are, with our greedy vanity and anxious fear, and determine what combinations of causes may produce the desired effects. Such political scientists must foresee common ailments and provide remedies to mitigate their damage. Hobbes is not content to simply diagnose our problems—​the combination of our animal nature, our ignorance, and our easily misdirected capacity to reason—​without offering prescriptions for ameliorative action. His approach is two-​pronged: he must first combine human cupidity and fear of death with other available materials to produce some good effect, while, second, controlling, or if possible eliminating, the bad effects to which

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Thomas Hobbes  245 these elements naturally give rise. Hobbes’s task requires almost alchemical power to transform base and caustic materials of human nature into something useful and even precious. The Violent Death of the Body vs. the Eternal Death of the Soul in Hobbes’s Science To intervene in the workings of nature, for the sake of human well-​being or for any other reason, requires knowledge of the materials which with nature works. How is this knowledge to be attained? With what sure method does Hobbes replace the myth-​making of human ignorance, and thus achieve an “infallible Science”26 capable of satisfying human desires? Hobbes proceeds in Leviathan according to the epistemological limits he establishes elsewhere,27 and these limits privilege what can be sensed by the human body. What cannot become an object of some sensation cannot become a proper object of knowledge, even if it could exist. Thus, the state of humans after death, which is unknown and perhaps unknowable, takes a back seat to the very real knowledge that we all fear dying in this world, and that we especially fear dying violently, or painfully. By limiting our knowledge to propositions based on sense data, Hobbes attempts to lead us to conceive of ourselves primarily as bodies in motion, pursuing what we find pleasant and fleeing what we find painful. By focusing on the rudimentary and basic, Hobbes situates the human problem as the struggle for self-​preservation, understood as the acquisition of goods and the avoidance of violent death. By offering a solution to the human problem at this fundamental level, Hobbes can, in large measure, obviate the human urge to make the problem worse by finding solace in superstition. The struggle for self-​preservation without the aid of science, Hobbes argues, first led human beings to posit invisible powers, which we began to honor and worship, and finally led us to imagine that humans too have some invisible, eternal aspect, the fate of which is determined by our actions in life. Desire for personal good and fear of violent death, when left to fester, turn to superstition and plant seeds for civil unrest, as each person tries to secure advantage for him or herself, whether in this world or the next. By explaining the manner in which personal good can be attained and violent death avoided without recourse to spirits or eternity, Hobbes hopes to incentivize more peaceful outcomes. If Hobbes is able to deduce a civil philosophy that provides stable security for humankind without recourse to the metaphysics of the incorporeal soul, most people, he expects, will probably not miss the metaphysics. To solve the human problem on the level of the human problem, and keep within the limits set by his geometric method by not making claims about the unknowable, Hobbes must show the conditions under which human cupidity and fear can be combined without causing human life to be “solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short.”28 He does this through the mechanism of the social contract. Fear of Death and the Social Contract Left to nature’s guidance, Hobbes explains, human desire for goods and human fear of death lead us into “such a warre, as is of every man, against every man,”29 as each struggles for scarce goods and seeks to preempt potential danger by going on the offensive. Human reason is led, by nature and by Hobbes, to view life as a struggle for supremacy, in which the only way to avoid danger is to attain absolute power. Each of us must strive for universal tyranny over others, if only to protect our own fundamentally insecure holdings. We are not wrong to do so, since “Force, and Fraud, are in warre the two Cardinall vertues.”30 Any advantage, any power, we lack could be the edge that an opponent uses to destroy us. But herein we find the familiar dilemma and tragedy; for though everyone acts rationally to

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246  Bradley R. Jackson protect his or her own life and property, their collective action works to render these goods utterly insecure. Each individual, working for his or her own selfish interest, undermines the interests of each and all. In this way, the desire for supremacy and universal tyranny ceases to be rational, because when universally pursued as a strategy, it makes the desired goods impossible to maintain. The individual struggle for supremacy, as a response to insecurity, increases insecurity for all. If insecurity and war result from struggling for supremacy, then security and peace result from agreeing to treat each other as equals.31 While we each have a natural right to do whatever we believe to be in our best interest, we also each can be led, by our reason and by Hobbes, to recognize a natural law, which tells us first and foremost to seek peace and thereby to avoid violent death. Through a learned desire for peace, as opposed to the natural desire for supremacy, humans become fit for civil society. By seeing that unlimited cupidity leads not to wealth and longevity but instead poverty and murder, we are taught to distrust one of our fundamental drives; and with vain cupidity to blame for so much misery, it is sensible that our other fundamental drive, fear of death, would come to the forefront.32 And indeed, whereas giving vent to cupidity results in death and penury, holding fast to fear of death, and letting it lead you to a desire for peace, results in safety and sure, if moderate, gain. When we each promise not to trespass on each other’s goods, we can each enjoy those goods securely. But immediately a problem arises: who is to judge when a trespass has been committed? If one party to an agreement is allowed to decide, at any time and on his own accord, to annul the contract and resume his natural right to all things, even if on the basis that the other party was about to or had already done so, then the contract is as useless as if it had never been made. For a contract that each party must continually fear may be broken does not deter our rational urge to strike potential enemies preemptively, when we believe they have good reason to strike at us. According to Hobbes, we require a better guarantee of the compliance of other people than their mere word.33 We require a power that ensures compliance through instilling a fear of the consequences of non-​compliance. In other words, we will be kept loyal to our fear of death, and not return to the arms of cupidity, through a constant, strong reminder of death, a force which has the power both to protect us from violence and to do violence against us. According to Hobbes, human life is made bearable, even made secure, pleasant and civil, by the awful fear of violent death inspired by the sovereign. Sovereignty and Death For Hobbes, the defining feature of the sovereign is power. When the commonwealth is formed and sovereignty is instituted or acquired, subjects transfer their right to all things, and thus their power to harm others, to the sovereign.34 From that moment of transfer, violence is only legitimate when it has been sanctioned by the sovereign, and subjects may be punished for committing violent acts against their fellows without permission from the sovereign.35 The sovereign, on the other hand, has unlimited authority to wield violence. This authority derives from the consent of the people to the social contract. When the sovereign wields violence against subjects, i.e. when the sovereign punishes, the sovereign’s subject is, in a way, the “author” of that violence, since the subject has “authorized” the sovereign’s actions, according to Hobbes. The subject is author of his own punishment, as being by the Institution, Author of all his Soveraign shall do: And because it is injustice for a man to do any thing, for which he may be punished by his own authority, he is also upon that title, unjust.36

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Thomas Hobbes  247 When the sovereign punishes you (as the subject), according to Hobbes, you have always already authorized that punishment. This allows the sovereign to entirely dictate the meaning of justice.37 He completes this move by arguing that subjects cannot accuse the sovereign of injustice. In other words, when the sovereign punishes you, Hobbes claims that you must agree that you have committed injustice; on the other hand, when you claim that the sovereign has committed injustice, you are mistaken. “[B]‌ecause every Subject is by this Institution Author of all the Actions, and Judgments of the Soveraigne Instituted; it followes, that whatsoever he doth, it can be no injury to any of his Subjects; nor ought he to be by any of them accused of Injustice.”38 Since being punished by the sovereign is sufficient proof that a subject is unjust, so too the fact that a sovereign cannot be accused of injustice has the corollary that a sovereign cannot be justly punished. Punishment is the exclusive domain of the sovereign, who is granted “the Power … of Punishing with corporall, or pecuniary punishment, or with ignominy every Subject.”39 The sovereign’s power is thus overwhelming, its judgments without appeal. To avoid its awesome power to violently punish us, we are constrained to obey; we are forced to restrain our natural cupidity due to our fear of violent death. Our fear of death has served an important political purpose; it has chastened us and made us civil. When Hobbes considers the few exceptions to sovereign authority, those “things, which though commanded by the Soveraign [the subject] may neverthelesse, without Injustice, refuse to do,” we see that the “true Liberty of a Subject” is also primarily grounded in the fear of death.40 Subjects may rightfully refuse to commit suicide, mutilate themselves, starve, or abstain from medicine. Perhaps more surprising are rights against self-​incrimination and even a right to refuse to kill other people.41 Importantly, the sovereign maintains the right to punish a subject for any one of these acts of refusal, but Hobbes insists that an important liberty has been created for the subject. For by allowing him to kill me, I am not bound to kill my selfe when he commands me. ’Tis one thing to say, Kill me, or my fellow, if you please; another thing to say, I will kill my selfe, or my fellow.42 As a subject, your rights against the sovereign, so far as they go, consist chiefly in your right to perpetuate your own existence. You always have the right to try to avoid death. In battle, you can run away without injustice, even if the sovereign has commanded death to all who flee. The mere fact of being punished by the sovereign serving as sufficient proof that one has acted unjustly admits one exception: it is never an injustice to flee from death. Hobbes’s politics is rooted in an encouragement of this flight from death, and this exception to his generally iron clad rule of obedience to the sovereign demonstrates the scope of this mortal fear.43 Our human fear of death, as previously discussed, is productive of more than obedience; it also gives rise to superstition, ambitious prophesiers, and the infinite disproportion between the finite, this-​worldly punishments of the sovereign and the eternal, other-​worldly punishments of the divine. How can Hobbes base his politics upon mortal fear without, at the same time, awakening these destabilizing forces? For Hobbes, the answer again lies in the power and authority of the sovereign. For this answer not to be merely question-​begging, Hobbes must show how the sovereign authority is not always and immediately trumped by divine authority, tempting subjects to rebellion. For Hobbes, the answer is to deny that these two power centers are ever opposed and to make the sovereign the only legitimate interpreter and messenger of the divine will. In effect, the sovereign is also, and necessarily for Hobbes, a sovereign prophet.44 Questions of religious

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248  Bradley R. Jackson doctrine, especially those touching the fundamental questions, are to be decided by sovereign decree. All disagreements with the sovereign interpretation of religion are, for Hobbes, tantamount to sedition. If the religious convictions of private citizens take precedence over the sovereign interpretation, then the door is opened to pitched civil conflict, so motivating is the human desire to overcome death. Prophecy, which claims more-​than-​human knowledge, must be limited to the sovereign, according to Hobbes, because it will otherwise become an intolerable source of instability. Many of Hobbes’s Biblical interpretations consider the question of death. For example, Hobbes claims that the Bible teaches that there is no eternal life for sinners, and thus no eternal damnation; rather, the reprobate are subject to a “second death” following the resurrection, upon which they are consigned to oblivion. After the resurrection and upon judgement, sinners shall be cast into an “Everlasting Fire,” but Hobbes argues that, even if the fire is everlasting, this does not mean that sinners “be eternally burnt, and tortured, and yet never be destroyed, nor die.”45 Hell may burn forever, but the torment that sinners face is quite temporary. Were sovereigns to successfully insist that this understanding of the Bible be held by their subjects, we can see how this would remove much of the incentive to rebellion: the corporal punishments of the sovereign are more terrifying than the damnation threatened by Hobbes’s God. But, again, why should subjects be beholden to the sovereign’s Biblical hermeneutics? For Hobbes, the reason is to be found in the terms of the social contract. When we allow another to have sovereign authority over us, for the purposes of ending the war of all against all and prolonging our life, we undertake to obey all of their pronouncements that are not against the law of nature, for whatsoever is not against the Law of Nature, may be made Law in the name of them that have the Soveraign power, and there is no reason men should be the lesse obliged by it, when tis propounded in the name of God.46 The sovereign, therefore, has the capacity to declare divine laws that we must obey, even if we cannot know with certainty whether the sovereign, or anyone else, has had special revelation. Whether such a supernatural event actually occurred is not the basis for our obedience in any case; rather we obey because we have undertaken to obey whatever the sovereign commands within the bounds of the natural law. For Hobbes, questions of religious doctrine, such as whether there is eternal punishment after death, are within the authority of the sovereign (and emphatically not within the authority of any separate church) to decide, and a wise sovereign will decide that no such eternal punishments exist, while punishing, with certain bodily death, those who attempt to teach otherwise.47 In this way, Hobbes hopes to use religion to control our fear of death, focusing it on the painful death of the body, over which the sovereign has power, while minimizing, and if possible eliminating, the inordinate fears and desires associated with immortality.

Conclusion For Thomas Hobbes, a good, stable political order is rooted in the human fear of death. Our natural desire to avoid death can lead us into superstition, as we blindly seek for answers to our most pressing questions, and rebellion, as we are led by the ambitious to disobey the sovereign for religious reasons. But these issues can be controlled, according to Hobbes, through rigorous education and enforcement of authorized doctrine. So while Hobbes loudly proclaims his dislike for priestly power, he simultaneously claims that the proper

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Thomas Hobbes  249 remedy for the abuses of the clergy is a different sort of religious authority, grounded in a more fundamental political authority based upon sovereign power. Thus, even though, by nature, we each have a natural desire for personal preeminence and tyranny, these have been tamed by Hobbes through our salutary fear of bodily death. Rather than allowing our desire to avoid death to turn us into superstitious killers engaged in a permanent bloody struggle for supremacy, Hobbes wishes to turn us into meek subjects of a powerful sovereign. He teaches us that, through our meekness and obedience, we shall inherit a world of safety and stability. The brutal materialism of Hobbes’s political philosophy is designed to focus subjects’ sights on the problems and desires of this world and to tamp down, to the extent possible, our worries about the next world. In this way, Hobbes hopes to secure stability and peace, minimizing violent death by giving it center stage.

Notes 1 Leviathan XIII, 4.192. 2 Leviathan XIII, 4.192. 3 See De Homine I, 5f. The other works mentioned were circulated/​published in 1640, 1642, and 1651 respectively. 4 Elements of Law XIV, 83. 5 Leviathan XI, 4.150, cf. Elements of Law VII, 33; De Cive, 75, see also 94, where death is called “maximi malorum naturalium,” as well as the later De Homine XI, 98. where the phrase is “malorum omnium primum”). 6 De Cive, 75. 7 On the political implications of Hobbes’s methodology, see Weinberger. 8 Leviathan XI, 4.150. 9 Leviathan XII, 4.166, 164. 10 Leviathan X, 4.134; cf. the phrasing of the Latin at 135: Scientia, Potentia est; sed Parva; quia Scientia egregia rara est, nec proinde apparens nisi paucissimis, & in paucis rebus. 11 Leviathan V, 4.72. 12 Leviathan V, 4.76. 13 Leviathan V, 4.74, 76. 14 Leviathan XII, 4.166. 15 Leviathan XII, 4.166. 16 Leviathan XII, 4.170, 178. 17 Leviathan XII, 4.170, 178. 18 Helpful on this theme is Skinner, ad loc. 19 Leviathan XVI, 4.244–​9. 20 Leviathan XXXI, 4.558. 21 See, for example, Leviathan VIII, 4.114–​15. 22 Leviathan XII, 4.180. 23 See Leviathan XXXVIII, 5.716ff. for Hobbes’s review of the orthodox accounts of the “Torments of Hell” and the “joyes of Life Eternall.” 24 Leviathan XXXVIII, 5.698. 25 Leviathan XV, 4.226. See also, for example, Behemoth, in which he writes, “As much as eternall torture is more terrible than death, so much would they [sc. Men] fear the Clergy more than the King” (125). 26 Leviathan V, 4.76. 27 For Hobbes’s epistemology, see Part I of his work De Corpore. 28 Leviathan XIII, 4.192. 29 Leviathan XIII, 4.192. 30 Leviathan XIII, 4.196. 31 Leviathan XV, 4.236.

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250  Bradley R. Jackson 32 33 34 35

Leviathan XIV, 4.216. Leviathan XIV, 4.210, 212. Leviathan XVII, 4.260. The important exception to this is when one kills another from “fear … of corporeall hurt, which we call Bodily Fear” (Leviathan XXVII, 4.464). 36 Leviathan XVIII, 4.266. 37 See Leviathan XXVI, 4.414. 38 Leviathan XVIII, 4.270. 39 Leviathan XVIII, 4.276. 40 Leviathan XXI, 4.338. 41 Leviathan XXI, 4.338. 42 Leviathan XXI, 4.338. Emphasis in original. 43 See Strauss, Political Philosophy; Warrender. 44 On this theme, see especially Strauss, Hobbes’s Critique. 45 Leviathan XXXVIII, 5.716f. 46 Leviathan XXVI, 4.448. 47 Leviathan XXXVIII, 5.710ff.

References Hobbes, Thomas. Behemoth. In The Clarendon Edition of the Works of Thomas Hobbes, vol. 10, edited by Paul Seaward. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. —​—​—​ De Cive: The English Version. In The Clarendon Edition of the Works of Thomas Hobbes, vol. 2, edited by Howard Warrender. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. —​—​—​ De Corpore. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, vol. 1, edited by Sir William Molesworth. London: John Bohn, 1839. —​—​—​ De Corpore Politico, or the Elements of Law. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, vol. 4, edited by Sir William Molesworth. London: John Bohn, 1840. —​—​—​ De Homine. In Thomae Hobbes Malmesburiensis Opera Philosophica Quae Latine Scripsit, vol. 2, edited by Sir William Molesworth. London: John Bohn, 1839. —​—​—​ Leviathan. In The Clarendon Edition of the Works of Thomas Hobbes, vols. 3–​5, edited by Noel Malcolm. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Skinner, Quentin. Reason and Rhetoric in the Philosophy of Hobbes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Strauss, Leo. Hobbes’s Critique of Religion and Related Writings. Translated by Gabriel Bartlett and Svetozar Minkov. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011. —​—​—​ The Political Philosophy of Hobbes: Its Basis and Genesis. Translated by Elsa M. Sinclair. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952. Warrender, Howard. The Political Philosophy of Hobbes: His Theory of Obligation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957. Weinberger, Jerry. “Hobbes’s Doctrine of Method.” American Political Science Review 69, no. 4 (1975): 1336–​53.

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25  The Role of Death and Eternity in Locke’s Political Philosophy Jack Clinton Byham

The nature of death seems distant from the explicit themes of John Locke’s (1632–​1704) writings.1 His name is famously associated with a defense of ideas such as private property, natural rights, religious toleration, and scientific progress, but not often with the question or mystery of what it means to die. Upon reflection, however, the topic of death and dying is central to Locke’s thought. Locke’s political philosophy is grounded on the mitigation of death and dying, as much as possible, and the extension and preservation of life. The importance of mitigating death and dying is essential to Locke’s teaching on natural rights. The psychological foundation of this teaching is the fear of death—​in particular of violent death—​and its contrary, the desire to live, especially to live as one who is free (as distinguished from a slave). The rights Locke calls natural and says we are born with—​ rights to life, to liberty, and to property—​reflect a desire on the part of almost all human beings to preserve life, enjoy liberty, possess property, and above all avoid untimely death. This foundation, rooted as it is in observable facts about how human beings live, think, and behave, provides a realistic starting point for political reflection. Indeed, in a certain sense one might say that natural rights are just theoretical projections of the more basic physiological and psychological desires to live with some kind of dignity and to avoid dying a violent death.

On the Possibility of Learning from Mortality Friendly readers of Locke might question his choice to place overcoming or mitigating death at the center of his political philosophy—​especially if philosophers are those who most of all reconcile or attempt to reconcile themselves to the inevitable reality of death and even to the likely future dissolution of all things, the universe not excepted. According to one tradition, philosophers are those who most of all succeed in living in accordance with the harsh but potentially liberating insights that death is the one thing we can count on and that probably nothing we love is eternal.2 Far from encouraging philosophical resignation and acceptance of death, however, Locke’s political teaching leads readers to the view that clinging to life and to the liberty and property that support it is what it means to be rational. In effect, Locke’s teaching encourages readers to bypass ruminations on the nature and meaning of death and instead to dig in their heels, gather and keep from the flux and flow of time and chance what they can, and enlarge, preserve, and protect themselves. In light of the Socratic saying that to philosophize is to learn how to die, it is tempting to view Locke’s political thought as rather unphilosophic.3 It would be premature, however, to conclude too much about Locke’s view of death from his emphasis on the intrinsic value of life, freedom, and property in his political theory. Consider the words that grace Locke’s tombstone, which he himself composed in Latin: DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-26

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252  Jack Clinton Byham Stop, Traveler! Near this place lies John Locke. If you ask what kind of a man he was, he answers that he lived content with his modest lot. Trained as a scholar, he devoted his studies only to the pursuit of truth. This you will learn from his writings, which will show you everything else concerning him, with greater truth, than the suspected praises of an epitaph. His virtues, if he had any, were too little for him to propose as matter of praise to himself, or as an example to you. Let his vices be buried together. An example of virtue, you have already in the Gospels; of vice, one could wish it did not exist; of mortality (and may you learn from it), assuredly you have one here and everywhere. That he was born on August 29, 1632, and died on October 28, 1704, this tablet, which itself will quickly perish, is a record.4 Though the thought of inevitable mortality seems distant from the arguments of Locke’s major writings, his epitaph is enough to inform us that it was present to his mind. The remark about the perishing of the tablet that was his tombstone is curiously circumspect for an epitaph. Is it a reminder that all things will perish, even the rocks? Maybe!5 Whatever the case, a written reminder of mortality—​of our own, of our tombstones, and by extension of the world itself—​is literally Locke’s “final word” presented for the benefit of humankind so we may “learn from it.” Locke’s tombstone inscription implies that all should learn something important from the contemplation of mortality; indeed, he singles out this admonition with parentheses. Locke further says whoever wants to know what he thought should turn to his writings. Let us turn to them with a view to answering this question about Locke’s understanding of death.

Locke’s Century and His Major Works Locke nowhere provides a stand-​alone teaching concerning the meaning of death; to the extent he has such a teaching, it must be inferred. But Locke wrote voluminously: he is the author of several important writings—​on epistemology, on education, on politics, on religion, and on economics, among other things. These writings were the product, for the most part, of very mature thought; he was almost sixty years old when he published most of the books for which he is famous. It is also worthy of note that prior to publishing his writings Locke had acquired much experience in the “real world.” After having graduated from and taught at Oxford, he became a doctor of medicine. A short while later, having performed a risky but successful surgery on the most powerful Whig politician of his time, the 1st Earl of Shaftesbury, he became the Earl’s personal secretary and thereby deeply immersed in English politics. When Shaftesbury’s political star waned, Locke found it necessary, as did several others, to flee to Holland for a time to avoid the wrath of King James II. In addition to being a scholar, physician, and political insider, Locke was also the personal tutor for the son of one of his wealthy gentleman friends. Locke writes, therefore, from a position of broad learning and extensive lived experience.6 More than any particular set of facts about Locke’s life, however, a general understanding of the importance of religion in seventeenth-​century England will serve to inform modern readers of perhaps the chief difference in outlook between that century and ours. This difference is memorably portrayed by Sir Winston Churchill in his biography of Marlborough. It is important to remember also the differences of feeling and outlook which separate the men and women of these times from ourselves. They gave a very high—​indeed, a dominating—​place in their minds to religion. It played as large a part in the life of the seventeenth century as sport does now. One of their chief concerns was about the next world and how to be saved. Although ignorant compared with our standards, they were

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John Locke  253 all deeply versed in the Bible and the Prayer Book. If they read few books, they studied them and digested them thoroughly. They had settled opinions on large questions of faith and doctrine, and were often ready to die or suffer on account of them.7 Churchill explains that it would have been almost impossible during Locke’s time to raise the question of death and of eternity in the abstract without raising the question of the meaning and the validity of the Christian teaching on salvation, which so greatly concerned the people of that century. The spirit of Locke’s times was not tolerant. The seventeenth century was an age of religious war. Fueling the violent nature of these religious disagreements was especially the anxiety over what a person should believe and do to be saved. Simply ignoring or dismissing this widespread anxiety as absurd was not an option. Sovereigns typically enjoined by law specific acts of worship, which legislated distinct, specific paths to spiritual salvation. Sharp disagreements over questions of Christian belief and practice fueled civil unrest between adherents of different faiths as well as between peoples and their rulers. What it means to be a true Christian, and which is the true Christian church, were questions that exercised first-​ rate minds and for which many persons gave their lives in defense of an answer. Thus, if we are to learn or infer Locke’s teaching on the nature of death and of eternity, we will need to combine an understanding of his political views with his writings on the Christian religion and on the relation of faith to knowledge. Locke’s political views are best studied in Two Treatises of Government (1689). Here Locke supplants the Biblical foundation for political authority—​the idea that the sovereign’s authority is a gift from God to be used to shape the community and its citizens for the greater glory of God—​with the idea of consent, which is the idea that sovereign authority is a creation and gift of freely consenting individuals to be used to secure their natural rights to life, liberty, and property. Locke’s writings on the Christian religion are to be found in The Reasonableness of Christianity (1695) and in A Paraphrase and Notes on the Epistles of St. Paul (1705). In the Reasonableness, Locke says his goal is to state clearly and succinctly what Jesus himself had taught about what needs to be believed and done in order to be saved.8 In the Paraphrase and Notes, Locke says his goal is to explain the often perplexing “doctrinal and discursive” parts of St. Paul’s letters. Locke’s understanding of the relation of faith to knowledge is best given in An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689), a work that made Locke famous in his own lifetime. Here Locke provides and defends an empirical view of knowledge. This is the view that the origin of all of what we call knowledge is either in our senses (“sensation”) or in our minds working through the information provided by our senses (“reflection”). In the seventeenth century, to champion empiricism persuasively meant explicitly reconciling it with the view that religious faith is valid, too, or that science complements, rather than undermines, religious faith. Locke attempts this reconciliation in the final parts of the Essay. Finally, in a shorter but more political work, A Letter Concerning Toleration (1689), these three main lines of his thought—​politics, religion, epistemology—​coalesce. Locke discusses the idea of mortality in the Essay, too. As part of his argument that the origin of all knowledge is experience, Locke addresses the claim, put forward by some, that “the soul always thinks.”9 Locke believes this claim is erroneous—​possibly because it implies that souls can exist separately and can know apart from bodies, which Locke doubts. In response and rejoinder, he writes, It is strange the soul should never once in a man’s whole life recall over any of its pure native thoughts, and those ideas it had before it borrowed anything from the body; never

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254  Jack Clinton Byham bring into the waking man’s view any other ideas but what have a tang of the cask, and manifestly derive their original from that union. In other words, the necessary, if not sufficient, condition for a soul or mind to think is that it be attached to a body. And bodies are mortal things. For Locke, all our thoughts have “a tang of the cask”; they derive from the connection of the mind to the mortal shell that is its body and its only source of knowledge.10 The mind–​body union influences the extent of knowledge we are able to achieve. Locke writes that although we might prefer to “let loose our thoughts into the vast ocean of being; as if all that boundless extent were the natural and undoubted possession of our understandings, wherein there was nothing exempt from its decisions, or that escaped its comprehension,” we would do better to be more cautious in meddling with things exceeding its comprehension; to stop when it is at the utmost extent of its tether; and to sit down in a quiet ignorance of those things, which, upon examination, are found to be beyond the reach of our capacities.”11 The human mind is not in touch by nature with an infinite cosmos. Mortal bodies therefore provide the contours within which all living—​and knowing—​takes place. In this way, too, mortality serves to orient Locke’s thought, if only because Locke is so cautious not to presume things he believes cannot be known.

Politics, Religion, and Epistemology in A Letter Concerning Toleration This now famous Letter Concerning Toleration was written in Latin, the international language of the educated elite in the seventeenth century: the whole of Europe—​and especially politically powerful priests in England and abroad—​were Locke’s intended audience. The first claim Locke makes in the Letter is that a willingness to tolerate others to worship God after their own manner is “the chief characteristical mark of the true church”—​and, by extension, the mark of those who are true Christians.12 Since the laws of England recognized an established church, in practice this kind of tolerance would have required the state to stop compelling citizens to belong to the state church and to cease to punish Catholics and dissenting Protestants. According to the Letter, those who rule in political communities ought neither to concern themselves with saving the souls of their citizens nor, indeed, attempt to regulate their spiritual lives in any way. Locke insists not that they should not care, but that they should not care in the particular way that rulers are known to express their care: by making laws and enforcing them with penalties. “The whole jurisdiction of the magistrate,” he writes, “reaches only to these civil concernments”: “life, liberty, health, and indolency of body; and the possession of outward things, such as money, lands, houses, furniture, and the like.”13 In spheres of activity that fall outside of these explicit civil concerns, Locke thinks magistrates cannot justify their authority and, therefore, have no real jurisdiction. In support of this claim Locke makes three related arguments, each with a unique foundation, which concern the specific character of the Christian religion, the nature of persuasion, and limits of knowledge, respectively. Each forms a separate but supporting argument for why citizens should be left alone—​“tolerated”—​by their government (as well as by the church that happens to enjoy the blessing of state approval)14 to determine on their own the kind of religion they will practice and the kind of relationship with God they will have. While these reasons are interesting in their own right, they are also interesting for what they reveal about Locke’s view of the question of death and of eternity.

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John Locke  255 Locke’s first reason is that God has not given political rulers the responsibility of caring for citizens’ souls. By extension, civil magistrates overstep their bounds when they concern themselves with the salvation, or the beliefs about salvation, of their citizens. In fact, Locke explains, God has given no one the right to believe for another; each person is responsible for themselves. The character of this responsibility requires “the inward and full persuasion of the mind”15 on behalf of those who would be saved; otherwise, it is not genuine. God does not accept our profession of belief if we make it merely because we are compelled by another or by the law; He looks more deeply into the human heart than that. We therefore have to believe for ourselves. Since God requires all to believe in this inwardly sincere way, no person can consent to another’s believing for them. This is the first reason for tolerating individual religious practices. The second reason builds on the first, but has little to do with what God requires and much to do, instead, with how we come to think and believe anything at all. Locke says that since “true and saving religion consists in the inward persuasion of the mind, without which nothing can be acceptable to God,” force—​laws that are enforced—​which is the sovereign’s tool as sovereign, is of no use as an aid to procuring “true and saving religion” in citizens’ souls. Since the “understanding,” according to Locke, “cannot be compelled to the belief of anything by outward force,” God has not given anyone the responsibility of believing for another; therefore, believing for oneself requires arriving at one’s beliefs through a process that is more rational and does not involve the use of force.16 Since force cannot compel the truth, those who govern do not possess the ability to save souls. In his third and final reason, Locke argues as follows: For there being but one truth, one way to heaven; what hopes is there that more men would be led into it, if they had no other rule to follow but the religion of the court …? In the variety and contradiction of opinions in religion … the narrow way would be much straitened. One country alone would be in the right, and all the rest of the world would be put under an obligation of following their princes in the ways that lead to destruction …. Men would owe their eternal happiness or misery to the places of their nativity.17 By itself, this reason does not provide a principle of restraint for those who do possess knowledge of the “one way to heaven.” Since all who sincerely believe, according to Locke, believe they possess knowledge of that way, “everyone is orthodox to himself.”18 When one realizes that everyone who believes, believes they are right, too, one is thrown back onto one’s own intellectual resources to inquire for oneself. Locke’s third reason leads to the view that all reasonable princes—​and all other human beings—​can and should admit that they lack certain knowledge in questions concerning salvation. All might be mistaken, if not in the main, then at least in the relevant details. A dose of skepticism concerning one’s beliefs about the most important things is therefore reasonable and desirable, according to Locke, since the certain knowledge that would justify the force of any law enjoining this or that kind of faith or belief on citizens is not available to us. According to Locke’s third reason, no one should be encouraged or compelled by their country to practice and believe after the manner of this or that religion, since it is possible that whoever is leading might be leading us astray. Taken together, the three reasons can be expressed as follows: the magistrate has not the right, the ability, or the knowledge to make and enforce laws concerning religious belief and practice. In light of the development of Western history since Locke, the principles he helped to make popular in defense of religious toleration have taken firm root: Christian warfare is no longer a glaring political problem, and most nations no longer enforce a state

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256  Jack Clinton Byham religion. Still, Locke’s reasons do leave room for questioning. Is the “inward and full persuasion of the mind” required by Christianity fully compatible with the more skeptical intellectual posture required for mutual toleration? Is the variety of belief in the world opened by liberating individuals to pursue answers to these questions for themselves more salutary than the variety that would have existed due to national differences, had they continued? Is the price of civil peace a new, quasi-​religious orthodoxy declaring an individual right to one’s own “truths”? In conclusion, Locke’s combined reasons mirror the challenge at the heart of the Christian faith, which requires an “inward and full persuasion of the mind” of theological precepts that even in the holy text itself are presented as mysteries beyond human understanding. Apparently, to be rational in matters of religion after the manner prescribed by Locke requires believing with all one’s soul but also recognizing that one cannot fully know.

Locke’s Teaching on Mortality: The Essay and The Reasonableness of Christianity Although the era of inter-​Christian religious warfare has largely passed, the principles Locke relied on to defend religious toleration remain applicable in confronting the question of mortality. There is a remarkable consistency to be observed in Locke’s not explicitly providing a stand-​alone teaching on the meaning of death. This lack of a teaching is itself consistent with the principles Locke used to defend religious toleration. In the first place, no one else can confront the question of mortality for us. Each of us must approach our own death on our own and in our own way. No other merely mortal human being can die for us so that we do not have to die at least an earthly death. We cannot consent away the necessity we have to die and to reflect upon our mortality; we must own and face it ourselves. It will be of necessity a deeply and unalterably personal experience. Second, no force or fear of compulsion in this world can change either the reality of our dying or the existence of an afterlife, if there is one. Whether or not an afterlife exists for human beings in general does not seem to depend on whether individual human beings believe in one or not. By extension, the nature of the afterlife cannot be said to depend on what others force us to think concerning it. Finally, everyone has solid grounds to be skeptical concerning their own as well as others’ explanations or admonitions concerning the ultimate meaning of life and death. In the end, on this score no one really knows what they are talking about: we who live lack the experience, and the dead we would ask are incommunicative. For Locke, death is real, personal, and inevitable. He does not claim in his own name to know what form death will take for human beings. He does observe, however, that the need for self-​preservation will sooner or later engage our thoughts about it—​especially when we have reminders of it all around us; death, in turn, will prompt questions concerning the afterlife and therefore of religion and God. But Locke does not tell us explicitly what to think about religion and God. All he claims is that regarding one’s thoughts of religion, “it mightily lies upon [a person] to understand and reason right.”19 Locke was speaking to readers many of whom likely felt the weight of the question of eternity bearing down hard upon them. Locke deals with Christianity explicitly and at length in the Reasonableness.20 He begins by asserting that the proper way to interpret the meaning of death in the Genesis account of the fall of man is “nothing but a ceasing to be, the losing of all actions of Life and Sense.”21 He thinks this is the Biblical definition of death that is most supported by textual evidence and most consistent with the idea that God is just and good. As to a popular alternative

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John Locke  257 reading, which he discusses near the beginning of the Reasonableness, wherein death is understood to mean eternal punishment, Locke thinks this is not a fair reading of the plain words of the Biblical text. Locke asks, rhetorically and on Adam’s behalf, as it were, Could anyone be supposed by a law, that says, for felony you shall die, not that he should lose his life, but be kept alive in perpetual exquisite torments? And would anyone think himself fairly dealt with, that was so used?22 According to Locke, this misreading of the text makes God look cruel and unjust. The correct reading, Locke asserts, is that by the curse of death in Genesis we are to understand only that human mortality was the result of Adam’s disobedience. In other words, the result of Adam’s sin was that human beings will not live forever. The role of Jesus in God’s divine plan, as Locke explains in the Reasonableness, was to correct Adam’s original sin by paying for it with his earthly life. This sacrifice makes it possible for human beings to accept the gift of immortality—​in particular, the gift of being risen from the dead and spending eternity with God—​after our earthly death. There is a grand symmetry in the Biblical narrative, then, according to Locke: what we lose by Adam’s disobedience—​immortality—​we gain back through Jesus’ sacrifice. Only through this divine sacrifice does a life lived in the presence of God forever become possible for human beings. This is how Locke describes what Christianity in particular and the Bible in general teach about death.23 Concerning the life after death and divine justice, Locke draws a conclusion consistent with his empirical view of knowledge, which is that our knowledge of these other-​worldly matters comes from divine revelation, not human reason. “That the dead shall rise, and live again” is “beyond the discovery of reason” and “purely [a]‌matter[] of faith, with which reason has, directly, nothing to do.”24 Locke does not deny the coming Judgment Day, but he does show clearly just how necessary it is to take it on faith. Human reason can in no way discover the inevitability of this day in the same way it discovers the inevitability of death. The only materials reason has available to use, when it wants to operate by itself to think through these most important questions, are drawn from sensation and reflection (“experience”), and these tools alone do not allow us to discover the life after death and divine justice. According to Locke, it is reasonable to believe in the life after death and divine justice if we can know with certainty that the source of our information about these is God’s Word. Interestingly, Locke nowhere attempts to prove that the Bible is God’s revealed word. He does say that reason is a kind of natural revelation—​God’s gift to us, as it were. Further, he does say that reason—​and reason only—​is the judge of whether what claims to be a revelation from God is in fact a revelation. But he does not say how to determine whether the Bible is divine revelation on the basis of experience, and experience, for Locke, is the only true ground of knowledge. Locke teaches, therefore, that reason alone cannot determine or affirm with certainty any prospect of our existence or fate beyond the grave. Locke’s Essay sharpens the clarity with which we see that belief in immortality is the preserve of the faithful. Locke quotes St. Paul’s logic approvingly, who had written in the Bible that, “If there be no Prospect beyond the grave, the inference is certainly right, Let us eat and drink, let us enjoy what we delight in, for tomorrow we shall die.”25 Characteristically, in confronting this great “if,” Locke leaves it to readers to decide for themselves, a strategy which is perfectly consistent with the tolerant principles he espoused in A Letter Concerning Toleration. In the Letter, Locke used Christian premises to reach conclusions more or less compatible with—​and which undergird—​our more secular time. In helping to prepare

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258  Jack Clinton Byham public opinion to take a more tolerant view of the varieties of religious experience, Locke also contributed to the development of a world in which each person can confront the mysteries of death and dying for themselves. And insofar as that kind of questioning is just as deeply personal as it is inevitable, we have cause to be grateful for the success of the principles Locke espoused.

Notes 1 I dedicate this chapter to my friend and teacher, Steve Kautz (1959–​2018). 2 For an example of this tradition see Lucretius, V.91–​126; cf. III.830–​62. Lucretius attempts to reconcile the addressee of his poem to death with words “as sweet as honey.” But one also encounters a similar encouragement to reconcile oneself to the inevitability of death in Plato’s portrayal of Socrates, who, in Phaedo 67e, says that “true philosophers make dying their profession.” That is, philosophers train themselves throughout life “to live in a state as close as possible to death.” 3 Plato, Phaedo, 67e. 4 I found Cranston’s translation of the epitaph quite helpful, but, having modified it in certain respects based on my own reading of the Latin, I am responsible for the final form in which it appears here. The parentheses are in Locke’s original Latin. 5 One of the major fault lines in Locke scholarship concerns the answer to this question, namely, “What, in the end, is eternal?” On the one side, John Dunn argues that Locke sincerely believed in the central mysteries of the Christian faith and therefore in the idea of an eternal God as the primary reality; see his The Political Thought of John Locke for a defense of this view. On the other side of the question, Leo Strauss argues in Natural Right and History that Locke’s faith and his religious rhetoric were only skin-​deep and that at heart Locke was a follower of Epicurus on the question of whether anything is eternal: For Lucretius, atoms and the void are the primary, eternal realities, and God is just another of our many merely human, if astounding, ideas or abstractions. 6 The classic biography of Locke is Cranston. 7 Churchill, 41. 8 Locke finds that Jesus taught that a person needs only (a) to believe that Jesus is the Christ and (b) to make a sincere, inward and outward attempt to live less sinfully in accordance with that belief. 9 Locke, Essay, Bk. 2, Ch. 1, § 9. According to Locke, this was a claim made by some in their attempt to defend the possibility of innate knowledge, i.e., a non-​empirical source of knowledge other than experience (sensation or reflection). The idea or possibility that souls can exist apart from the body provides the back-​drop to this discussion. The idea that souls cannot exist apart from bodies, and the idea that all knowledge is rooted in experience, go together. 10 Locke, Essay, Bk. 2, Ch. 1, § 17 (emphasis added). 11 Locke, Essay, Bk. 1, Ch. 1, § 7, 4; Locke’s emphasis. Locke’s Essay is long and consists of a variety of interesting arguments woven together over four books. The very best book yet written on the arguments of Locke’s Essay and, indeed, of Locke’s theory of knowledge generally, its setting and context, and its relation to other theories, is Ayers. This book is an excellent introduction not only to Locke but also to epistemology and ontology, too. 12 Locke, Letter, 23. 13 Locke, Letter, 26. 14 Later in the Letter Locke discusses the kind of toleration that citizens of various persuasions and churches of various denominations mutually owe to one another. Although the requirements are somewhat different for each, the principles on which they are based are the same. 15 Locke, Letter, 26. 16 Locke, Letter, 27. But might it involve the threat of force, or the use of actual force in a more indirect way? Could governments, for example, according to Locke’s principles, legitimately require their citizens to attend a given number of church services a year, even if it cannot require them to believe what they hear there? Locke quietly equivocates, it seems to me, on the question of whether the threat of force or actual force used in an indirect way can be useful for saving souls.

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John Locke  259 Later in the Letter Locke writes “Errors indeed prevail by the assistance of foreign and borrowed succours. But if truth makes not her way into the understanding by her own Light, she will be but the weaker for any borrowed force violence can add to her” (46). This, it would seem, concedes the point that force can in some way be an aid in saving souls. Moreover, in Some Thoughts Concerning Education (§ 54), in defense of his view that children are to be treated as much as possible like rational beings, Locke writes that “good and evil, reward and punishment, are the only motives to a rational creature, these are the spur and reins, whereby all mankind are set on work and guided, and therefore they are to be made use of to children too.” Evidently, Locke thought that the hope for eternal life and the fear of losing it, insofar as those are potential motives for Christian belief, do not count as force of the kind he would like to see eliminated from political life; Locke does not discuss whether they discount the rationality of Christian belief when they are the motives for that belief. To see how Locke himself handled some of these kinds of questions about the threat of force or the use of indirect force, see Wolfson’s fine explication of Locke’s correspondence with Jonas Proast over the issue of toleration. 17 Locke, Letter, 27–​8. 18 Locke, Letter, 23. 19 Locke, Of the Conduct of the Understanding, § 8. 20 In this text Locke circumspectly presents his thoughts on Christianity as his interpretation of the gospel; he does not say that he is providing a teaching in his own name on the many things, including mortality, about which the Christian faith concerns itself. He could plausibly claim, therefore, although he does not explicitly do so, that the views he discusses are the Bible’s and not his own. As a result, one is left free to consider whether the general principles of toleration espoused in the Letter are compatible with the more specific Biblical view of the afterlife without suspecting Locke of contradicting himself. 21 Locke, Reasonableness, Ch. 1, 8. 22 Locke, Reasonableness, 7–​8. 23 Locke presents this as the Biblical teaching on death; he does not explicitly try in this text (or anywhere) to establish the superiority of this view of death over other, alternative views of death to be found in other religions. 24 Locke, Essay, Bk. 4, Ch. 18, 694. 25 Isaiah 22:13; 1 Corinthians 15:32.

References Ayers, Michael. Locke: Epistemology and Ontology. New York: Routledge, 1991. Churchill, Winston. Marlborough: His Life and Times, Book One. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Cranston, Maurice. John Locke: A Biography. New York: Macmillan, 1957. Dunn, John. The Political Thought of John Locke: An Historical Account of the Argument of the ‘Two Treatises of Government’. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969. Locke, John. A Letter Concerning Toleration. Edited by James H. Tully. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1983. —​—​—​ A Paraphrase and Notes on the Epistles of St. Paul to the Galatians, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Romans, Ephesians. Edited by Arthur W. Wainwright. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987. —​—​—​ An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Peter H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979. —​—​—​ Some Thoughts Concerning Education and Of the Conduct of the Understanding. Edited by Ruth Grant and Nathan Tarcov. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1996. —​—​—​ The Reasonableness of Christianity as Delivered in the Scriptures. Edited by John C. Higgins Biddle. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999. —​—​—​ Two Treatises of Government. Edited by Peter Laslett. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Lucretius. On the Nature of Things. Translated by Martin Ferguson Smith. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2001.

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260  Jack Clinton Byham Plato. “Phaedo.” Translated by Hugh Tredennick. In The Collected Dialogues of Plato. Edited by Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982. Strauss, Leo. Natural Right and History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999. Wolfson, Adam. Persecution or Toleration: An Explication of the Locke–​Proast Quarrel, 1689–​1704. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2010.

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26  Montesquieu on Death, Liberty, and Law1 Trevor Shelley

[T]‌he soul … does not properly behold death, because passion makes itself felt. —​Montesquieu, Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans and Their Decline

Introduction: Montesquieu’s Life Born on January 18, 1689, a century before the launch of the French Revolution, to a soldiering father and a sternly devout but staunchly practical mother, Charles-​Louis de Secondat, Baron of La Brède and later of Montesquieu, was, according to the English political thinker Edmund Burke, “the greatest genius that has enlightened this age.”2 Indeed, for James Madison, father of the American Constitution, “the celebrated Montesquieu” was an “oracle who is always consulted and cited.”3 From the 1760s onward, “Locke and Montesquieu were the two Enlightenment philosophers most often quoted in every sort of political discourse. By the 1780s Montesquieu had far outstripped all the other authors.”4 The same can hardly be said today for one rarely hears Montesquieu mentioned in contemporary public commentary, although there is some renewed appreciation for his thought. The eldest son of four surviving siblings, Charles-​Louis was the only child among them not to enter the Church. Death confronted the young Montesquieu early, for he lost both a brother and a sister while in their infancy, with complications from the latter further leaving him bereft of his mother in 1696. Her sudden passing deprived Charles-​Louis of his mother’s pious example but left him with a sum of wealth and the title of Baron de La Brède. Educated first in his village of birth, Montesquieu went on to study law at the University of Bordeaux. Upon graduation he began his legal career in Paris while engaging with many of the leading intellectual and political personalities of his day, before returning in 1714 to serve as a counsellor at the Parlement of Bordeaux. Two years later, he inherited various lands from his uncle, including the hamlet that bears the name Montesquieu, as well as a legal office at the Parlement of high order in the French Ancien Régime. With a deep interest in the physical sciences, Montesquieu devoted considerable time to meetings of the Academy of Bordeaux, becoming its director in 1717, one year after being admitted to the order. A decade later, he was elected to the French Academy, despite having penned in 1721 The Persian Letters, a controversial satire of the Roman Church and of contemporary France during the Regency. Upon the sale of his office of Parlement in 1726, Montesquieu was free to travel and he set out to tour parts of Europe from 1728 to 1731, spending large portions of time in both Italy and England. Over the course of his life Montesquieu also undertook a journey of the mind, studying with devotion the more than 3,000 volumes contained in his library. Indeed, his life was at large a “long voyage through time and space in order to see and know the legal-​political, DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-27

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262  Trevor Shelley economic-​social and cultural institutions of all the peoples of the Earth.”5 After his return from England, Montesquieu spent three years writing Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans and their Decline, a work in which he sought to disclose certain underlying causes of events, while making judgments about human actors and their actions. In 1748, Montesquieu published The Spirit of the Laws, which he confessed in a letter of the same year was a project over which he had labored for some twenty years, adding, “I swear that this book nearly killed me; I am going to rest now; I shall work no more.”6 Remarking as he does in the work’s “Preface” that he found his “principles” through years of reading and reflection, it took him two decades to work them out in full—​an achievement for which his name lives on, even if he believed it to have sapped him of life’s vitality. Montesquieu died seven years after its publication. This essay discusses but a sample of the richness found in The Spirit of the Laws. Montesquieu’s initial examination of human nature includes consideration of humanity’s unique relationship to death, which is for him a mental fact and disposition with great political import. Montesquieu provides a psychological account of liberty based on an opinion of security. Individuals are free, he argues, when unburdened of fear of arbitrary death at the hand of one’s government or fellow citizens. This is especially acute when examining his views on criminal laws, which demonstrate how even severe punishment can contribute to security if justly established, based on the fact that men know that they must die but nevertheless desire to live securely—​that is, freely.

Man, Beasts, and Death In the Preface to The Spirit of the Laws, Montesquieu notes that his work discusses an “infinite number of things.” Over the course of 6 parts divided into 31 books, each of which contains many chapters of varying length, Montesquieu’s magnum opus gives the impression of addressing nearly everything of importance in the human world. He succinctly informs readers of his method and motivation: “I began by examining men, and I believed that, amidst the infinite diversity of laws and mores, they were not led [conduits] by their fancies [fantaisies] alone.”7 Despite the great variety of things confronting his wide gaze and attentive observations, Montesquieu expresses confidence in the fact that the world of human activity is intelligible. Thus, he further advises, “Many of the truths will make themselves felt [sentir] here only when one sees the chain connecting them with others.” Rather than set out an abstract theory of justice or law, Montesquieu’s project intends to provide a way of thinking about the multitude of particular manifestations of universal human nature. Thus, he studies the ways in which humans have realized their humanity in different contexts—​as beings aware of the fact that they will die—​and how motivations and outcomes change with the vicissitudes of time and place. Montesquieu begins his work by speaking “in general” about laws and the various “things” and “beings” of both “the physical world” and “the intelligent world”—​that is, of bodies in space and the operations of mind and will.8 Laws in the former world are “invariable by their nature,” whereas in the latter the laws are not followed as consistently, due to the fact that “particular intelligent beings are limited by their nature and are consequently subject to error; furthermore, it is in their nature to act by themselves.”9 With a degree of intelligence, the dual possibility of following or not following laws, whatever their source, emerges. However, more fundamental to the intelligent world is feeling, for it is not entirely, or even primarily, constituted by intellect. The laws of the “beasts,” for example, derive from a “feeling” that unites them; they are not drawn together by “knowledge” but are drawn together by pleasure for the sake of preserving their species. In contrast, say, to plants, the beasts too may deviate. But man, above all, is the being of greatest inconsistency regarding

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Montesquieu  263 adherence to the laws. The being most conscious of laws and to whom the most kind of laws apply, man is also the being most capable of deviating from—​even forgetting—​certain laws. For whatever his capacity for knowledge, his passions mislead him. It is in this respect that Montesquieu both compares and contrasts man and the beasts: Beasts do not have the supreme advantages that we have; they have some that we do not have. They do not have our expectations [nos espérances], but they do not have our fears [nos craintes]; they suffer [subissent] death as we do, but without recognizing it [mais c’est sans la connaître]; most even preserve [conservent] themselves better than we do and do not make such bad use of their passions.10 One cannot help but be struck by the impression that the beasts come out ahead, or at least have the greater advantage, as they are better at self-​preservation and at utilizing their passions. Animals do not have “our” hopes or fears but seem to have their own, which are not wrapped up in a consciousness of death. Above all, while both we and the beasts “suffer death,” the great distinguishing criteria concern the fact that man alone recognizes or knows it. What does it mean to know or recognize death, or consequent suffering? Man may know of death without knowing it, per se; for it is possible to recognize that something is, without knowing what it is. While the general mark of human distinction from the animals is for Montesquieu our different or specific relationship to death, variety among particular laws and mores exists across human beings because it is possible to recognize death without knowing what death is. One finds multitudinous and variegated human opinions about death rather than singular and complete understanding about such a fundamental fact of human existence. In this fertile space of limited knowledge—​between total ignorance and perfect knowledge—​human opinions are born, further influenced by an “infinite number of things.” Despite significant commonality in understanding, untangling the reasons behind the variety of human opinions concerning death motivates Montesquieu’s impressive inquiry.

Timidity, Mutual Fear, and Sociality To better appreciate human distinctiveness and diversity, we must follow Montesquieu’s account as he turns to discuss “the laws of nature,” which he says are “so named because they derive uniquely from the constitution of our being.”11 It is from this constitution that Montesquieu deduces a list of four natural laws regarding the pursuit of peace, nourishment, coupling, and life in society. To grasp our natural constitution, he considers “man before the establishment of societies,” which is to say, “man in the state of nature.”12 In this natural condition man appears to be nearly like the beasts from which he previously distinguished “us.” The presocial man Montesquieu describes in the state of nature has the capacity to acquire knowledge but emphatically lacks knowledge: “A man in the state of nature would have the faculty of knowing rather than knowledge.” Social life accelerates what is distinctive about man and makes greater knowledge—​ even science—​ possible. Presocial man’s “first ideas would not be speculative ones; he would think [il songerait] of the preservation of his being before seeking [chercher] the origin of his being.” Montesquieu goes on to say: “Such a man would at first feel only his weakness; his timidity would be extreme.” Whatever “supreme advantages” we may appear to have by nature, or be capable of later developing, when it comes to the very “constitution of our being” feelings are as fundamental for us as they are for the beasts, with the difference being that we feel only weakness as we think about (or imagine) our preservation.13 While this overwhelming feeling of weakness and extreme timidity brings the beasts together, our feelings keep us apart.

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264  Trevor Shelley Montesquieu underlines this cause and effect to distinguish his account from that of Thomas Hobbes, whom he mentions by name while summarizing his argument that men are naturally in a state of war with one another. Hobbesian natural man is driven by a fear of violent death, and this fear is both the source of war and the possible way to peace: fear is “The passion to be reckoned upon” for establishing a binding social covenant and a lasting political order.14 Montesquieu, in contrast, suggests that timidity defers war, since fear in the state of nature would overwhelm everyone against striking first. War, Montesquieu argues, is the consequence of social rather than natural life.15 Evidence of this, Montesquieu informs readers, is found in accounts of known savages discovered in his day: “everything makes them tremble, everything makes them flee.”16 By underlining the extreme timidity of man in the state of nature, Montesquieu suggests that “each feels himself inferior; he scarcely feels himself an equal.”17 In contrast to Hobbes who underlines natural equality based on the fact that each individual is capable of killing the other, Montesquieu zeroes in on the connection between timidity, weakness, and inferiority. If there are no attackers among men in this situation, then why all the fear? Man’s fear is not derived from experience of bellicose fellows or a life of war. Not so much cognizant of particular threats, presocial man finds the world at large to be threatening, and he is haunted by the apparent arbitrariness of death. Meanwhile, his first undifferentiated thought of self-​ preservation is so all-​consuming. Overwhelmed by self-​concern and terrified that death can strike at any moment, man is comparatively ill-​equipped by nature to address his situation; nor is he naturally fit to direct his passions toward this very end in the less variable manner of the beasts. The extremity of his timidity leads man to further think of his preservation—​ indeed, he must. While men do not initially notice that others share in this fear, eventually they realize as much: “I have said that fear would lead men to flee one another, but the marks of mutual fear [les marques d’une crainte réciproque] would soon persuade [engageraient] them to approach another.”18 In knowing of death, man recognizes the fear of his fellows—​fear becomes reciprocal, or mutual. Seeing each other so marked by fear, or sharing in it, men come to see themselves as alike and consequently discover that they had little to fear from one another—​presocial man thus senses that death is not likely due to interacting with his fellows but has its cause elsewhere. Thus, man’s very recognition of death is only matched or allayed by the subsequent recognition that other men not only share in this fear but because of their own fear are not likely to kill him. Only then do they follow the original inclination of the beasts to join together: “They would also be so inclined by the pleasure one animal feels at the approach of an animal of its own kind.” Man does not have the immediacy of this pleasure, but only comes to it later—​man’s social life is therefore both delayed and made possible by his original recognition of death. Indeed, it is this awareness that mobilizes or initiates his “faculty of knowledge,” and facilitates his eventual acquisition of knowledge. Man’s pleasure at fellow-​feeling is thereby mediated by his recognition of death—​of his own and that of other men. And on this basis, men not only come together based on fellow-​ feeling but out of what Montesquieu calls a “second bond” of knowledge, which is something “other animals do not have.” Men therefore have an additional “motive for uniting,” which is not reducible to sentiments but is supported by intelligence; not least by their knowledge of likeness. At this point, however, a dramatic change occurs, for men lose their original “feeling of weakness.”19 United, men arrive at a newfound strength. Bringing an end to their erstwhile equality, “the state of war begins,” which is in fact of two sorts: between individuals in society as well as between societies. Consequently, positive laws become necessary and are established, Montesquieu explains, according to three ideas of right—​the right of nations, political right, and civil right—​as well as the notions of the political state and

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Montesquieu  265 the civil state. We may therefore conclude that an original, general fear of death in the world comes to be replaced with a secondary specific fear of death in society—​the former of which ultimately brought men together whereas the latter tends toward division—​and out of wars between individuals and between societies human laws arise, to meet and mitigate the newly discovered social strength. The task of good government for Montesquieu is to channel and check this strength for the sake of security, as we will see. Montesquieu’s inquiry to this end is guided by his unique and complex concept of “the spirit of the laws.” This spirit consists in “the various relations that laws may have with various things,” and includes what he calls the nature and principle of the government, the climate and physical aspects of their location such as the terrain, the people’s way of life, “the degree of liberty that the constitution can sustain,” their religion, the “inclinations” of a people, their wealth, the population, commerce, mores, and manners of a people.20 Moreover, laws ought to be “related to one another, to their origin, to the purpose of the legislator, and to the order of things on which they are established.” Laws, Montesquieu underlines, “must be considered from all these points of view.”21 Since the human world is fundamentally distinguished by a recognition of death, his political philosophy cannot avoid examining the various sentiments and opinions different societies have regarding death, which forms part of the “spirit” of a people—​the underlying relation of so many things that Montesquieu’s science seeks to uncover. Death is universal, but its appearance or occurrence is always particular to some concrete context. For as Montesquieu observes, “Death for a Roman and death for a Christian are two different things.”22 This is true not only in the physical sense—​as per “the physical world”—​insofar as bodies age and die due to a series of causes that could conceivably be traced over the course of a single life, as well as through lines of (genetic) inheritance—​but also in an intellectual sense—​as per “the intelligent world.” Regarding the latter, death can mean different things to different peoples—​opinions about death vary because of the complexity of intervening factors and relations, including the climate and the religion of the people. While death may mean different things in different contexts, every government offers some response to the natural human fear and opining about death, which Montesquieu treats most thoroughly in his assessment of governments as being more or less moderate and despotic in practice. One measurement of governments Montesquieu offers in this regard is the extent and manner in which they cultivate a “spirit of tranquillity.” And this becomes especially acute when looking to the criminal laws of a country.

Tranquility, Security, and Liberty In addition to Montesquieu’s general assessment of governments as more or less moderate, in Part 1 of The Spirit of the Laws, particularly Books II through VIII, he provides a more specific classification of governments consisting of republican, monarchical, and despotic forms. To better grasp the proportion of government moderation in practice, Montesquieu suggests we must first understand the characteristics of the different types. Each government has a “nature” and a “principle,” the former of which he says is “its particular structure,” and the latter is “the human passions that set it in motion.”23 Laws are relative to both in certain important ways. Montesquieu hereby builds on his previous account of the subrational parts of human nature to suggest that each government has passions that “make it act,” which serve as the “spring” for action: virtue in the case of republics, understood as patriotism; honor in that of monarchies; and fear when it comes to despotisms. To the extent that republics and monarchies are awash in sacrificial love and aspiring ambition, respectively, despotism is the government that most closely approximates man’s original timidity and weakness. This partly explains its prevalence, which is also why it receives Montesquieu’s

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266  Trevor Shelley extended criticism. In fact, it appears he does not so much have an ideal, or best, form of government against which he measures all others, but a worst one—​despotism—​from which he seeks to moderate all governments away. One may not be able to turn a despotism into a monarchy or a republic at a stroke, but one might aspire to moderate despotism nonetheless; a moderate despotism is a notable improvement over an immoderate one. Not to mention there may be despotic republics and monarchies as well. Moderation and despotism are manifest in all governments if in different proportions. Despotism, he argues, is the simplest government—​“everything should turn on two or three ideas”—​and it is the most common kind. Being “uniform throughout,” despotism requires “only the passions” for its establishment.24 It is therefore a government that does not rely on any kind of knowledge, as it were, and is therefore directed to and by the human body. Montesquieu discusses the consequences of despotism’s principle of fear in a hauntingly illustrative manner: “While the principle of despotic government is fear, its end is tranquillity; but this is not a peace, it is the silence of the towns that the enemy is ready to occupy.”25 Despotism recalls something of the extreme timidity of the state of nature, for life under despotism is a constant reminder of the reality of death; it achieves its aim of tranquility in the manner of an enemy occupation. To the extent that the human mind desires tranquility, as Montesquieu suggests it does, surely there are better ways to reach such a goal. In his ambition to make the complexity of the world intelligible, he also provides guidance toward seeking a more desirable tranquility. Discussion of tranquility returns in a different way when Montesquieu discusses liberty, which he argues must be considered in two general regards: as related to the constitution of a government (which is the subject of Book XI) and as related to the citizen (subject of Book XII). Liberty is a consequence of objective and subjective arrangements or relations, which is to say that it is both institutional and psychological. Montesquieu writes, “No word has received more different significations and has struck minds in so many ways as has liberty” adding that “each has given the name of liberty to the government that was consistent with his customs or his inclinations.”26 But, he argues, liberty can consist only in having the power to do what one should want to do and in no way being constrained to do what one should not want to do … Liberty is the right to do everything the laws permit; and if one citizen could do what they forbid, he would no longer have liberty because the others would likewise have this same power.27 Ultimately, Montesquieu concludes that political liberty is a product of moderate governments, and to be moderate a government’s constitution must have political liberty for its “direct purpose.”28 For Montesquieu, the English constitution alone aims at and embodies this combination of liberty and moderation, as elaborated in his famous account of the separation of powers legislative, executive, and that of “the power of judging” in England. Where the three powers are united, “an atrocious despotism reigns,” while in contrast, many of the moderate governments of Europe are those where, “the prince, who has the first two powers, leaves the exercise of the third to his subjects.”29 Underlining the separation of the power of judging is crucial for Montesquieu, because it is a power “so terrible among men,” for it results in decisions regarding the life and death of individuals; therefore, Montesquieu argues it should be made as “invisible and null” as possible, so that “one fears the magistracy, not the magistrates.”30 The depersonalization of judging for which Montesquieu advocates is found in the jury system he discovers in England. Under this system citizens know not the personal identity of their potential judges, and the power of judging is consequently dispersed among all and concentrated among none. Thus, a free and moderate government does not rid men’s

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Montesquieu  267 minds of fear but clarifies and constrains what ought to be feared, while keeping such fearful instruments out of sight—​or diffuse—​so as to instill some tranquility of mind.31 In this context Montesquieu offers his psychological definition of political liberty: Political liberty in a citizen is that tranquillity of spirit which comes from the opinion each one has of his security, and in order for him to have this liberty the government must be such that one citizen cannot fear another citizen.32 Unlike the tranquility of despotism, which is a submissive fear, the tranquility of spirit associated with liberty is not something forced upon individuals; rather, it results from individuals freely assessing the security of their bodies and minds and determining that they are in fact secure. When the spirit is tranquil in this regard, the individual is liberated from the burdensome fear of threats unknown and unpredictable, from one’s fellow citizens and from government at large. But Montesquieu’s account does not remain confined to the self per se. Opinion as the fundamental aspect of Montesquieu’s definition of political liberty is bound to both the constitutional arrangement of government and its powers, on the one hand, and to the mores and manners of all citizens in one’s nation on the other. Certain constitutional arrangements and social habits can better foster a subjective sense of freedom in individuals. Thus, to reiterate, Montesquieu examines constitutions and laws in both a formal and substantive manner—​that is, he considers liberty and security in theory as the object of governments while likewise examining them in practice for their psychological effects on individuals. The true measure for any individual’s opinion of security, for Montesquieu, rests in a country’s criminal laws, given the state’s control over our bodies through its power over life and death. “This security is never more attacked than by public or private accusations. Therefore, the citizen’s liberty depends principally on the goodness of the criminal laws.”33 Criminal laws above all must secure “the innocence of the citizens,” and thereby properly distinguish between the innocent and the guilty as well as mitigate against “false testimonies.” The “terrible” nature of the power of judging is pointedly revealed when it comes to addressing criminal accusations, trials, and punishments, for the assessment of one’s security touches on one’s opinion regarding the possibility of not only being physically harmed by one’s neighbor, but also being falsely accused or unjustly tried and punished by one’s fellows through institutional means. Thus: The knowledge … concerning the surest rules one can observe in criminal judgments, is of more concern to mankind than anything else in the world. Liberty can be founded only on the practice of this knowledge, and in a state that had the best possible laws in regard to [criminal justice], a man against whom proceedings had been brought and who was to be hung the next day would be freer than is a pasha in Turkey.34 The reason for Montesquieu’s sensitive treatment of criminal laws is now evident, for his analysis combines the rudimentary notion of security in the sense of prevention of injury with the psychological notion of security that points to liberty. In juxtaposing a despotic state like the Turkey of Montesquieu’s day, where all power is uniform and concentrated in the person of the pasha—​or governor of highest rank—​with a state that has just criminal laws and practices, Montesquieu illustrates that execution of the criminal is not itself the matter of greatest concern. Of course, the punishment must be proper as well as proportionate, and the processes preceding judgment ought to be without caprice: “It is the triumph of liberty when criminal laws draw each penalty from the particular nature of the crime.”35 But if the proper penalty is a “triumph,” such a final moment of victory for liberty would

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268  Trevor Shelley not have been possible without the right reasons and procedures for judgment, as, say, in the case of the man to hang; the political and legal context determining such a judgment of death is as important for the criminal as it is for the rest of the citizens in contributing to the tranquility of the overall community. Properly understood, the guilty criminal would himself know—​indeed, the process would so show—​that his death is not without just judgment, even if he may naturally resist it. His fear of death is countered to some extent by knowledge that he is not being executed arbitrarily, or that his life and person were not treated without due process and respect. His very self ought to be secure in knowing he was not the victim of uncertain or unknown threats; thus, even if he was timid toward his execution, it could not be as “extreme” as was natural man’s timidity who knew nothing of why death would strike. Such a man ought to remain secure in knowing he lived freely, and was justly judged, even as he awaits hanging. Thus, he would be “freer than is a pasha in Turkey” whose fear and sense of security is closer to that of presocial man in the state of nature. Death, therefore, is not as great an evil as enslavement to uncertain fears and unpredictable passions that foster the level of insecurity experienced by despots and their subjects. Gathering the threads of our discussion, we can conclude that for Montesquieu, no government can entirely put men’s minds at ease, or solve the problem of man’s natural fear of death. However, depending on the laws and structure of governmental powers, a greater degree of tranquility and security is possible. It may ultimately matter less what death is than that men remain cognizant they will die. The knowledge derived from this fact—​the inevitability of our own deaths—​influences not only the actions of individuals, but ought to be used by a prudent legislator to direct the laws toward moderation, fairness, and liberty, in relation both to the constitution and to the citizen.

Conclusion: Montesquieu’s Death At the time of Montesquieu’s own death, the Enlightenment thinker Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, editor and contributor to the Encyclopédie, penned a eulogy for Montesquieu calling him a “friend to mankind,” whose “virtues did honour to human nature, his writing justice.”36 D’Alembert closed with the following words: Death prevented him from giving us any further benefits. And combining our own regrets with those of all Europe, we might write on his tomb: “The end of his life brought mourning to us, melancholy to his friends, anxiety even to the bystander who knew him not [from: Tacitus, Agricola, 43].”37 As with all great political philosophers, their death is of great significance, for it marks a terminus to their teachings. Furthermore, one may wonder whether what they scribed and left for posterity to explore is more significant than what they kept to themselves. In his old age, Montesquieu noted to himself the following: “I have only two more matters of business: one, to know how to be sick; the other, to know how to die.”38 Whatever Montesquieu actually learned about these two things, he seems to have kept it to himself. For he was, as one commentator put it, “the least confessional of writers.”39 Rather than relay to the world extended self-​reflections or pen an autobiographical work, his spirit was turned outward as he sought to make sense of the many peoples past and present with their diverse laws and cultures. Montesquieu’s political philosophy exemplifies how the life of reason can make the complex configuration of the human world intelligible, not least in being motivated, as one inevitably is, by some effort to grapple with the fact that we know of death but know not exactly what it is. And in the end, Montesquieu himself seems to have found some tranquility of mind, for upon contracting a fever that eventually made him

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Montesquieu  269 deliriously ill prior to his death, in one of his final moments of lucidity before dying he is reported to have declared: “Ce moment n’est pas si affreux que l’on pense [This moment is not so terrifying as we think].”40

Notes 1 I would like to thank Freke Ette, Luke Perez, Eno Trimçev, and the editors of this volume for reading and commenting on an earlier draft of this essay. 2 Burke refers to Montesquieu as such on two occasions in separate works. See Preece, 263. 3 Publius, 47. 4 Shklar, 121. 5 Felice, 143 (emphasis in original). 6 Quoted in, “Editor’s Introduction,” Montesquieu, Spirit of the Laws, xi. 7 Montesquieu, Spirit of the Laws, xliii. Quotations in this paragraph are all drawn from the “Preface” (pages xliii–​xlv). Henceforth referred to as SL by book, chapter, and page number, e.g., III.2, 31. I have consulted the following French edition, De l’esprit des lois, edited by Mattéi. 8 SL, I.1, 3–​4. 9 SL, I.1, 4. 10 SL, I.1, 5. 11 SL, I.2, 6. 12 Whether or not Montesquieu actually believed there were ever men who actually lived prior to, or outside of, society, or instead believed that by way of reason we might grasp some sense of what man is distinct from his collective life, is a matter of some debate. This, say, in contrast to Rousseau who took the notion very seriously and developed an elaborate historical, if admittedly conjectural, account of the state of nature in his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality. 13 Montesquieu’s use of songer rather than penser suggests man’s relationship to his preservation is more in the manner of a reverie or sentiment-​based thought than something reflective or, as we might say, “thought out” or “thought through.” And so again we are reminded of the distinction between knowing that something is the case as opposed to knowing what it is. However, songer also hints at the capacity for, or emergent role of, imagination, which plays no small part in the formation and deformation of opinion, perhaps especially regarding death. 14 Hobbes, Ch. XIV, 88. 15 The distance Montesquieu seeks to establish between his views and those of Hobbes—​whether one believes he is successful in doing so or not (a matter of scholarly debate)—​has some interesting consequences when it comes to war, which is a relevant topic when discussing death. Raymond Aron (56–​7) summarizes the point well: In Montesquieu’s thinking, war is less a human than a social phenomenon. From this it follows that if war and inequality are linked to the essence of society and not to the essence of man, the aim of politics will be, not to eliminate war and inequality, which are inseparable from collective life, but to mitigate or moderate them … Hobbes, who posited war as primeval and inherent in human nature, ended by authorizing the absolute power which alone is capable of keeping the peace. Montesquieu, on the other hand, considering war and inequality to be social phenomena, naturally had no incentive to do away with them altogether. By recognizing the social character of war, one relinquishes, as it were, the utopia of absolute peace. If war is a human phenomenon, we can dream of absolute peace. If war is a social phenomenon, we simply arrive at the ideal of moderation. 16 SL, I.2, 6. 17 SL, I.2, 6. 18 SL, I.2, 6–​7. 19 SL, I.3, 7. 20 SL, I.3, 8. 21 SL, I.3, 9. 22 Montesquieu, My Thoughts, 203 [No. 646].

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270  Trevor Shelley 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

SL, III.1, 21. SL, V.14, 59. SL, V.14, 60. SL, XI.2, 154–​5 (emphasis in original). SL, XI.3, 155. SL, XI.4, 155; XI.5, 156. SL, XI.6, 157. SL, XI.6, 158. The object is not to eliminate all fear of death, for as a consequence the laws would lose all of their punitive power. “It is essential not to inspire men with too much contempt for death; they would thereby elude the legislator.” And: “Fear is a resource that must be managed; one must never make a severe law when a milder one suffices.” Montesquieu, My Thoughts, 94 [No. 228]; 281 [No. 1007]. 32 SL, XI.6, 157. 33 SL, XII.2, 188 (emphasis in original). 34 SL, XII.2, 188 (emphasis added). 35 SL, XII.4, 189. 36 Diderot and d’Alembert, 122–​38. 37 Diderot and d’Alembert, 122–​38. 38 Montesquieu, My Thoughts, 666 [No. 2242]. 39 Shklar, 23. 40 Shackleton, 393 (my translation).

References Aron, Raymond. “Montesquieu.” In Main Currents in Sociological Thought, vol. 1, 56–​ 7. New York: Routledge, 1998. Diderot, Denis and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, Encyclopedic Liberty: Political Articles in the Dictionary of Diderot and D’Alembert. Edited by Henry C. Clark, 122–​38. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2016. Felice, Domenico. Montesquieu: An Introduction. A Universal Mind for a Universal Science of Political-​ Legal Systems. Milan: Mimesis International, 2018. Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Edited by Edwin Curley. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1994. Montesquieu. De l’esprit des lois. Edited by Jean-​François Mattéi. Paris: Flammarion, 2008. —​—​—​ My Thoughts. Translated and edited by Henry C. Clark. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2012. —​—​—​ The Spirit of the Laws. Translated and edited by Anne M. Cohler, Basia Carolyn Miller, and Harold Samuel Stone. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Preece, Rod. “Edmund Burke and His European Reception,” The Eighteenth Century 21, no. 3 (Autumn 1980): 255–​73. Publius. The Federalist. Edited by George W. Carey and James McClellan. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2001. Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques. Discourse on the Origins and Foundation of Inequality Among Men (Second Discourse). In The First and Second Discourses, edited and translated by Roger D. Masters and translated by Judith R. Masters, 101–​228. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964. Shackleton, Robert. Montesquieu: A Critical Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961. Shklar, Judith N. Montesquieu. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987.

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27  Can Philosophy Console Us? Hume’s Understanding of Mortality Stephen Wirls

David Hume (1711–​ 76) was a principal figure in what has been labeled the Scottish Enlightenment, a period of extraordinary intellectual innovation in the eighteenth century.1 His revolutionary and very influential works covered history, metaphysics, theology, morals, economics, and many aspects of politics. He was an empiricist and, most famously, a rigorous philosophical skeptic, who called into question our capacity to know anything outside of our ordinary and very limited experience. A great British philosopher considered him the “greatest of all British philosophers.”2 His close friend, Adam Smith, spoke of him “as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will admit.”3 Hume’s writings address many topics directly and indirectly related to death and dying—​ including anguish at leaving this life, fears concerning an afterlife, immortality more generally—​but an examination of these philosophical arguments should be placed in context of the astonishingly untroubled and happy days leading up to his death. While Adam Smith and Hume’s physician described his demeanor admiringly, James Boswell and Samuel Johnson would not accept that Hume calmly anticipated his dying without the consolation from or anxiety about the possibility of an afterlife. The former considered it impossible, and the latter dismissed Hume’s ease as pretense intended to confirm his philosophy.4 Contra Boswell, there is no evidence that Hume secretly converted to Christianity in his waning days, and his doing so would have contradicted his entire life’s work. Johnson’s surmise is no more than that, but it introduces the question this chapter will try to answer: does Hume show how we might, in the face of a natural “horror against an unavoidable event”5 and in the absence of any transcendent life or purpose, nevertheless reason our way to an equanimous death? For Hume, what we can know about human death is no more than what we can actually see in the world, and what we see in all animals is the end of biological life, which is the annihilation of a creature in body and, as far as we can know, mind. His quandary then is why we invest death with greater significance. Anguish arising from the prospect of bodily extinction as well as the loss of hopes and happiness in this world, he acknowledges, are natural. Yet many are also anxious about how behavior and beliefs in this world might affect the happiness and misery of a purportedly immortal soul. What can philosophy do to overcome or at least ameliorate all these disconcerting thoughts? This question raises the most general question, one surely addressed by other authors in this volume: can reason affect our emotional reactions to this most disturbing of eventualities? Given the strong passions aroused by our mortality, assisting us in facing the fears and grief that attend the prospect of dying may be philosophy’s greatest challenge. In Hume’s case, this task is complicated by his mode of reasoning. As will be discussed below, his arguments about matters directly related to our understanding and feelings about death are skeptical rather than conclusive. He can lead us only to doubt that they have any DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-28

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272  Stephen Wirls basis in reality. His arguments, in other words, leave the rational mind suspended rather than settled. Deeper and more consequential complication arises from a foundational observation about the human mind. Hume insists that reason “is, and ought only to be a slave of the passions and can never pretend to any other office.”6 Reason can guide the passions to more fitting objects by showing how our desires have been misdirected by unfounded assumptions, ignorance, and education. It remains, though, a weak force against our passions. Philosophical reasoning, he argues, can gain a firm hold on our thoughts only if it is attended by a particular predisposition to philosophy; deliberate efforts to acquire this disposition can, but can only, approach it. In other words, philosophy could lead us to equanimity in the face of death only if we happened to have a philosophical character. These points are discussed in detail at the end of the chapter. In sum, Hume deploys very powerful philosophical arguments to undermine the basis for ordinary anguish and fears about dying, and these arguments surely explain, at least in part, his own easy death. None of this, however, is likely to affect how most of us face this inevitability.

Philosophy and Religion Some of Hume’s writings on religion have an explicitly political purpose: to use philosophical analysis to moderate the sectarian conflicts that had roiled British politics from the Reformation onward.7 More generally, Hume sought to demonstrate that religious beliefs and philosophy do not intersect. Religious beliefs are strictly matters of faith about the supernatural, while philosophy, broadly understood, describes and, as much as possible, explains the natural world. Once quarantined in a wholly distinct realm, philosophy can examine religious claims on the basis of what is observable in the natural order without disturbing beliefs resting on faith.8 One prong of his argument concerns the possibility of a rational basis for belief in a deity. This complicated argument need not detain us long, but insofar as it establishes the absolute separation of reason and faith, it lays the groundwork for the rest of his analysis and critique. The Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion focuses on two rational arguments for the existence of a deity: the “a priori” argument concerning the logical necessity of a first cause and the “a posteriori” argument based on the apparently intelligent design of and the providence evident in the natural order. Neither argument is strictly disproved, but a skeptical analysis undermines any rational certainty about, or even plausibility of, their premises and conclusions. Moreover, neither argument is able to arrive at the characteristics of a deity that are most important to believers. The qualities of, say, benevolence and justice cannot be derived from the abstract first cause of the a priori argument.9 The argument from intelligent design cannot account for the many imperfections in things and the often miserable and deadly natural circumstances and events, which often turn people to a religion that offers explanations and consolations: there is no view of human life, or of the condition of mankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the moral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with infinite power and wisdom. The deity to which people turn as they contemplate their unhappiness and mortality “we must discover by the eyes of faith alone.”10

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Popular Religion Religions based on faith, which Hume calls “popular,” are those not based either on experience or abstract reason. These religions, the ones with which we are most familiar, have been “very generally diffused over the human race” and entail minimally “belief of invisible, intelligent power.”11 Hume trains his guns on superstition, of which no popular religion is entirely free.12 In Hume’s understanding, and by definition, superstition is a belief in deities with human characteristics (e.g., intelligence, anger, jealousy, mercy) that can be solicited for providential intervention in human affairs. These are, obviously, the crucial aspects of a religion that can offer consolation in the face of death. Hume, however, argues that superstition degrades human dignity and disturbs the happiness available to us in this world. The root of these deleterious effects is its tendency to foster terror at the prospect of death. “One considerable advantage, that arises from philosophy,” therefore, “consists in the sovereign antidote, which it affords to superstition.”13 The Natural History of Religion is Hume’s fullest exploration of popular religions. The title gives away the game; the rise and development of religious beliefs can be accounted for by their “origin in human nature,” which explains, and explains away, all supernatural elements.14 Specifically, superstition arises from fear of the “unknown causes” of extraordinary events, misfortune, and misery. The sense of vulnerability, arising from an inability to “prevent those ills,” drives people to convert the variety of unknown causes into anthropomorphic deities that then become the focus of hopes and fears. This propensity to believe in invisible powers is “a general attendant of human nature,” mainly because of ignorance.15 What grip the superstitious in particular are “terrors with regard to futurity.” Hume finds the general notion of a future life difficult to account for on the basis of the natural order as we experience it, which is that living things simply die. Elsewhere, Hume offers two explanations for this peculiarly human phenomenon. One is the generally felt “horror of annihilation.” In a way, it makes no sense that nature embedded in us a strong aversion to a natural inevitability. Yet this feeling may also serve a natural purpose: [Nature] may give us a horror against an unavoidable event, provided our endeavours … may remove it to some distance. Death is in the end unavoidable; yet the human species could not be preserved, had not nature inspired us with an aversion towards it.16 An idea of futurity may also arise, he suggests, from “our general love” of a “happiness” that we wish not to end. It is difficult, even at some distance from death, not to be distressed at the prospect of no longer experiencing what makes life rewarding and, at times, inexpressibly sweet: the embraces of lovers and friends, the love for and of children, and at least for some, activities of the mind and pleasures of beauty. These explanations may provide us some philosophical resistance to the irrational extension of our natural feelings into some imagined future for our selves. But the anguish of these painful feelings arises from the natural life of humans, and Hume acknowledges that thoughts about an afterlife can afford some harmless comfort. Superstition, however, destroys that comfort by introducing the horrifying possibility of punishment, and especially of infinite punishment, in a future life.17 This prospect, Hume observes, not only deranges our thoughts about dying but also diverts our lives from common and natural duties and pleasures to various sorts of useless activities and self-​ abnegation seen as necessary to appease deities. Human dignity is degraded by religious

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274  Stephen Wirls authorities who propagate the opinion that not ordinary good behavior but only a life of extraordinary subordination and “service”—​rituals, humiliation, and deprivation—​will placate a judging God.18 Philosophy can be an antidote to these superstitious terrors and their effects because of its ability to expose the factitiousness of the religions that propagate them. Philosophy understood as including natural science can, moreover, dispel fear of unknown causes by explaining and even ameliorating the causes and effects of misfortunes. Ultimately, it can demonstrate how “terrors with regard to futurity” do not arise from natural reactions to the prospect of death. The force of superstitious beliefs, consequently, can be explained only by their being “artificially fostered by [religious] precept and education.”19

Immortality in the Light of Reason and Nature Yet any notion of immortality will leave us uncertain about the characteristics of an afterlife and, therefore, also susceptible to answers offered by popular religions. Against this danger Hume offers two additional antidotes. One is a skeptical examination of the notion itself: immortality is “difficult to prove” by the “mere light of reason.” The metaphysical case for immortality is based on a “supposition that the soul is immaterial,” but this argument does not prove that “thought” cannot “belong to a material substance.” Even if there is a “spiritual substance,” Hume reasons, there is no reason to believe that it does not dissipate with the death of the body. Indeed, everything in the natural world indicates this; we see, for example, that the state of our mental faculties generally follows our physical state: improvement when young and decline when aged.20 He concludes that “no other medium” than revelation, based on faith alone, could ascertain the “truth” of immortality.21 If guided by reason, we will at least doubt the notion of an afterlife and be more confident that our fears are groundless. Hume seems to realize that his merely skeptical analysis will not overcome the disturbing thought of death as simple annihilation. The second argument, therefore, accepts the possibility of immortality but then asks: what can we reasonably conclude about an afterlife based on what we discern in our natural moral feelings and judgments? Of particular interest is Hume’s discussion of justice in relation to the notion of infinite punishment in an afterlife. Our ordinary and reasonable understanding of justice is shaped by our experience of human frailty and our knowledge that no one is all good or all evil. These foster an impulse to be merciful and lead us to the idea of proportionality in punishment. In the light of these common sentiments, experiences, and judgments, eternal damnation must seem profoundly unjust.22 Eternal damnation, moreover, leads to the absurdity that what we must see as a good and just God is also invested with what people judge to be vices, including vengefulness and cruelty.23 The positive qualities that we attribute to a deity should instead lead our thoughts away from fear of an afterlife of punishment. Considering only what is evident in our natural inclinations and behavior, we see that individuals have evidently been “entrusted to their own judgment and discretion … to provide for their ease, happiness, and preservation.” We cannot but conclude that the “whole scope and intention” evident in the natural order “is limited to the present life.”24 What sort of “deceitful” creator would bend our nature so thoroughly to this life and yet require us to forsake it for another? It would be “cruel” and “barbarous” if we were given this dominant bent when awaiting us is “another scene … of infinitely greater extent” toward which we have no natural inclination. Why would he give us, instead, impulses to pleasure and good as if they were proper guides and yet treat them as irrelevant and even deserving

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David Hume  275 of excruciation? Why, in other words, would a creator contradict rather than reward a life in accord with his natural order?25 There is, in short, no basis in reason or our natural sentiments to fear what follows this life. If guided by Hume’s naturalism, we will be brought either to an understanding of death as simply annihilation or to an understanding of an afterlife, the happiness of which requires only that we follow our natural moral sense and ordinary judgments concerning virtue and vice.26

Consolation and a Philosophical Disposition “All doctrines are to be suspected, which are favoured by our passions. And the hopes and fears that give rise to this doctrine [the immortality of the soul] are very obvious.”27 Hume deploys his skepticism to undermine this doctrine, one so central to our uncertainties and anxieties about dying. He explains our irrational, if also natural, inclination to hope for a benign and consoling afterlife but also explains the incoherence between the world we know and common notions of a future state. In particular, he exposes the human origin of the superstitions that invest a wholly imagined afterlife with terrors. Altogether, his skeptical reasoning leaves us with the one remaining alternative: death as simply the complete annihilation of body and mind. If we are not able to dispel the pain of loss either of happiness or mere life, we should see it as no more than a troubling but inconsequential feeling. But of what value to us are these philosophical examinations? Will his dispassionate skepticism persuade to the point of altering our thoughts and especially our feelings about death and dying? Can it? Shakespeare captures the problem nicely in Measure for Measure. After the philosophical Duke reasons with Claudio about why death is to be calmly accepted and even welcomed, the latter is reconciled: “Let it come on” (III.i 5–​43). Later, however, his passions take command: Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-​ribbed ice; To be imprison’d in the viewless winds And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world: or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling,—​’tis too horrible. The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death. (III.i 117–​31) Hume accounts for both of Claudio’s reactions. Reason is indeed “able entirely to conquer the unaccountable terrors” of superstition, but only “when sound philosophy has once gained possession of the mind.”28 Yet “the soundest reason is scarce ever able to correct” the “temper and affections” that may make us susceptible to fears and superstitious beliefs.29

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276  Stephen Wirls More generally, Hume famously argues, reason alone cannot determine the will. Reason “is, and ought only to be a slave of the passions and can never pretend to any other office.” Reasoning can guide the passions toward their objects, but it is “incapable of … disputing the preference of any passion or emotion.”30 If Hume’s thoughts about death are to have any effect on us, we must learn what it takes for sound philosophy to “gain possession of the mind.” What “temper” or “passion” would lead us to assimilate his reasoning such that it would reduce or, as in his case, eliminate anguish in the face of death? How, in brief, can we escape into these “calm … regions of philosophy?”31 Fundamentally, our preferences and values arise from “the particular constitution and fabric of human sentiment and affection.”32 “Almost every one has a predominant inclination, to which his other desires and affections submit, and which governs him, though, perhaps, with some intervals, through the whole course of his life,” and which he sees as the only path to happiness. Reason then can be little more than a better and worse guide to that end.33 The “dispositions of mind” are a given: “The fabric and constitution of our mind no more depends on our choice, than that of the body.” On most—​the “ignorant and thoughtless”—​philosophy will have no effect. Even for the remaining few, the “authority” of the “empire of philosophy” is “very weak and limited” in its power to bend a natural disposition toward reason’s recommendations.34 Hume acknowledges, however, the “secret, insensible, influence” of philosophic pursuits in modifying one’s disposition. A “serious attention to the sciences and liberal arts softens and humanizes the temper.” “The prodigious effects of education may convince us, that the mind is not altogether stubborn and inflexible.”35 This hopeful thought is developed in his essay on the “Delicacy of Taste and Passion.” The delicacy of passion is of particular relevance to the disturbances from thoughts of death and dying because it manifests in extreme responses—​“piercing griefs”—​to even lesser misfortunes.36 Although, again, no one is “entirely master of his own disposition,” this passion can be ameliorated by developing a “delicacy of taste,” that is, a strong sensibility to refinement in the arts and reasoning: And this is a new reason for cultivating a relish in the liberal arts. Our judgment will strengthen by this exercise: We shall form juster notions of life: Many things, which please and afflict others, will appear to us too frivolous to engage our attention: And we shall lose by degrees that sensibility and delicacy of passion, which is so incommodious.37 Strikingly, Hume recommends that we should endeavor by “habit and study” to acquire that philosophical temper which both gives force to reflection, and by rendering a great part of your happiness independent, takes off the edge from all disorderly passions, and tranquilizes the mind.38 Here then seems to be the path we have been looking for, one that both allows the abstract considerations concerning mortality and an afterlife to take hold in the mind and opens the way, more generally, into the calm and happy regions of philosophy. But alas: “The reflections of philosophy are too subtile [sic] and distant to take place in common life, or eradicate any affection.” They can “never produce those genuine and durable movements of passion, which are the result of nature, and the constitution of the mind.” We should, therefore, “confide not too much” in this method of reformation “unless nature has been favorable in the temper, with which she endowed you.”39

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David Hume  277 In other words, no matter how powerful they may be, Hume’s arguments concerning mortality and immortality will not, for most of us, much alter the disturbing emotions aroused by thoughts of death and dying. Hume was endowed with a rare philosophical temper and a “cheerful” disposition, refined by education and his exercise of taste, all of which seem to have enabled him to combine, as he explains in his autobiography, various pleasing ways of life into what he elsewhere calls a “judicious mixture.”40 His delicacy of taste was undisturbed by a delicacy of passion, allowing him to do what a “wise” person should do: “endeavor to place his happiness on such objects”—​the exercise of the rational mind, appreciation of works of beauty, and the fellowship of a select group of friends—​“as chiefly depend upon himself.”41 In searching for greater equanimity in the face of death, we could follow Hume’s advice about study in the liberal arts. This endeavor might foster some approximation of the temper necessary to be happy in and determined by philosophical reasoning. Hume does not think, however, that we can achieve that end without extreme and inexplicable good fortune from the start. As with Shakespeare’s Claudio, reasoning about death may settle our rational minds, but it is not likely much to overcome the force of our passions and original dispositions. Hume seems to be telling us, if indirectly, that we will need, as with Claudio, to prepare ourselves in other ways.

But Does Hume’s Philosophy Fully Explain His Peaceful Death? Even if he could accept the natural course of a mortal life lacking in any metaphysical consolation and dismiss the delusory hopes and fears about life after death, can these alone explain Hume’s facing annihilation with all but indifference? Two aspects of his life should give us pause. Hume’s intellectual life was driven to a great degree by concerns about futurity in the sense that he sought “fame.” This, which is available to few of us, he achieved. Most of us, moreover, are drawn by perfectly natural passions into lives in which our happiness depends upon others, whether lovers, spouses, or children. These attachments he avoided. Early in his brief autobiography, Hume speaks about the personal characteristics that determined his career. His “studious disposition” was directed by “the ruling passion” of his life, a “passion for literature,” by which he means “philosophy and general learning.” Later, he qualifies this by calling the “love of literary fame” his ruling passion.42 This then would be the passion his reason had to obey. This passion, however, would have put his mind under the authority of reason because achieving literary fame required him to produce works that would have an enduring impact on the world of thought and letters, and this could be achieved only by appealing to the reason of others. Fame is a kind of immortality, the reality of which is substantiated by the fact that particularly accomplished persons acquire a long afterlife of notoriety.43 Yet we must, as an aside, wonder how Hume would account for his own concern for futurity. This desire to live on in some way could not have arisen either from affliction in his life or from a desire for continuation of the pleasure of fame, which he had yet to experience. Insofar as it does not arise from anything in the natural order as he presents it, this desire for an afterlife of sorts seems to be, in his term, “unaccountable.” Whether or not this indicates a defect in Hume’s arguments about the origins of notions of immortality is beyond the scope of this chapter. In any case, Hume eventually achieved the respect and praise of the learned public in a way most of us cannot, and he could be confident of and comforted by its endurance as death drew near. Then there is our anguish at the thought of losing the happiness we have experienced. Most of us draw substantial portions of our happiness from our associations. One is friendship, which is described in his essay “The Epicurean” and with which particularly

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278  Stephen Wirls Hume’s later life was filled.44 That life, however, included neither a spouse nor children, and almost everybody with one or both understands that the prospect of losing the comforts and pleasures of their presence and companionship is far more painful than that of departing from friends. Of particular intensity is the thought of leaving behind children, one’s most precious and consequential production and responsibility, knowing that other than their mortality, their fate is unsettled. Of these pains, Hume chose to spare himself. Finally, Hume did not, as far as we know, experience the exquisite bond between erotic lovers, which he nonetheless describes beautifully: “The thought, the sense, all full of nothing but our mutual happiness, wholly possess the mind, and convey a pleasure, which deluded mortals vainly seek for in every other pleasure.” Yet this precious satisfaction of a profound longing will also, he thinks, turn to sorrow as thoughts about the future intrude; eventually youthful beauty and vigor will fade, the erotic attraction will wane, and death will extinguish it altogether. How could these thoughts not lead to a hope for the continuation of something all but divine? Although the “Epicurean” reasons against any “fabulous” and “vain superstition” about an afterlife, Hume would not have thought that this “philosophy” could overcome the lover’s desires, anguish, and hopes.45 One last thought on Hume’s exceptional demeanor. In his essay on “The Skeptic,” he calls life a “game,” one of extracting from our lives what happiness we can from wherever we can, after which we simply pass away. Yet it is difficult for most of us to see our existence in this way. We pass from the carelessness and frivolous anxieties of youth into a life of necessary work; as death approaches, we will wonder what it all was for. This gentle anxiety about a higher purpose arises without the promptings of misery or happiness. Hume, it seems, dismisses these thoughts as unaccountable metaphysical or theological turns of mind, yet wondering about the meaning of life is so ordinary, as is the sense of the spiritual or transcendent, which even the non-​believer experiences, and from which we most of us can momentarily distract ourselves but never escape.46 Maybe, therefore, we should not be dismayed that Hume offers most of us no path to equanimity in the face of dying and death. So much of our humanity is present in that painful sense of loss and in our hopes for some future consolation.

Notes 1 I thank the various editors of this volume for their sharp and persistent criticisms and suggestions, most of which I at least attempted to satisfy. 2 Ayer, 1. The second chapter of Ayer’s book is an excellent summary of Hume’s methods and contributions. 3 Hume, Essays, xlix. 4 Miller. 5 Hume, Essays, 598. 6 Hume, Treatise, 2.3.3.4. 7 See in particular the essays “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm” and “Of Parties in General.” Hume, Essays. See also vols. IV–VI of his History of England. 8 It should be noted that there is some uncertainty about Hume’s ultimate position. He denied that he was an atheist, and he indeed seems to affirm the argument from intelligent design, which is discussed below. Yet his affirmations of this argument are difficult to take seriously after his devastating exposure of its inconsistencies and explanatory deficiencies. These affirmations seem to arise instead from the need for “caution” in expressing opinions about religion. Nonetheless, his denial of atheism may also be perfectly sincere, not because he affirms a deity but because reason cannot disprove the existence of one. See Hume, Inquiry, Pt. XII and Hume, Dialogues, 116–​33, 134. 9 Hume, Dialogues, 101–​2.

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David Hume  279 10 Hume, Dialogues, 104. Miracles, therefore, are the only possible empirical proof of the validity of the revealed word, and Hume’s essay on these shows that there is no rational basis for believing in them: So that, upon the whole, we may conclude that the Christian religion not only was at first attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any reasonable person without one. Mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity. And whoever is moved by faith to assent to it is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person which subverts all the principles of his understanding and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience. Hume, Inquiry, 140–​1 11 Hume, Dialogues, 134. 12 Hume, Dialogues, 158–​60. 13 Hume, Essays, 577–​8. 14 Hume, Dialogues, 134. 15 Hume, Dialogues, 139–​40, 184. 16 Hume, Essays, 598. See also Hume, Dialogues, 100. 17 Hume, Dialogues, 185. 18 Hume, Dialogues, X, XIV. 19 Hume, Essays, 593–​5. 20 Hume, Essays, 591–​2, 596–​7. 21 Hume, Essays, 598. 22 Hume, Essays, 594. 23 Hume, Dialogues, 177–​8. 24 Hume, Essays, 592–​3. 25 Hume, Essays, 581–​2, 592–​3. 26 For Hume’s account of a natural moral order, see Hume, Enquiry. 27 Hume, Essays, 598. 28 Hume, Essays, 75. 29 Hume, Essays, 73, 579. 30 Hume, Treatise, 266, 414–​15. 31 Hume, Dialogues, 185. 32 See Hume’s essay on the “Skeptic” for the most accessible version of this argument, which is important to understanding Hume’s thought as a whole. Hume, Essays, 162–​8. 33 Hume, Essays, 160. 34 Hume, Essays, 168–​9. 35 Hume, Essays, 170–​1 (emphasis added). 36 Hume, Essays, 3–​4. 37 Hume, Essays, 6. 38 Hume, Essays, 177, n17. 39 Hume, Essays, 177, n17. 40 Hume, Essays, xxxiv, 160. See Hume, Dialogues, 98–​9 on the rarity of a happy disposition. 41 Hume, Essays, 4. 42 Hume, Essays, xxxii–​xxxiii, xl (emphasis added). 43 Hume, Essays, 86. 44 Hume, Essays, 142. 45 Hume, Essays, 144–​5. 46 My thanks to Alexandra Inzer for shaking me out of my enchantment with Hume and, in articulating this feeling, reminding me of the late Roger Scruton’s comment about Hume’s “monstrous” conception of human nature.

References Ayer, A. J. Hume: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Hume, David. A Treatise of Human Nature. Edited by David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

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280  Stephen Wirls —​—​—​ An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. Edited by J. B. Schneewind. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1985 —​—​—​ An Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Charles W. Hendel. New York: Bobbs Merrill, 1955 —​—​—​ Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and The Natural History of Religion. Edited by J. C. A. Gaskin. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. —​—​—​ Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary. Edited by Eugene F. Miller. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1987. —​—​—​ The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution of 1688. 6 vols. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1985. Miller, Stephen. “The Death of Hume.” Wilson Quarterly 19, no. 3 (1995): 30–​9.

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28  Jean-​Jacques Rousseau on the Fear of Death and the Happiness of Life Daniel Cullen

In locating the fear of violent death at the foundation of political life, Thomas Hobbes (1588–​1679) found the motive for social unity, paradoxically, in the passion that naturally and most powerfully divides human beings from one another. Jean-​Jacques Rousseau (1712–​ 78) did not quarrel with Hobbes’s conclusion about the character of society as we experience it, but he challenged the assumption of its originality and primacy. Hobbes was badly mistaken, Rousseau thought, about what follows from the “simple impulsion of nature,” wrongly attributing to the original state of nature ideas, passions, and needs that human beings acquired only in society.1 By challenging the Hobbesian premise, Rousseau called into question the civilizational commitment deduced from the fear of death: a way of life comprehensively devoted to the preservation, health and comfort of the individual. Hobbes construed social life as a condition of war in which each individual strives “to master the person of all men he can,” not for the pleasure of domination for its own sake, nor because every desire is necessarily incapable of satisfaction, but out of a prudent insecurity about his ability to satisfy future desires.2 No one can be blamed for this preemptive mentality, which only follows from our unavoidable concern for our self-​preservation.3 Relatedly, because life can never be without desire, nor without fear, Hobbes denied that happiness was ultimately achievable for human beings: There is no such Finis Ultimus (utmost aim) nor Summum Bonum (greatest Good), as is spoken of in the Books of the old Moral Philosophers … Felicity is a continual progress of the desire, from one object to another; the attaining of the former being but the way to the latter.4 But the “progress” is a pursuit that never ends, and thus never ends in satisfaction. On the matter of happiness, Rousseau did not dispute Hobbes’s assumption that every man desires what is good for him, but he rejected Hobbes’s conclusion that tranquility of mind or a spirit of repose is denied to us. To the contrary, Rousseau maintained that happiness is “the goal of every being which senses[, …] the first desire which nature has impressed on us, and the only one that never leaves us, suggesting that happiness is not an illusory goal.”5 But Rousseau added an astonishing claim to his rebuttal of Hobbes: while man’s first and supreme care is indeed the preservation of his existence, he does not naturally fear death, and this makes all the difference to the prospect of human happiness. According to Rousseau, it is not the fact of death, but the fear of it that both inflames our desires and makes us anxious and insecure. In conforming their lives to that fear, human beings make themselves progressively unnatural and unhappy.6 They ought not and, Rousseau strongly suggests, need not live that way. Fear of death is a powerful sentiment, but it is not the most fundamental one; more fundamental is the sentiment of existence, the feeling that life is good.7 Rather than arousing the DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-29

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282  Daniel Cullen fear of death, awareness of the sweetness of present existence forestalls uneasiness about the future and preempts the emergence of passions that propel natural man out of his original condition. To assume, as Hobbes does, the naturalness of that fear is to take the human passions for granted, and to confuse natural man with man in society.8 This chapter considers Rousseau’s two-​fold “correction” of Hobbes: that the fear of death is unnatural, and that a complete happiness is available to us in the sentiment of existence. The connection of these propositions might be understood as follows: the conviction that life is good does not entail that death is evil, once the structure of human happiness is explained—​which is to say, once the nature of man is rightly understood. In that perspective, the fear of death is a product of the imagination, a capacity that natural man originally lacks, or possesses only in potentiality. According to the argument of the Discourse on Inequality, in the original condition (or the first stage of the state of nature) man experiences a fullness of being independent of any orientation toward the future. “Man’s first sentiment was that of his existence, his first care that of his preservation,” suggesting that the primordial experience of being is undisturbed by the basic requirements of life.9 Natural man’s imagination suggests nothing to him; his heart asks nothing of him. His modest needs are so easily found at hand, and he is so far from the degree of knowledge necessary for desiring to acquire greater knowledge, that he can have neither foresight nor curiosity … His soul, agitated by nothing, is given over to the sole sentiment of its present existence, without any idea of the future.10 Originally, man is no more than a physical being (l’homme physique), indistinguishable from the animals.11 But what significance, then, can the understanding of man’s original condition have for the social and human condition into which men have undeniably progressed? How does knowledge of natural man shed light on the meaning of life and death for human beings who do have foresight and know that they are going to die? If the sentiment of existence is the key to happiness but presupposes the absence of imagination and the other human faculties, is there any prospect of human happiness at all? In what follows, I first examine Rousseau’s reasons for denying that man naturally fears death, and then consider whether a way exists for l’homme présent to recover, on the plane of humanity rather than animality, the tranquility and happiness Rousseau attributes to l’homme naturel. Rousseau responds to the latter question in different ways in different works.12 I consider the arguments proffered by the Discourse on Inequality and then Emile before turning, finally, to the more complex and ambivalent responses of Rousseau’s late autobiographical writings, including Rousseau Judge of Jean-​Jacques: Dialogues and The Reveries of the Solitary Walker.

Natural Man in the Discourse on Inequality The “great principle” unifying all of Rousseau’s writings is that “nature made man happy and good, and that society depraves him and makes him miserable.”13 The Discourse diagnoses the pathogenesis of sociability by means of a conjectural history of the modifications to man’s original condition that “make a being evil while making him sociable,” and “bring the world and man to the point where we see them.”14 Rousseau combines psychological and historical analysis, distinguishing between passions that are truly natural or original, and social or artificial passions.15 The latter are to be understood not so much as fabrications but as acquisitions that presuppose a departure from the original.16 The artificial passions are those acquired with the expansion of reason and the imagination, two acquisitions themselves

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau  283 that are aggravated by the onset of relations of dependency.17 Because the human faculties are without any teleological purpose, their development is not directed toward any natural completion.18 Man’s historical career is merely a continuous series of acquisitions that progressively conceal or erode his original form, to the detriment of his unity and happiness. Like the statue of the sea-​god Glaucus which has been disfigured by time and circumstances, “the human soul, altered in the bosom of society by a thousand continually renewed causes … has, so to speak, changed its appearance to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.”19 Rousseau emphasizes that the faculties natural man possessed in potentiality (his “perfectibility”) which, once activated, destroyed his physical and psychic self-​ sufficiency, developed only by chance; thus he might have remained “eternally” in his primitive condition.20 Who, Rousseau wonders, “fails to see that everything seems to remove from savage man the temptations as well as the means to cease being savage?”21 This conclusion is critical for his principal claim that the existence of natural man is happy and good. Because natural man desires nothing that is not within his present ability to acquire, “nothing [is] as tranquil as his soul and nothing so limited as his mind.”22 The fortunate equilibrium between his powers and desires that makes his solitary existence possible also makes natural man unified within himself. As Rousseau puts it in his Essay on the Origin of Languages, in his primitive state, “no one knew or desired anything but what was ready to hand; [man’s] needs, far from drawing him closer to those like himself, draw him away from them. Man in society seeks to expand, isolated man contracts.”23 Need establishes nothing beyond a solitary relation of the individual to nature.24 In becoming social, man “perfects” or “expands” himself and forfeits his independence, happiness, and goodness. The social world and the individual who inhabits it must not, therefore, be mistaken for the original condition or the nature of man. Rousseau distinguishes l’homme naturel from l’homme de l’homme, the being who is formed (and deformed) by social relations.25 The fearful individual described by Hobbes has become dependent on others for the satisfaction of his needs. But rather than our common interest in self-​preservation uniting us, each clings to the spirit of his lost independence. This tension between the objective dependence of social man and his subjective independence leaves him in a state of profound alienation.26 Social man’s self-​love needs the approval of his equally self-​centered fellow men, and as a result, he loses the experience of selfhood even as he asserts it. Arising from an unnaturally fearful response to the problem of self-​preservation, civil society destroys the very sentiment of existence that makes life sweet.27 In the compelling formulation of Allan Bloom, social man “is the man who, when dealing with others, thinks only of himself, and on the other hand, in his understanding of himself, thinks only of others.”28 Whereas natural man lives within himself, social man is always “outside of himself,” and this difference is the root of the human problem.29 The Discourse ends where Hobbes began: with “an assemblage of artificial men and factious passions” having no original foundation in nature. Rousseau punctuates his account of the soul’s transformation with the following qualification: “It is sufficient for me to have proved that this is not the original condition of man; and that it is the spirit of society alone, and the inequality it engenders, which thus change and alter all our natural inclinations.”30 Even though man did not remain in the happy condition where life is good and death is not fearsome, he might have, since nothing intrinsic to human nature forces man out of it. But while the natural condition is fortunate, it cannot be considered “providential” except metaphorically; Nature is a mechanism lacking in foresight or intentionality as much as natural man himself.31 For that reason, the natural equilibrium of need and ability is easily ruptured, and Rousseau concedes that “the slightest change” in it makes dependence on others necessary, which in turn brings on a fatal expansion of desires.32 There is reason to think, then, that Rousseau has idealized the original condition. He insists on its possibility, without

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284  Daniel Cullen which it could hardly supply a standard for the criticism of social man. But the nature of the natural, so to speak, appears more complicated than the Discourse suggests.33

Preserving the Man of Nature in Society Rousseau addresses that complication in the Emile, whose eponymous hero is raised to be a natural man capable of living in society, a possibility the Discourse seemed to exclude. In the education of Emile, Rousseau recapitulates the paradigm of solitary self-​sufficiency expounded in the Discourse, now emphasizing its tendency to disruption: Only in this original state are power and desire in equilibrium and man is not unhappy. As soon as his potential faculties are put in action, imagination, the most active of all, is awakened and outstrips them. It is imagination which extends for us the measure of the possible … and which consequently excites and nourishes the desires by the hopes of satisfying them.34 Naturally, man knows how to bear suffering and dies in peace. It is doctors with their prescriptions, philosophers with their precepts, priests with their exhortations, who debase his heart and make him unlearn how to die.35 All these interventions stimulate the imagination of death, making it something to be feared rather than accepted. Emile’s first education is therefore negative, aimed at delaying the emergence of his imagination until he has the capacity to resist an unnatural self-​extension: The real world has its limits; the imaginary world is infinite. Unable to enlarge the one, let us restrict the other, for it is from the difference between the two alone that are born all the pains which make us truly unhappy.36 Rousseau returns to the point he emphasized in the Discourse: By nature man worries about his preservation only insofar as the means to it are in his power. As soon as these means escape him, he becomes calm and dies without tormenting himself uselessly. Savages as well as beasts struggle very little against death and endure it almost without complaint.37 It is foresight (prévoyance) that takes us “beyond ourselves,” attaching the individual “to everything—​times, places, men, things,” causing us to neglect the present that we know for an uncertain future. “Each one extends himself, so to speak, over the whole earth and becomes sensitive over this entire large surface.”38 It was this dynamic of self-​extension that, according to the Discourse, made man the tyrant of himself and nature.39 The solution is for the individual to draw up (resserer) his existence within himself, to contract rather than expand. The development of Emile’s understanding is, accordingly, carefully managed by his tutor, though all for the sake of his pupil’s independence of mind. Unlike original man, Emile is “an active and thinking being” who is “aware of himself as an individual”; but crucially, he considers only himself and does so “without regard to others.” With his understanding inured against useless knowledge, opinion, and authority, Emile at first has “only natural and purely physical knowledge.” At fifteen years of age, without knowledge of the relations of men, “he is alone in human society,” and “counts on himself alone.”40 This independence also makes him courageous; because his imagination is not inflamed, dangers are not

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau  285 exaggerated by it and Emile has the constancy to bear the few ills to which he is exposed. Moreover, the limitation of his imagination allows him to regard death as another necessity to be borne without resistance or fear. When he has to die, he will die without moaning and without struggling. This is all that nature permits at this most abhorred of all moments. To live free and to depend little on human things is the best means of learning how to die.41 It is also true, however, that as yet Emile hardly knows what death is, perhaps because “at fifteen he did not know whether he had a soul.”42 Although Emile is intended to be a natural man bred to inhabit society, it is impossible to preserve the primacy of the natural inclinations in society. Social man’s fate is to have superfluous faculties which he exercises out of agitation to increase his happiness, only to convert it into unhappiness. L’homme social is not a sociable being so much as a natural being unfortunately situated in a new condition where his self-​preference necessarily puts him in conflict with others: The precept of never hurting another carries with it that of being attached to human society as little as possible, for in the social state the good of one necessarily constitutes the harm of another. This relation is in the essence of the thing, and nothing can change it.43 “Any man who only wanted to live,” Rousseau declares, “would live happily.”44 But to only live, would be to exist in detachment from times, places, men, things. It would be to live a solitary life, in which one could “be oneself and always one.”45 The natural man bred for society cannot be solitary, and the comprehensive control over circumstances required to delay the onset of Emile’s desires until his imagination has been suitably prepared is as impossible as it is necessary. Emile’s foresight does not carry him beyond himself, but only because he has been conditioned by his far-​sighted tutor. Although his education is “according to nature,” Emile’s life is hardly natural.46 Thus Rousseau’s attempt to show that death need not be feared and that happiness is possible appears to have reached an impasse. If man is natural, his mind is so inactive that he does not really know what death is; he is happy but not yet human. And if he is human his imagination will arouse superfluous desires and fears (including the fear of death) that destroy his psychological well-​being. Nature prescribed a solitary existence but could not preserve it against the fatal accidents that bring on social relations. Still, “natural” and “original” are not rigorously synonymous terms; and as we have seen, there is more to human nature than the original endowment of natural man.47 Something more may be discoverable in Rousseau’s own life as reflected in his autobiographical writings.

The Reveries of the Solitary Walker and a New Model of the Man of Nature Let us revisit Rousseau’s objection to Hobbes, focusing now on the question of whether the fear of death (with all its negative consequences for happiness) is an unavoidable byproduct of the imagination. The foresight that takes us “beyond ourselves” (au delà de nous) has a reciprocal relation to our desires.”48 But once we understand the cause, once we recognize that our avidity drives us off the path of nature, we can grasp what would be required to stay on it.49 The only real path to happiness is the replication of the equilibrium of desires and faculties disclosed in original man’s unenlightened condition. But everything hinges on

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286  Daniel Cullen the character of the envisioned harmony, and the way the experience of solitude facilitates it. As paradoxical as it seems, solitude is the fundamental condition of man. Nothing better defines man than his independence of others, and that freedom finds its perfect expression and immediate expression in solitude.50 But although he is solitary by nature, the human being is led (or driven) into a social existence for which he is not naturally suited. Does Rousseau’s final response to the human predicament escape the conundrum that the Discourse and Emile so powerfully and relentlessly adumbrate: that if man is natural he is not human, and if he is human he is no longer natural? In his autobiographical writings, Rousseau offers himself as a new model of the man of nature, “enlightened by reason,” bearing “the yoke of necessity,” and enjoying his existence “without much worry about what men think of it and without much concern for the future.” The “indolent Jean-​Jacques” has a taste for reveries, “thinking profoundly sometimes, but always with more fatigue than pleasure, and preferring to be governed by a cheerful imagination rather than to govern his head by reason.”51 It is a portrait of natural man who is not deformed by the acquisition of human capacities, but something seems wrong with this picture. The Discourse and Emile traced the human problem precisely to this propensity to be ruled by the imagination; how can it be good for Jean-​Jacques to surrender his capacity for rational self-​direction to this human capacity? A cheerful (riante) imagination that is properly governed would seem to be desirable; but how are the beneficent limits on Rousseau’s imagination imposed? The answer lies in the “positive sensitivity” that stems from Rousseau’s self-​love. “A pure matter of feeling in which reflection plays no part,” this sensuality is “lively” without being “impetuous” and harmlessly “leads us to seek what pleases us and flee what is loathsome to us.”52 Rousseau endorses following his inclinations blindly, without prudence, reason, precaution, or foresight. And he distinguishes his surrender to an imagination guided by self-​love from the corrupted use of the imagination characteristic of amour-​propre. It is the manner in which men yield to “the empire of imagination” that makes them good or bad, happy or unhappy.53 This brings Rousseau to his taste for reverie and, perhaps as important, his enjoyment of a respite even from it. The latter involves “letting the mind repose and letting only the senses receive the impression of external objects.”54 The inclination to reverie requires the abandonment of interest, for the interested man sacrifices present good to the means of procuring future ones, and “thinks less of enjoying than of multiplying for himself the instruments of enjoyments.”55 “Reflection and foresight, mother of cares and worries,” by contrast, “scarcely approach a soul intoxicated by the charms of contemplation.”56 The experience of reverie is thus a replication, on the human plane, of the condition of natural man whose soul was agitated by nothing and whose sentiment of existence takes precedence over his concern for self-​preservation. An individual so idle would be incapable of performing any duties to others; but he would be mindful of at least one moral principle: “never to put himself in a situation in which his advantage lies in someone else’s misfortune.”57 And in any case, “Always preoccupied with or for himself,” Rousseau is “too avid for his own good to have time to think about the ill of another.”58 Thus shielded against amour-​propre, his imagination can be trusted. So great is his indolence, that the very strength of his desire prevents him from any effort to persevere at its satisfaction. This strange disposition is the key to his character: “By dint of attending to the object he covets, by dint of reaching for it with his desires, his beneficent imagination reaches its goal by leaping over the obstacles that stop or frighten him,” leaving him “happier and richer possessing the imaginary goods he creates than he would be possessing those that really exist, which are more real, if you wish, but less desirable.”59 Rousseau arrives at the astonishing conclusion that desiring and enjoying can be one and the same for him, and that his cheerful

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau  287 imagination can be relied on to reject “objects of sadness and pain,” or at least to so reduce their vividness that his will can erase them. Unlike the case of original man whose imagination was inactive, enlightened man will be aware of future ills (presumably including death) but will be able to forget them. Paradoxically, “By looking at everything in the future at its worst, he is comforted and reassured”; because he prefers enjoyment to suffering he turns his mind toward the one and away from the other.60 It is this very stance that Rousseau describes in The Reveries of the Solitary Walker, as he abandons the world to give himself up to conversing with his own soul: I am now alone on earth, no longer having any brother, neighbor, friend or society other than myself … Everything is finished for me on earth. People can no longer do good or evil to me here. I have nothing to hope for or to fear in this world; and here I am, tranquil at the bottom of the abyss, a poor unfortunate mortal, but unperturbed, like God himself. Everything external is henceforth foreign to me … So let me remove from my mind all the troublesome objects I would bother myself with as painfully as I would uselessly.61 The man who only wanted to live, we recall, would live happily, and in solitude. But Rousseau’s first description of his solitude compares it to death!62 He professes indifference to everything outside him, and even to his own body, which has become only “an encumbrance, an obstacle” from which he disengages. Yet, having become “nothing among men,” Rousseau reports that his soul remains active in producing feelings and thoughts, and that its “internal and moral life” has grown “with the death of every earthly and temporal interest.”63 Not the fear of death but the model of death, the analogical experience of death, seems to hold the key to the happy life in which there is no projection of the self into the future. Rousseau’s solitude was imposed on him by his enemies; but their injustice has ironically allowed Rousseau to better understand “the modifications of his soul” that continue in his life in death.64 His solitude is the fulfillment of nature’s intention, the condition in which he is “fully himself without diversion and without obstacle.”65 The true source of happiness is within us and the very nearness of death encourages the habit of turning within (rentrer en moi-​même). Reverie might appear to be the condition of philosophizing in which the soul, freed from distractions, retires in conversation with itself, but Rousseau describes a turning within that brings the self back to a pre-​conscious level of existence. The near-​death experience following a bizarre accident that Rousseau recounts in the Second Walk sheds important light on this liminal quality of reverie. Coming back to consciousness after having been bowled over by a Great Dane, Rousseau still had no feeling of myself except as being ‘over there.’ I was born into life at that instant, and it seemed to me that I filled all the objects I perceived with my frail existence. Entirely absorbed in the present moment, I remembered nothing; I had no distinct notion of my person nor the least idea of what had just happened to me. I knew neither who I was not where I was; I felt neither injury, fear, nor worry … I felt a rapturous calm in my whole being; and each time I remember it, I find nothing comparable to it in all the activity of known pleasures.66 I can only sketch the implications of Rousseau’s understanding of an immersion in being that is not an experience of selfhood but simply of “life.”67 The peak experience of reverie causes us to feel existence with pleasure and without the trouble of thinking.68 In such a situation we enjoy

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288  Daniel Cullen Nothing external to ourselves, nothing if not ourselves and our own existence. As long as this state lasts, we are sufficient unto ourselves, like God. The sentiment of existence, stripped of any other emotion, is in itself the precious sentiment of contentment and of peace which alone would suffice to make this existence dear and sweet.69 In the brilliant summation of Pierre Manent, “This plane of being is not the object of a noetic or theoretical grasp; it gives itself in a sentiment outside of which it has no reality.”70 It becomes an experience of self only by an account of the experience which “redoubles life” even as it remains separated from it. Reverie testifies to our ability to separate ourselves from the futile pursuit of desire after desire, that Hobbes envisioned as our fate. The sentiment of existence testifies to the goodness of life without inspiring the organization of the human world around the fear of death. Let Rousseau have the last word: If there is a state in which the soul finds a solid enough base to rest itself on entirely and to gather its whole being into without needing to recall the past or encroach upon the future; … without any other sentiment of deprivation or of enjoyment, pleasure or pain, desire or fear, except that of our existence, and having this sentiment alone fill it completely; as long as this state lasts, he who finds himself in it can call himself happy.71

Notes 1 Second Discourse, 102 (OC III, 132). Subsequent citations to the “Discourse on Inequality” (conventionally referred to as the “Second Discourse”) and Rousseau’s other works will first indicate the page of the translation followed by parenthetical references to the volume and page of the Pléiade edition of the Œuvres complètes (hereafter OC). 2 Hobbes, Leviathan, ch. 13, 184. 3 “It is therefore neither absurd nor reprehensible, neither against the dictates of true reason, for a man to use all his endeavours to preserve and defend his body and the members thereof from death and sorrows.” Hobbes, De Cive, I.7 4 Hobbes, Leviathan, ch.11, 160; ch. 6, 130. 5 Emile, 442 (OC IV, 814). 6 Bloom, “Introduction,” 9–​10. 7 Bloom, Closing, 169. 8   The philosophers who have examined the foundations of society have all felt the necessity of going back to the state of nature, but none of them has reached it. … [S]‌peaking continually of need, avarice, oppression, desires and pride, [they] have carried over to the state of nature ideas they have acquired in society: they spoke about savage man and they described civil man. Second Discourse, 102 (OC III, 132), 129 (OC III, 153). 9 Second Discourse, 142 (OC III, 164). 10 Second Discourse, 117 (OC III, 144). For an important discussion of the limitations of this conception of imagination, see Velkley, “Measure of the Possible,” 223–​6. 11 Second Discourse, 142 (OC III, 114–​15). 12 Velkley, “Measure of the Possible,” 217. For an excellent study of Rousseau’s systematic investigation of the human problem, see Melzer. 13 Dialogues, 213 (OC I, 934). 14 Second Discourse, 140 (OC III, 162).

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau  289 15 Erotic love is an example of an “artificial” passion, one that owes its force to social customs (usages). This sentiment, founded on certain notions of merit or beauty that a savage is not capable of having, and on comparisons he is not capable of making, must be almost null for him … Imagination, which causes so much havoc among us, does not speak to savage hearts. Second Discourse, 135 (OC III, 157) 16 “[I]‌t is no light undertaking to separate what is original from what is artificial in the present nature of man.” Second Discourse, 92–​3 (OC III, 123). See also 105 (OC III, 134). 17 Derathé, Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, 138 and n.3. 18 Bloom, Giants and Dwarfs, 223. 19 Second Discourse, 91 (OC III, 122). 20 Second Discourse, 140 (OC III, 162). 21 Second Discourse, 117 (OC III, 144). 22 Second Discourse, 213 (OC III, 214). 23 “Essay on the Origins of Language,” 269 (OC V, 397). 24 Manent, Naissances, 200. 25 Emile, 253 (OC IV, 249). See Khodoss, 120. 26 On this tension or division, See Manent, Naissances, 147–​8, 199–​201. 27 Davis, 178. 28 Bloom, “Introduction,” 5. 29 Second Discourse, 179 (OC III, 193). Cf. 127 (OC III, 152): Now I would really like someone to explain to me what type of misery there can be for a free being whose heart is at peace and whose body is healthy? I ask which, civil or natural life, is most liable to become unbearable to those who enjoy it. 30 Second Discourse, 180 (OC III, 193). 31 A point emphasized by Scott, “Politics as Imitation,” 478. 32 Rousseau, “Geneva Manuscript,” 157–​8 (OC III, 281–​2). See also Second Discourse, 142–​3,148 (OC III, 165, 169): “Difficulties soon arose … difficulties multiplied along with men … Everything begins to change its appearance.” 33 As Velkley has emphasized, to argue that natural man’s thoughts are limited to his immediate needs is tantamount to depriving him of self-​consciousness and therefore a sentiment of his own existence. The portrait of original man as a pre-​reflective being who lives by animal functions alone is not really credible; his perfectibility might initially be inconsequential, but it is never inactive from the start. Even the ostensibly pre-​rational experience of pity involves an act of comparison and imagination that involves an extension of the self. Although Rousseau’s idea of the best life derives from our original nature, the latter contains the incipient rationality that inevitably transforms it. Velkley, Being After Rousseau, 33, 39. For an illuminating discussion of a related tension in Rousseau’s concept of the sentiment of existence, see Grace. 34 Emile, 80–​1 (OC IV, 304). 35 Emile, 55 (OC IV, 270). 36 Emile, 81 (OC IV, 307). 37 Emile, 82 (OC IV, 307). 38 Emile, 83 (OC IV, 305). 39 Second Discourse, 115 (OC III, 142). 40 Emile, 203, 207 (OC IV, 481, 486). 41 Emile, 208 (OC IV, 487–​8). 42 Emile, 208, 257 (OC IV, 488, 554). It is true that the Savoyard Vicar declares that the fear of pain and the horror of death are natural sentiments that precede our intelligence—​a view that contradicts Emile’s psychological formation. But the Vicar’s “profession of faith” is not addressed to Emile himself. Emile, 290 (OC IV, 600).

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290  Daniel Cullen 43 Emile, 105 (OC IV, 340-​41). Cited in Melzer, 112. It is man’s weakness that makes him sociable … Every attachment is a sign of insufficiency. If each of us had no need of others, he would hardly think of uniting himself with them. Thus from our infirmity is born our frail happiness. A truly happy being is a solitary being. Emile, 221 (OC IV, 503) 44 45 46 47 48

Cited in Scott, “Rousseau’s Unease,” 310. Emile, 81–​2 (OC IV, 305–​6). Emile, 39–​40 (OC IV, 249–​50). Nichols, 203. A point stressed by Derathé, “L’homme selon Rousseau,” 113. Emile, 82 (OC IV, 307). Rousseau discovered this insight in Montaigne’s Essays: We are never present with, but always beyond ourselves (nous sommes tousjours au delà): fear, desire, hope, still push us on towards the future, depriving us, in the meantime, of the sense and consideration of that which is to amuse us with the thought of what shall be, even when we shall be no more. Essays, 9. Cited in Kelly, 10

49 Emile, 68 (OC IV, 290). 50 Polin, 1, 5. 51 Dialogues, 159 (OC I, 864–​5). 52 Dialogues, 114 (OC I, 807). 53 Dialogues, 117, 120, 122 (OC I, 811, 815, 818). 54 Dialogues, 121 (OC I, 816). 55 Dialogues, 121 (OC I, 816). 56 Dialogues, 122, 125 (OC I, 818, 822). 57 Dialogues, 127 (OC I, 824). 58 Dialogues, 148 (OC I, 851). 59 Dialogues, 153 (OC I, 857–​8). 60 Dialogues, 153 (OC I, 858) 61 Reveries, 1, 5 (OC I, 995, 999). 62 Davis (106) asks: “Why is Rousseau’s description of his ideal state not simply a description of death?” 63 Reveries, 7 (OC I, 1000). 64 Reveries 7 (OC I, 1000). 65 Reveries, 12–​13 (OC I, 1002–​3). 66 Reveries, 16 (OC I, 1005). 67 For insightful treatments of this theme, see Davis, 89–​130; Butterworth, 153, 165–​6, 189–​200; Manent, Montaigne, 97–​113. What follows is especially indebted to Manent’s discussion. 68 Reveries, 67 (OC I, 1047). 69 Reveries, 69 (OC I, 999) 70 Manent, Montaigne, 110. 71 Reveries, 68–​9 (OC I, 1046).

References Bloom, Allan. Giants and Dwarfs: Essays 1960–​1990. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1990. —​—​—​ “Introduction.” In Emile, translated by Allan Bloom, 3–​28. New York: Basic Books, 1979. —​—​—​ The Closing of the American Mind. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987. Butterworth, Charles, E. “Interpretative Essay.” In The Reveries of The Solitary Walker, translated by Charles E. Butterworth, 145–​241. New York: Harper & Row, 1979. Davis, Michael. The Autobiography of Philosophy: Rousseau’s Reveries of the Solitary Walker. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1999. Derathé, Robert. Jean-​Jacques Rousseau et la science politique de sons temps. Paris: Librairie Vrin, 1970.

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Jean-Jacques Rousseau  291 —​—​—​“L’homme selon Rousseau.” In Pensée de Rousseau, edited by Tzvetan Todorov, 109–​24. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1984. Grace, Eve. “The Restlessness of ‘Being:’ Rousseau’s Protean Sentiment of Existence.” History of European Ideas 27, no. 2 (2001): 133–​51. Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Edited by C. B. Macpherson. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1985. —​—​—​ Man and Citizen: De Homine and De Cive. Edited by Bernard Gert. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1991. Kelly, George A. “A General Overview.” In The Cambridge Companion to Rousseau, edited by Patrick Riley, 8–​56. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Khodoss, Florence (editor). Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes. Paris: Bordas, 1987. Manent, Pierre. Montaigne: Life Without Law. Translated by Paul Seaton. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2020. —​—​—​ Naissances de la politique moderne. Paris: Payot, 1977. Melzer, Arthur M. The Natural Goodness of Man: On the System of Rousseau’s Thought. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990. Montaigne, Michel de. Essays. Translated by E. J. Trentham. New York: Modern Library, 1946. Nichols, James H., Jr. Epicurean Political Philosophy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1976. Polin, Raymond. La politique de la solitude. Paris: Éditions Sirey, 1971. Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques. Emile. Translated by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1979. —​—​—​“Essay on the Origins of Language.” In The Discourses and Other Early Political Writings. Translated and edited by Victor Gourevitch, 247–​99. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. —​—​—​ “Geneva Manuscript.” In On the Social Contract with Geneva Manuscript and Political Economy. Translated by Judith R. Masters and edited by Roger D. Masters. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1978. —​—​—​ Œuvres complètes (5 vols). Edited by Bernard Gagnebin and Marcel Raymond. Paris: Pléiade, 1959–​95. —​—​—​ Rousseau, Judge of Jean-​Jacques: Dialogues. Translated by Judith R. Bush, Roger D. Masters, and Christopher Kelly. In Collected Writings of Rousseau, vol. 1, edited by Roger D. Masters and Christopher Kelly. Hanover: University Press of New Hampshire, 1990. —​—​—​ The First and Second Discourses. Translated by Roger D. Masters and Judith R. Masters. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964. —​—​—​ The Reveries of the Solitary Walker. Translated by Charles E. Butterworth. New York: Harper & Row, 1979. Scott, John T. “Politics as Imitation of the Divine in Rousseau’s ‘Social Contract,’ ” Polity 26, no. 3 (Spring, 1994): 473–​501. —​—​—​“Rousseau’s Unease with Locke’s Uneasiness”. In The Challenge of Rousseau, edited by Eve Grace and Christopher Kelly, 295–​311. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Velkley, Richard. Being After Rousseau. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. —​—​—​“The Measure of the Possible: Imagination in Rousseau’s Philosophical Pedagogy.” In The Challenge of Rousseau, edited by Eve Grace and Christopher Kelly, 217–​29. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

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29  Adam Smith and Dying Peacefully Maria Pia Paganelli

Commerce brings about material well-​being, a new set of values, and also a new way to die peacefully.1 For Adam Smith (1723–​90), a professor of moral philosophy at the University of Glasgow in Scotland and the father of economics, “savages” may die calmly, in the midst of torture, without expressing any fear or pain. They are able to achieve this calm death through a lifetime of forced training in life-​threatening conditions. In commercial societies, one can also die peacefully, but without having to experience the lifelong suffering of a “savage.” In a commercial society, the comfort of luxury allows for a freer expression and exchange of emotions. One can die peacefully amidst the comfort and affections of friendship. Smith was born and raised in Kirkcaldy, Scotland, went to school in the local parish school, and to university first in Glasgow and then Oxford. He did not like Oxford where he was forced “to go to prayers twice a day and to lecture twice a week.”2 He went back to Scotland and gave public lectures on rhetoric in Edinburgh. He then moved to the University of Glasgow, teaching logic, moral philosophy, and jurisprudence. He quit to become the private tutor of the son of a local noble. Returning to Scotland after the so-​called grand tour of Europe, the way in which young nobles were traditionally educated at the time, he moved in with his beloved mother, and started to work at the customs house in Edinburgh, until first his mother died, and then himself.3 During his lifetime he wrote and published two books, a letter, and a couple of unsigned essays. A collection of his essays, student notes of his lectures, and his correspondence were published posthumously. His first book, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, gave him fame in his lifetime; his second book, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, gave him fame as the father of economics; his third publication, A Letter from Adam Smith, L.L.D. to William Strahan, Esq.,4 gave him, in his own words, “ten times more abuse than the very violent attack [he] had made upon the whole commercial system of Great Britain”5 because, as I will mention below, he praised the death of an “infidel.” All three publications, especially when taken together, offer a strong and coherent moral defense of commercial societies. In what follows, I will focus on the descriptions of two deaths that Smith portrays to demonstrate how Smith offers a moral defense of commercial societies. Let us start by noting that dying, for Smith, is a terrifying thought that corrodes our happiness.6 Smith opens his Theory of Moral Sentiments by claiming that everybody fears death: the foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us [that it] makes us miserable while we are alive. And from thence arises one of the most important principles in human nature, the dread of death, the great poison to the happiness … of mankind.7 DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-30

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Adam Smith  293 A peaceful death is thus not something we can take for granted. Yet, Smith does offer us two examples of peaceful death. The first death is of David Hume (1711–​76), another Scottish philosopher contemporary of Smith, and generally considered his closest friend.8 Today, Hume is regarded as one of the greatest philosophers of the Scottish Enlightenment, but in his lifetime he was not able to obtain a university position because of his views on religion. Hume was considered an “infidel,” as he openly questioned the existence of god, at the time an unacceptable position. The second relevant death for this chapter is the death of a “savage.” “Savage” for Smith and most eighteenth-​century writers is generally not a derogatory term. It is a term of art to indicate someone who typically lives in a hunter-​gatherer society. “Savages” generally differ from “barbarians” who instead belong to pastoral societies, and from “civilized” people who live in cives, in cities, and thus more sedentary and agriculturally based societies. “Refined” people, instead, are generally people exposed to the luxury of commercial societies.9 Smith describes the two deaths in question here in the Letter to Strahan and in Theory of Moral Sentiments respectively. The descriptions are in a sense strikingly similar. Given that David Hume was considered Adam Smith’s closest and dearest friend,10 and that the “savage” was not always described in endearing terms, the similarities of their deaths are even more striking. This similarity was recognized in a publication where someone who signed himself as “E. M.” (anonymous publications were not uncommon in the eighteenth century) criticized Smith’s daring to praise the death of an infidel like Hume: “A man of distinguished intellectual powers acting the fool at his end—​dying indecently humorous—​seemingly easy—​ ‘without Christ—​ without GOD—​ without hope’—​ dying in a manner that betrayed a blindness exceeding the darkest ignorance of an Indian savage.”11 But while “E. M.” uses the “Indian savage” image to denigrate Hume’s death, I suggest that if we look at the similarities of their deaths, we may bring to light the stark differences between a “savage” and David Hume, and the societies in which they lived.

Two Similar Deaths Now, let’s see how Smith describes the death of a “savage.” A “savage” never12 lets anything “disturb the serenity of his countenance or the composure of his conduct and behavior.”13 When “savage” enemies capture another “savage,” they sentence him to death, so the “savage”: submits to the most dreadful torments, without ever bemoaning himself … After he has been scorched and burnt, and lacerated in all the most tender and sensible parts of his body for several hours together, he is often allowed, in order to prolong his misery, a short respite, and is taken down from the stake: he employs this interval in talking upon all indifferent subjects, inquiries after the news of the country, and seems indifferent about nothing but his own situation.14 David Hume was tortured not by the hand of his enemies but a fatal abdominal disease15 which killed him over the arc of a few years. He was well aware of his terminal condition. Yet, when his symptoms “returned with their usual violence” one last time, he: submitted with the utmost cheerfulness and most perfect complacency and resignation … He continued to divert himself, as usual, with correcting his own works for a new edition, with reading books or amusement, with the conversation of his friends; and, sometimes in the evening, with a party at his favorite game of whist.16

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294  Maria Pia Paganelli And just as the “savage’s” “magnanimity and self-​command, in this respect, are almost beyond the conception of Europeans,”17 Hume’s cheerfulness was so great, and his conversation and amusements run so much in their usual strain, that, notwithstanding all bad symptoms, many people could not believe he was dying. … Mr. Hume’s magnanimity and firmness were such, that his most affectionate friends knew, that they hazarded nothing in talking or writing to him as to a dying man.18 So, both David Hume and the “savage” accept their painful death and die peacefully despite not only being aware of their upcoming death, but also despite the torments of torture or sickness. And yet, despite their similarities, their deaths are not the same.

Two Different Deaths At the time of death, the “savage” is surrounded by torturers who are completely indifferent to him and his pain. The sight of so horrible an object seems to make no impression upon them; they scarce look at the prisoner, except when they lend a hand to torment him. At other times they smoke tobacco, and amuse themselves with any common object, as if no such matter was going on.19 The death of the “savage” does not result from natural causes, the decline of the body, or accident. His death is the result of the deliberate actions of other human beings who choose to cause him harm and end his life. What is even more relevant here is that the “savage” is murdered by other human beings who seem immune to his suffering. David Hume, instead, is surrounded by the “care and attention” of affectionate friends and family. Smith uses the word “friend” eighteen times in the five-​page letter describing the passing of Hume. So both David Hume and the “savage” died in a strikingly similar peaceful way despite their respective pain, yet they also died in diametrically opposite ways. One with the tortures of his enemies; the other with the affections of his friends. The difference becomes even starker when we compare the descriptions of the lives the “savage” and David Hume lived before facing their deaths.

Two Different Lives Adam Smith tells us that every savage undergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the necessity of his situation is inured to every sort of hardship. He is in continual danger: he is often exposed to the greatest extremities of hunger, and frequently dies of pure want.20 “Savages” are afflicted by severe poverty. This is a common thread in Smith’s work. He opens the Wealth of Nations with this very idea: some nations are so miserably poor that people are forced to abandon their infants, their elderly, and their sick to die of exposure

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Adam Smith  295 or “to be devoured by wild beasts”21 or to drown their infants as if they were puppies.22 “Savages” cope with this constant exposure to death and severe hardship by training all their life for their death. From his earliest youth, a “savage” prepares and sings a death song so to “familiarize his imagination to the most dreadful misfortunes.”23 What about David Hume’s life? Smith only hints of how it was as he reports a conversation he had with Hume before he died: “you have at least the satisfaction of leaving all your friends, your brother’s family in particular, in great prosperity.”24 A better idea of how David Hume’s life differed from the “savage’s” comes from Hume’s own account of it in My Own Life, to which Smith’s Letter to Strahan was to be added. Hume tells us he comes from “a good family, both by father and mother” but that his family “was not rich.”25 Hume tells us also that he was able to choose his own career, as an intellectual, and that despite some initial failures, thanks to his own work, “I was to become not only independent, but opulent.”26 Then again and again, Hume describes how, thanks to the ability to sell his services and his writings, his income kept increasing to become even “very opulent.”27 And so despite the appearance of their similar deaths, we see how radical is the difference between our poor “savage” who has to struggle day in and day out against hunger, in a society where the only thing he can do is to train himself to die in hardship, and le bon David who instead is lucky enough to live in a commercial society that lets him pursue his intellectual interest and live an opulent life.

Two Different Societies The difference between the poverty of the hunter-​gatherer society of the “savage” and the opulence of the commercial society of David Hume is the root of the difference in the way they die. They both die peacefully, but as we saw, one among indifferent torturers, and the other among the comforting love of friends. For Smith, commercial societies allow for not just material comfort but emotional comfort too. The general security and happiness which prevail in ages of civility and politeness, afford little exercise to the contempt of danger, to patience in enduring labour, hunger, and pain. Poverty may be easily be avoided, and the contempt of it therefore almost ceases to be a virtue. The abstinence from pleasure becomes less necessary and the mind is more at liberty to unbend itself, and to indulge its natural inclinations in all those particular respects.28 This means that in commercial societies, we can afford to be more expressive of our emotions,29 which makes us more humane. A humane and polished people, who have more sensibility to the passions of others, can more readily enter into an animated and passionate behaviour, and can more easily pardon little excesses … We can venture to express more emotion in the presence of a friend than in that of a stranger, because we expect more indulgence from the one than from the other. And in the same manner the rules of decorum among civilized nations, admit of a more animated behaviour, than is approved of among barbarians. The first converse together with the openness of friends; the second with the reserve of strangers.30 The implication that Adam Smith draws is that “Hardiness is the character most suitable to the circumstances of a savage; sensibility to those of one who lives in a very civilized society.”31

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296  Maria Pia Paganelli And this sensibility, possible in commercial societies, is what allows for friendship. It follows that friendship, according to Smith, is possible only in commercial societies, where hardships of life are tamed by the comforts of prosperity.32 The comfort of friendship is a luxury “savages” cannot afford. His circumstances [the “savage’s”] not only habituate to every sort of distress, but teach him to give way to none of the passions which that distress is apt to excite. He can expect from his countrymen no sympathy or indulgence for such weakness. Before we can feel much for others, we must in some measure be at ease with ourselves. If our own misery pinches us very severely, we have no leisure to attend to that of our neighbour: and all savages are too much occupied with their own wants and necessities, to give much attention to those of another person. A savage, therefore, whatever be the nature of his distress, expects no sympathy from those about him, and disdains upon that account, to expose himself, by allowing the least weakness to escape him.33 This lack of expression of emotional affections among individuals of “savage” societies is so dominant34 that any minuscule expression of emotion even between husband and wife is considered “the most unpardonable effeminacy.”35 So, both “savage” societies and commercial societies allow for peaceful dying. “Savage” societies, with their constant hardship, train people to endure all sort of sufferings without having the pleasure of sympathizing with others. Commercial societies, with their comforts and tranquilities, indulge people in the pleasures of fulfillments of one’s ambitions and the pleasures of mutual sympathy that humanity and friendship only can offer.36 In this sense, only commercial societies allow for the man of the most perfect virtue [who] joins, to the most perfect command of his own original and selfish feelings, the most exquisite sensibility to both the original and sympathetic feelings of others. The man who, to all the soft, the amiable, and the gentle virtues, joins all the great, the awful, and the respectable.37 The “savage” can develop only the awful virtues because of his constant exposure to life-​ threatening circumstances, but not humanity. In fact, for Smith, “men of the most perfect self-​command … seem to be hardened against all sense of justice or humanity.”38 On the other hand, a man who lives “in the mild sunshine of undisturbed tranquility” of a commercial society can develop also the exquisite sensibility of “the soft virtue of humanity.”39 True, “men of great humanity [frequently] have no self-​command”40 because of their lack of exposure to hardship. Yet, the “calm retirement of undissipated and philosophical leisure,”41 differently from the constant “hardships, dangers, injuries, misfortunes”42 of non-​commercial societies, can produce a “man of the most perfect virtue.” Commercial societies, offering comforts and tranquility, alone offer the opportunities to develop both sets of virtues, the awful and the amiable, rather than only the awful ones as non-​commercial societies do. So that the man who feels the most for the joys and sorrows of others, is best fitted for acquiring the most complete control of his own joys and sorrows. The man of the most exquisite humanity, is naturally the most capable of acquiring the highest degree of self-​command.43

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Adam Smith  297 And this is why Smith is able to say only about Hume, a man of commercial society, and not about the “savage,” that “both in his lifetime and since his death, [Hume approached] as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit.”44 And if “the chief part of human happiness arises from the consciousness of being beloved”45 and if the “man of the most perfect virtue” is “the man whom we naturally love and revere the most,”46 we can see how le bon David can die peacefully among the affection of his friends, as opposed to the “savage” who would have considered the affection of a friend a sign of unpardonable weakness.

Conclusion Adam Smith describes the lack of fear and the tranquility with which both a “savage” and David Hume faced death. But the description of the death of David Hume is not just an ode to a dear friend. It is also an ode to a commercial society that allowed for that friendship to exist.

Notes 1 Thanks to Tyler Cowen, Craig Smith, and Virgil Storr for comments and encouragement. All mistakes are mine. 2 Smith, Correspondence, 1 (Letter to Archibald Campbell, Duke of Argyll). 3 Ross. 4 Smith, Correspondence. 5 Smith, Correspondence (Letter to Andreas Holt). 6 Smith does not offer a specific definition of happiness. He offers many, often contradicting definitions. He does not even suggest an unambiguous way to achieve it. We can think of happiness here in the most intuitive, non-​technical sense. 7 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, I.i.i, 13. 8 Rasmussen, Infidel. 9 Sebastiani. 10 Rasmussen, Infidel. 11 Rasmussen, Adam Smith, 75. 12 Never, as in not under any circumstances. 13 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 205 (emphasis added). 14 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 206 (emphasis added). 15 Not all illnesses may present themselves in the same way. What is relevant here is Hume’s own illness. 16 Smith, Correspondence, 218 (Letter to William Strahan). 17 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 205 (emphasis added). 18 Smith, Correspondence, 218 (Letter to William Strahan) (emphasis added). 19 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 206. 20 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 205. 21 Smith, Wealth of Nations, Intro, 4, 10. 22 Smith, Wealth of Nations, I.viii.24, 90. 23 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 206. 24 Smith, Correspondence, 219 (Letter to William Strahan). 25 Hume, xxxii. 26 Hume, xxxviii. 27 Hume, xl. 28 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.8, 205. 29 Paganelli.

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298  Maria Pia Paganelli 30 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.10, 207 (emphasis added). 31 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.13, 209. 32 Silver; Storr; Choi and Storr. 33 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 205 (emphasis added). 34 Bee and Paganelli. 35 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, V.2.9, 205. 36 Bee. 37 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.35, 152. 38 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.37, 153. 39 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.37, 153. 40 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.37, 153. 41 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.37, 153. 42 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.37, 153. 43 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.36, 152. 44 Smith, Correspondence, 221 (Letter to William Strahan). 45 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, I.ii.5.1, 41. 46 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, III.3.35, 152.

References Bee, Michele. “Wealth and Sensibility: The Historical Outcome of Better Living Conditions for All According to Adam Smith.” European Journal of the History of Economic Thought 25 (2018): 473–​92. Bee, Michele and Maria Pia Paganelli. “Adam Smith Anti-​Stoic.” History of European Ideas 45, no. 4 (2019): 572–​84. Choi, Ginny and Virgil H. Storr. “Can Trust, Reciprocity and Friendships Survive Contact with the Market?” In Economics and the Virtues: Building a New Moral Foundation, 217–​35. Edited by Jennifer A. Baker and Mark D. White. Oxford University Press, 2016. Hume, David. Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1985 [1752]. Paganelli, Maria Pia. “Boys Do Cry: Adam Smith on Wealth and Expressing Emotions.” Journal of Scottish Philosophy 15 (2017): 1–​8. Rasmussen, D. C. Adam Smith and the Death of David Hume: The Letter to Strahan and Related Texts. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2018. —​—​—​. The Infidel and the Professor: David Hume, Adam Smith, and the Friendship that Shaped Modern Thought. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017. Ross, Ian Simpson. The Life of Adam Smith. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Sebastiani, Silvia. The Scottish Enlightenment: Race, Gender, and the Limits of Progress. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Silver, Allan. “Friendship in Commercial Society: Eighteenth-​Century Social Theory and Modern Sociology.” American Journal of Sociology 95 (1990): 1474–​504. Smith, Adam. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. Edited by Roy Harold Campbell, Andrew S. Skinner, and W. B. Todd. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1981 [1776]. —​—​—​. The Correspondence of Adam Smith. Edited by Ernest Campbell Mossner and Ian Simpson Ross. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1987. —​—​—​. The Theory of Moral Sentiments. Edited by David Daiches Raphael and Alexander Lyon Macfie. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1982 [1759]. Storr, Virgil H. “The Market as a Social Space: On the Meaningful Extraeconomic Conversations that Can Occur in Markets.” Review of Austrian Economics 21 (2008): 135–​50.

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30  Nature, Second Nature, and Supernature Death and Consolation in the Thought of Edmund Burke Lauren K. Hall

Edmund Burke (1729–​97) is a central figure in the Western philosophical and political canon, recognized for the power of his rhetoric, the keenness of his political observation, and the strength of his principles. Burke’s career in politics through the late eighteenth century spanned some of the most eventful decades of British (and US) political life and his writings on the French Revolution and his discussions of the complexity and fragility of human social orders are classics in the liberal tradition and later American conservative movement. The events of Burke’s time and his response to them provide a way of thinking about the politics of death and dying that place death in a broader social and political order. Burke practiced prudential statesmanship, applying moral and political ideals to the vicissitudes of political practice. Despite his current reputation as a conservative, his writings straddled tradition and reform, guided both by principles and a respect for British political and legal tradition. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these principled positions did not make him popular. His fourteen-​year quest to convict Warren Hastings and the East India Company broadly was largely a failure, even if it now provides us with some of the most moving defenses of human rights and a surprising condemnation of British colonialism in India. His famous diatribe against revolutionary instability, Reflections on the Revolution in France, provides one of the most important defenses of the British regime and constitutionalism, in contrast to what he viewed as a heartless social contract theory, but it also made him enemies among his own Whig party, who viewed the revolution as a rejection of monarchic rule. In point of fact, Burke’s political career was largely a failure, if by success one focuses on his ability to achieve concrete political goals. Yet, Burke was at the time considered one of the most powerful orators in the world, even as his reputation within Parliament was occasionally met with an eyeroll. His prominence diminished after his death, but was reinvigorated overseas in the twentieth century with interest from American conservatives like Russell Kirk, who recast the Whig Burke as a conservative, focusing on his defenses of tradition, spontaneous order, and the intergenerational compact.1 Still more recently, interest in Burke has again taken off as scholars debate his position on empire, his concern for vulnerable minorities and the moderation of the state, and the unintended consequences of revolutions themselves.2

Burke and Death While Burke does not explicitly treat death in a close philosophic analysis, themes of death and dying permeate his work. Burke’s writings refer to death on both the individual and societal level: individually, as perhaps the greatest human fear, and societally as an often-​avoidable destructive force stemming from political and religious extremism. Death is, as Burke saw firsthand, often a political phenomenon with political roots and political DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-31

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300  Lauren K. Hall consequences. Much in Burke’s writings can be understood as grappling with the problem of death broadly, particularly his writings on revolution and empire and the suffering caused by political instability and ideology unmoored from tradition. Nevertheless, Burke did not believe death was an inherent moral evil. Death, like most human things, is a moral good in some contexts and a moral evil in others. Since death is a natural part of human life, nature provides ways to mitigate the pain of death, consolations that assist men and women in wrestling with their inevitable mortality but that also soften politics by making violent death itself—​at least politically and religiously motivated violent death—​less likely. In particular, Burke saw three softening forces that would mitigate, even if they could not remove, the final sting of death. The first is the natural human capacity for sympathy, that which draws us closer to each other, softens cruelty, and sustains us in suffering. The second, the political extension of the first, is the intergenerational compact that binds humans to the past, present, and future in a way that ensures that any one individual death is not the end of life, but a persistent link in a never-​ending chain. Third and most foundational is the supernatural bond of religion, which draws us closer to our God and provides transcendent reasons to control our passions in this life. Burke therefore saw the power of death as mitigated by human nature, by man’s “second nature” in human society extended between generations, and finally by God’s nature as the provider of hope and continuity after death. These consolations work together to create a continuity of institutions that preserve human memories, property, and familial lines across the generations, providing an immortality that the human body alone cannot boast. Death and Nature Whether death is good or bad rests, therefore, on a broader theory of nature. For Burke, as for other natural law thinkers, the human social order depends on the plan of nature for its logic and comprehensibility.3 The moral status of death depends on when it happens and why. Death that occurs at the end of a long life, with the hope of passing on property and inheritance as a form of institutional memory, is a moral good, one that unites us with our Creator and preserves the moral and social order. Death of this sort also has political significance, by allowing for the gradual reform of political institutions as the older generation—​ peacefully and in accordance with nature—​makes way for new generations and the reforms they will inevitably bring. This process of gradual reform protects society in two crucial ways: it provides a mode through which reform can occur and, ideally, injustice can be gradually eradicated, while preserving the overall stability of laws, institutions, and norms that are necessary for a healthy constitutionalism. Burke believes the life of polities parallels all organic life in this process of growth, reform, and decay: Our political system is placed in a just correspondence and symmetry with the order of the world, and with the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body composed of transitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human race, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-​aged, or young, but in a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression.4 Death plays a crucial role in the natural, social, and moral order precisely because society is a “permanent body composed of transitory parts.” Death makes room for the young, but the young have in turn been primed with the values and traditions that maintain a constancy even as particular individuals pass away.

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Edmund Burke  301 Human Nature and Sympathy Insofar as death is part of the natural order, it comes with powerful natural consolations to make it, if not comprehensible, at least bearable. The first of these is human nature itself, that which binds us together as humans, primarily our capacity for sympathy. Human nature was particularly important for Burke since political systems that are not founded in accordance with nature are certain to fail, as he notes in a letter to Adam Smith: “I have ever thought that the old Systems of morality were too contracted and that this Science could never stand well upon any narrower Basis than the whole of Human Nature.”5 Indeed, for both Burke and Smith, sympathy is the root of human nature and the foundation for all human social life. As Burke notes in his treatise on the sublime and beautiful, It is by the first of these passions [sympathy] that we enter into the concerns of others; that we are moved as they are moved, and are never suffered to be indifferent spectators of almost anything which men can do or suffer. For sympathy must be considered as a sort of substitution, by which we are put into the place of another man, and affected in many respects as he is affected.6 Sympathy is the social glue that binds humans together by allowing them to enter into the feelings of others, influencing the behavior of the observer and the observed. Sympathy, unsurprisingly, plays an important role in death, serving two purposes at once. The first is the micro-​level purpose of providing consolation in the face of grief. In the individual case, the sympathy others have for us in our grief provides comfort for those who are leaving this world but also those who are left behind. Sympathy also serves a broader social purpose in tinging even the most tragic of circumstances with something like pleasure: “It is by this principle chiefly that poetry, painting, and other affecting arts, transfuse their passions from one breast to another, and are often capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness, misery, and death itself.”7 In this way sympathy can also play a role in reinforcing the intergenerational compact by linking people together through culture and custom. A second role for sympathy is the macro or political purpose of limiting the cruelty of politics that treats individual lives as disposable goods. Sympathy forms the practical natural bond that links men together, upon which broader legal, political, and economic bonds are then built. Many of Burke’s primary criticisms of British mercantilism and the French revolutionaries, to be discussed later, consist in the belief that rational self-​interest destroys the sympathy that should make any policymaker concerned about the death and destruction her policies entail. Sympathy is like the solder that protects the links in the chain of an intergenerational compact. Sympathy preserves the broader constitutional order, supports voluntary obedience to the laws, and protects individuals from the unnatural forms of death that take place during revolutions by binding citizens to one another. Second Nature and Memory Burke identifies a second consolation in death that provides comfort while limiting death’s finality. This consolation is provided by our “second nature,” the built-​up institutions that constitute what Burke calls the “intergenerational compact,” or the way that individuals bind themselves together into communities that persist long after the lifetime of any single individual. As Burke argues, ancient republicans knew that they had to account for both human nature and “second nature”: “They had to do with men, and they were obliged to study human nature. They had to do with citizens, and they were obliged to study the effects of those habits which are communicated by the circumstances of civil life.”8 These habits

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302  Lauren K. Hall are influenced by education, occupations, property, and geographic location, among other things, and they work together to create a complex network of institutions that individuals are born into and which shape and frame each individual life. Individuals contribute to these institutions in small or large ways and their contributions, however small, live beyond them in the subtle changes they make to the manners, mores, traditions, and habits of the communities in which they live. This constant flux and regeneration mean that humans live well past physical death in the form of that “second nature.” Burke makes this connection explicit when he describes the intergenerational compact comprised of the complex web of interconnected individuals as a “partnership.” It is a partnership in all science; a partnership in all art; a partnership in every virtue, and in all perfection. As the ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations, it becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born.9 As part of this continuity, property in particular, and the intergenerational compact more broadly, mitigate death’s finality, not only in the hope of an afterlife, but in the more practical way in which people continue to influence each other after they are gone. This memory is cemented in the combination of familial memory and, more concretely, property inheritance. Just as sympathy bonds humans to one another, one of the primary mechanisms of the intergenerational compact is property because it links individuals to families and then to the broader society and binds individual decision in the present through the decisions and fiat of those long dead. Property passed down in the family is the practical mechanism by which we fulfill our obligations to the dead and secure the future for the not-​ yet-​born. Practically, the intergenerational compact is carried out via inherited traditions and most clearly, via property rights. Burke makes the connection to death and consolation explicit when he writes, “[Men] have a right to the acquisitions of their parents; to the nourishment and improvement of their offspring; to instruction in life, and to consolation in death.”10 He contrasts this socially mediated version of rights, grounded in family and property, against the atomistic natural rights theory of the French revolutionaries, who reject inherited property in favor of rational governmentally enforced equality. For Burke, property rights are a meeting place between man’s first and second nature, between the affections one has for one’s family and broader cultural and political traditions. As one of the concrete bonds in the intergenerational compact, it is also the major mechanism that binds together the living and the dead by extending legal personhood even after death and by preserving individuals in the memories of those who inherit their gifts. Supernature, God, and Hope The final source of consolation in death is perhaps the most powerful because it is all that remains when the other two—​the human capacity for sympathy and the intergenerational compact—​are gone. For Burke, death should be consistent with and compatible with God’s plan for a natural human life, but even when it is not, the fallen have the potential for unification with their Creator and the consolation that their deaths fit into some larger divine plan. Far from believing that the supernatural is something apart from nature or second nature, Burke believes that religious faith is itself natural, intrinsic to our very nature as human beings: “The idea of the soul’s immortality is indeed ancient, universal, and in a manner inherent in our nature.”11 Burke’s defense of the naturalness of the supernatural and the resulting central role of religion meshes with his political and social teachings because it

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Edmund Burke  303 is God himself who has given us sympathy and has ordered the natural and social worlds in such a way that when man follows his true nature he builds a society in which humans can flourish. Therefore, one of the signs of a humane and healthy polity is a steady and relatively unquestioned belief in God. As Burke says, “We know, and what is better, we feel inwardly, that religion is the basis of civil society, and the source of all good and of all comfort.”12 Even more than the individual comfort of an afterlife, religion provides the broader framework in which the intergenerational compact operates: Each contract of each particular state is but a clause in the great primaeval contract of eternal society, linking the lower with the higher natures, connecting the visible and invisible world, according to a fixed compact sanctioned by the inviolable oath which holds all physical and all moral natures, each in their appointed place.13 Like the other consolations in death, religion provides both individual comfort and a much broader political function in linking man’s polity with God’s broader plan. The intergenerational compact is therefore the fulfillment of God’s plan in the sense that it binds together our first nature (the aspects of human nature, such as sympathy and familial affection, which connect us as humans) with God’s nature in the form of a theoretical constitutional plan that provides a practical roadmap for human life. This roadmap involves the meshing of the different kinds of nature—​human nature, man’s second nature (established and natural human institutions), and God’s nature—​into a comprehensive system that evolves gradually out of a people’s way of life while in turn protecting and supporting that life. A stable intergenerational compact mitigates the danger of the type of death Burke most fears.

Unnatural Death and Revolution Not all deaths link us to a larger natural and social order and, eventually, with our Creator. The unnatural form of death, for both individuals and societies, is found most clearly in (violent) revolution (unlike the mere changing of government that characterized the American revolution). Burke’s fear of revolutionary change animates much of his most famous work and his criticisms of revolution are intimately connected with his theories on nature and death. Most obviously, revolutionary death, insofar as it involves the destruction of church, society, and government simultaneously, is uniquely cruel, as his descriptions of the suffering of the French royal family make clear. The extremism that privileges one transitory part of the permanent whole over the whole itself leads to a moral “disembowelment,” whereby the revolutionaries’ minds become disconnected from their hearts: “a violent spirit is raised, which the presiding minds, after a time, find it impracticable to stop at their pleasure, to control, to regulate, or even to direct.”14 Rather than an old order passing slowly and quietly away in the gradual reforms of generations, revolutionary reform is carried out in the cruelty of the guillotine, cut off, unnaturally, from both natural and customary life and the larger social and political order. Burke argued this cruelty was a direct result of the peculiar character of French radicalism of the time and the specific political theory that animated it. Focused entirely on rationalism, with no room for the sentiments or “prejudice” for one’s own traditions and culture that preserves that very way of life, the French rejected all natural and moral limits on revolution, leaving neither property, religion, nor families intact. French rational reforms were unconnected to broader claims of humanity or sympathy, both of which might have moderated the massacre. For Burke, the moral weight and normative status of death depend on its connection to a broader social and moral order. Deaths that align with nature and

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304  Lauren K. Hall with the rationale or meta-​rationale of God’s plans carry their own consolations. It is death at the end of a completed life, death that fulfills a broader social and moral purpose, and death that links the individual to both the community and the greatest of goods, God’s love. Death that violates the natural order, seen most clearly in Burke’s depictions of the deaths of the French royal family, is death that violates not only the natural lifespan of an individual, but also destroys the moral and political order and defies God’s will for the ordering of society. Burke’s somewhat fulsome speech on the death of Marie Antionette makes explicit the role that sympathy plays in human life and how it has been superseded by a dangerous hyperrationality. He argues, the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom!15 Sympathy, seen here as part of the chivalric code, protects the weak against the strong and subordinates political power to the broader social order, weak and vulnerable included. Without that sensibility and sympathy for the vulnerable, politics soon becomes a simple power play, or as Burke points out elsewhere, we resort to our “naked shivering nature.”16 One might accuse Burke of simple sophistry, given the fate of the vulnerable in both France and so many parts of the British colonial rule, but his demand for sympathy in the political sphere extends explicitly to the most vulnerable and is particularly relevant to colonial rule. His criticism of Warren Hastings and the East India Company stems, in part, from the way in which Britain sent young men to rule a foreign nation, motivated entirely by self-​interest and monetary gain, rather than by any sympathy for the inhabitants or belief that they would make Indian life better. As Burke points out in his indictment of Hastings, Young men (boys almost) govern there, without society and without sympathy with the natives. They have no more social habits with the people than if they still resided in England—​nor, indeed, any species of intercourse but that which is necessary to making a sudden fortune, with a view to a remote settlement.17 By allowing the rulers to maintain psychological and social distance from those whom they rule, the mercantilist machine set the stage for the deaths of tens of thousands of Indians, in particularly brutal ways. Burke’s criticism of the French, for rejecting their own traditions and way of life, and his criticism of the British rule in India, for completely disregarding Indian ways of life, are linked. In both cases, the rulers are incapable of being in sympathy with those they rule because they are separated from what is uniquely “theirs,” their very patrimony. People’s concern for others begins in their “little platoons” and only moves outward from there. Sympathy plays a crucial role in projecting the affections within those little platoons out onto the broader society. Burke’s criticisms of outsider rule link to his belief that political systems must be set up to reflect the nature of the humans for whom they are created, and human nature starts with sympathetic attachment between known individuals. In both the French and the Indian cases, the lack of sympathy—​the rejection of these natural ties—​was destructive in the extreme, leading to individual and “social” death as societies crumbled under the chaos of revolt and civil war, destroying not just individual lives, but cultures and traditions as well.

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Edmund Burke  305 This peculiar kind of social death matters politically as well. Burke makes this point explicit when criticizing the revolutionaries: As to those whom they suffer to die a natural death, they do not permit them to enjoy the last consolations of mankind, or those rights of sepulchre, which indicate hope, and which mere nature has taught to mankind, in all countries, to soothe the afflictions, and cover the infirmity, of mortal condition.18 The French in particular cut political opponents off from not only life itself, but from their traditions, their memory, from all the ways our second nature as social beings provides hope and consolation in the midst of grief, denying them even the consolation of a burial and marked resting place.19 As social animals it is a peculiarly terrifying form of death, a death of individual, social, and supernatural oblivion. The same kind of cruelty and destruction arises when humans reject the supernatural ties that bind them together as well. The rejection of the supernatural is much more likely, Burke believes, to make us crueler, and in effect less rational, insofar as rationality unmoored from what binds us to others is an incomplete rationality. As Burke points out, even the most rational and gifted man can become the worst of all when separated from God: Naturally men so formed and finished are the first gifts of Providence to the world. But when they have once thrown off the fear of God, which was in all ages too often the case, and the fear of man, which is now the case, and when in that state they come to understand one another, and to act in corps, a more dreadful calamity cannot arise out of hell to scourge mankind. Nothing can be conceived more hard than the heart of a thoroughbred metaphysician.20 Burke views the French revolutionaries’ rejection of religion as a primary cause of their cruelty. From public executions in the guillotine, to the drowning of thousands at Nantes, to the slow starvation of hundreds of priests and nuns in the hulks of ships while awaiting exile, throwing off religious “superstition” and reclaiming the “light” of reason left the French revolutionaries more barbaric and more inhumane than the monarchy they rejected. Their rejection of religion, combined with the rejection of their second nature and their first, sympathetic nature, all called into question how well reason operates by itself. The rejection of the belief in God, Burke believes, does not make us more humane, as is often claimed, but instead leads to greater levels of cruelty, to what Burke refers to as the “cannibalism” of the French, consuming individuals and groups with impunity. Ultimately, these three facets of human social life (sympathy, social memory, and the hope of the afterlife) are foundational to understanding Burke’s overall theory of death, insofar as he has one. To be defensible, to be accompanied by consolation, death must be compatible with man’s first nature of basic biological and psychological need, his second nature of the broader social and moral order that individuals create, and the final supernatural order of God’s plan for human lives and societies. Our human nature provides us with sympathy and provides solace to the grief-​stricken. Our second nature provides a structure and framework that ensures that the dead live on in the institutions and memories of those they leave behind. And finally, the living and the dying are consoled, on Burke’s account, by the belief that they are part of a larger plan that, while unclear to individual minds in the moment, is framed and guided by a benevolent wisdom. Death that meets these criteria of being naturally, morally, and supernaturally consistent will be death that carries with it consolations from these same sources: human sympathy, the memory and protection of human communities, and the hope in God’s broader plan. Perhaps even more importantly

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306  Lauren K. Hall for Burke, these very different facets of human sociality have the practical political effect of working together to minimize the cruelty inherent in politics, thus helping to ensure that death, when it comes, is more likely to be natural than unnatural. Protecting the natural order involves, in part, putting death in its proper location, at the end of a full human life.

Death in Burke’s Life The importance of the consolations of sympathy, the intergenerational compact, and religious faith was borne out in Burke’s own life, which was marred by tragedy, most obviously in the death of his adult son, Richard. Apart from the personal loss of someone Burke loved deeply, Richard’s death also meant the loss of institutional memory in the form of a titled estate. Whatever his individual contributions to the commonwealth as a statesman, the death of one son in infancy and his son Richard as an adult left Burke not only bereft of descendants, but also robbed him of the titled Earldom that he could have qualified for had his son survived. Instead, Burke was left with a temporary pension that his political enemies immediately attacked as political favoritism, rather than a recognition from the monarch of a life devoted to public service. At the end of his life, Burke left no patrimony, no landed property, no concrete evidence of his existence other than ephemeral speeches. Burke’s grief was described by eyewitnesses as “truly terrific” and he described his own life as an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me. They who should have been to me a posterity are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation (which ever must subsist in memory) that act of piety, which he would have performed to me.21 For a devotee of the natural order, Burke’s response to his adult son’s loss and the loss of any hope of direct descendants was understandable. He described himself as, “almost literally, a dying man” and “A body tottering on the Edge of the grave.”22 Burke’s grief was grief not only at the loss of his son but of everything that a son represents: his own continuation after death, his connection to man’s second nature and his place in the intergenerational compact that tied the living to the dead. Burke’s pension, merely “watering old withered stumps,” did nothing to contribute to the health or constitution of the commonwealth as would an estate, a title, and an heir to carry it on.23 Despite his son’s death, Burke found comfort in the sympathetic connection to his wife and friends, as well as consolation in his belief in God. While second nature would appear to have failed, man’s first nature and supernature kept him functioning in his last years. Burke’s approach to death was consistent with his principles. While his despondency over his son’s death did not improve, he continued to be active in politics, writing letters and, when necessary, traveling to London. Consistent with his belief that sympathy in human nature is the foundation of all human moral and political order, Burke continued to be considerate and thoughtful toward others. He expressed gratitude for the outpouring of sympathy he received upon his son’s death and made it clear that his duty to his wife would keep him alive: As for me, for whom you express such generous solicitude, I am told by my Wife, that my living is necessary to her existence. I rather think so—​and I owe much to a woman, whose equal is rarely found, and to the Mother of a Son that never had an equal.24 Burke and his wife, like uprooted trees, supported each other in sympathetic attachment in their final days.

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Edmund Burke  307 Consistent with his belief that Providence had plans he did not understand, he continued to live for some years after his son’s death, from a sense of duty to his wife and to God. Despite believing at times that it might in fact be God’s desire that he waste away in grief, Burke noted that I give way to the better thoughts of others—​who think there may be something in the world, ordained by God, that I should do or suffer—​and this I will submit to; and will, I hope, by his Grace, adore his justice for such a space as he pleases to give me, in a life of privacy, humiliation, and penitence.25 During this period, Burke responded to the political attacks on his pension and reputation in A Letter to a Noble Lord, a stirring defense of his reputation and legacy. Despite dying without a title, without a formal legacy, and without an heir, Burke, according to one visitor, “Anticipated his approaching dissolution with due solemnity but perfect composure.”26 The other consolations of sympathy and faith in God supported him. He also, the same visitor reported, entered “with cordial glee, into the sports of children, rolling about with them on the carpet, and pouring out, in his gambols, the sublimest images, mingled with the most wretched puns.”27 Facing grief and impending death (which would follow within the year), Burke maintained the equanimity and inner peace that he believed to be his duty to his loved ones and to God.

Conclusion Both Burke’s political theory and his own life demonstrate the complex way in which death and politics interact. In the individual context, human nature, second nature, and supernature all provide consolation at the inevitability of death in human life. In the political context, these different levels of order help limit the cruelty to which human nature is prone, preventing the most egregious forms of death and helping, as far as possible, to keep death in its place in the natural order. Burke viewed these bulwarks of nature as ways to ensure that people, insofar as is compatible with God’s will, live their natural lives and die, when nature and supernature intend, at the end of a long, pious, community-​oriented life. Despite the sympathy of his wife and friends in his last days, Burke was acutely and painfully aware that his political and social legacy was uncertain because it relied entirely on memory rather than on concrete property and an inherited estate. Yet he must have also been aware that the concrete protections of property, inherited estates, and even the continuity of ancestors and descendants were increasingly vulnerable in an era of democratic reform. Part of Burke’s vehement reaction to the French Revolution was precisely that the erosion of intergenerational traditions like landed property meant that death was final in a way it had not been, at least for some people, before. The loss of these institutions created a precarity of memory that meant that death was increasingly a total erasure rather than one part of a continuous intergenerational chain. His final emphasis on religion and supernature as the only remaining barrier against this obliteration may have been, as it was in his own life, a recognition of a fundamentally changed political world. But his lessons remain potent today, as revolutionary challenges to authority and tradition confront the precarity of individual human memory. Burke’s own life demonstrated that even in times of peace the natural order of death and dying is often upended. But his belief that politics should be made humane is a testament to his belief that the most tragic kinds of death, those that violate nature most fully, could and should be mitigated as much as possible. Burke’s life and principles provide a potent call for moderation, humility, and patience in the face of increasing calls for change.

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Notes 1 Kirk. 2 Mehta; Bourke. 3 For another perspective see Strauss. 4 Burke, Reflections, 122. 5 Smith, 38. 6 Burke, Philosophical Enquiry, 118. 7 Burke, Philosophical Enquiry, 118. 8 Burke, Reflections, 292. 9 Burke, Reflections, 193. 10 Burke, Reflections, 150. 11 Burke, Works, 509. 12 Burke, Reflections, 185. 13 Burke, Reflections, 193. 14 Burke, Further Reflections, 181. 15 Burke, Reflections, 169–​70. 16 Burke, Reflections, 170–​1. 17 Burke, Burke’s Politics, 263. 18 Burke, Select Works, 130. 19 Steinberg. 20 Burke, Further Reflections, 314. 21 Burke, Further Reflections, 309. 22 Bourke, 867. 23 Bourke, 847. 24 Burke, Selected Letters, 87. 25 Burke, Selected Letters, 87. 26 Burke, Selected Letters, 123. 27 Burke, Selected Letters, 123.

References Bourke, Richard. Empire and Revolution: The Political Life of Edmund Burke. Unstated edition. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015. Burke, Edmund. A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful: And Other Pre-​Revolutionary Writings. Edited by David Womersley. Revised edition. London: Penguin Classics, 1999. —​—​—​ Burke’s Politics: Selected Writings and Speeches of Edmund Burke on Reform, Revolution and War. Edited by Ross John Swartz Hoffman and Paul Levack (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1949. —​—​—​ Further Reflections on the Revolution in France. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1992. —​—​—​ Reflections on the Revolution in France. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1999. —​—​—​ Select Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 3: Letters on a Regicide Peace. Edited by Francis Canavan. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1999. —​—​—​ Selected Letters of Edmund Burke. Edited by Harvey C. Mansfield. First edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984. —​—​—​ The Works of the Right Hon. Edmund Burke. Edited by Henry Rogers. Vol. II. London: Bohn, 1841. Kirk, Russell. The Conservative Mind: From Burke to Eliot. 7th revised edition. Washington, DC: Gateway Editions, 2001. Mehta, Uday Singh. Liberalism and Empire: A Study in Nineteenth-​Century British Liberal Thought. First edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999.

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Edmund Burke  309 Smith, Adam. The Glasgow Edition of the Works and Correspondence of Adam Smith: VI: Correspondence. Edited by Ernest Mossner and Ian Ross. New York: Oxford University Press, 1987. Steinberg, Ronen. “Spaces of Mourning: The Cemetery of Picpus and the Memory of Terror in Post-​ Revolutionary France.” Proceedings of the Western Society for French History 36 (2008): 133–​47, http://​hdl.handle.net/​2027/​spo.0642292.0036.011. Strauss, Leo. Natural Right and History. Reissued edition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999.

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31  Kant on Death and the Purpose of Human Life Jeffrey Church

Immanuel Kant (1724–​1804) may seem an unlikely philosopher to help us think about death, as he offers no extended treatment of death in his imposing corpus. As a result, there has been scant scholarly attention to Kant’s view of this subject.1 Nevertheless, death plays an important, albeit indirect role in framing Kant’s fundamental understanding of the worth and dignity of humanity, achieved through our capacity, unique among animals, to liberate ourselves from our instinct for self-​preservation and to pursue the moral law. For Kant, human beings can and should demonstrate their dignity by surmounting our fear of death and staking our lives for moral ends. An immoral life, for Kant, is a fate worse than death. On the basis of his three Critiques—​the Critique of Pure Reason (1781, 1787), the Critique of Practical Reason (1788), and the Critique of Judgment (1790)—​Kant is considered one of the greatest modern philosophers. In these works, Kant sets out to grasp the laws governing theoretical and practical reason, as well as reason’s limits and ends. Kant seeks to restrain what he considers to be the useless extravagances of metaphysical reasoning, and instead harnesses theoretical reason to ground and guide the empirical sciences such as physics and biology. Most importantly for our purposes, just as Kant clips the wings of theoretical reason, he liberates practical reason, that is, reasoning about how we ought to act and lead our lives. Kant famously argues that practical reason legislates certain moral laws that are binding on human behavior, derived not from any empirical inclinations or ends, but rather from the formal structure of reason itself, with its universality and “spontaneity” or freedom. Hence Kant derives his Categorical Imperative: “act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law.”2 Or, as Kant restates the Imperative, “act that you use humanity … always at the same time as an end” in itself.3 For Kant, the central insight of his moral philosophy is that we should treat human beings not simply as means to use for our purposes, but as agents whose freedom and ends we should respect. In his own terms, human beings have “dignity” by virtue of our freedom to act morally, a dignity that gives us “unconditional, incomparable worth” above all other things which are fungible, or which have their “price.”4 Death is in the background of Kant’s thought, motivating these views. In defending this view about humanity’s dignified moral vocation, Kant is challenging an important tradition in early modern thought associated with Thomas Hobbes. According to Hobbes’s Leviathan, human beings are not distinct from animals, and we are motivated at bottom by calculations of pain, pleasure, and, most importantly, our fear of death. Kant was dissatisfied with this lowly conception of the human being, who slavishly attempts to evade death at all costs.5 Instead, then, he helps inaugurate a late modern tradition which seeks to elevate the status and striving of the human being who values freedom above self-​preservation, and seeks to recover our nobility and distinctive capacity for autonomy in the face of death. DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-32

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Immanuel Kant  311 In what follows, I will elaborate on the important role death plays in framing Kant’s thought. In the first section, I discuss how our stance toward death serves as crucial evidence for Kant of our freedom and hence our dignified status in creation. In the second section, I argue that Kant’s moral and political philosophies are in part intended to convince us that we should fear dishonor more than death. Finally, in the third section, I examine Kant’s view of happiness and show that our inevitable death reveals to us how to live happily.

Death and Moral Freedom For Hobbes, if the fear of death is our primary motivation and death our summum malum, then human beings should have the right to all things, including the bodies of other individuals, in order to keep us alive. There is “no mine and thine” and “nothing can be unjust,” Hobbes infamously argues.6 Accordingly, if Hobbes is right, human beings would have the inclination and the right to undertake all sorts of deeds that we would, likely, consider monstrously immoral. Throughout his writings, Kant castigates this view of the human being as debased, that it “degrades humanity” in our eyes.7 Kant claims that human actions are not determined by our natural instincts, even powerful ones such as the desire for self-​ preservation. By contrast, we are autonomous in the sense that “we have a capacity to overcome impressions on our sensory faculty of desire” through considerations of prudence or morality.8 In the Critique of Practical Reason, Kant uses our encounter with death to support his argument for human freedom. He asks us to imagine that a “prince demanded, on pain of … execution” that one “give false testimony against an honorable man whom the prince would like to destroy under a plausible pretext.”9 In the Hobbesian view, it would be unintelligible for one to sacrifice one’s life—​to embrace the summum malum, death—​because one cannot utter a few false words to destroy another person. Yet Kant argues that it is not only intelligible but “possible” for one “to overcome his love of life, however great it may be.”10 We all sense within us a moral imperative not to lie, an imperative that commands us to transcend even our deepest and most powerful animal instinct. Our conscience gives us awareness of the sublimity of the moral law, as evidenced by the fact that our conscience “humiliates” us and “strikes down self-​conceit” if we were to choose self-​preservation over morality in such a case.11 Our consciousness of the moral law, according to Kant, provides evidence that human beings are indeed free, that we are not merely animals responsive to instinct, but that we are capable of transcending our instincts to act based on principles we give to ourselves. In other words, Kant begins from a Hobbesian starting point, that the fear of death is our strongest natural inclination. He begins here because he wants to take the strongest possible test case for his claim about human freedom. If human beings can overcome their fear of death in order to do the right thing, then we can overcome all our natural inclinations in service to our moral calling. Death, in this sense, is the ultimate proving ground for moral action. Human beings are capable of feigning moral virtue, especially in cases when such moral action costs or risks us little. However, if the cost of death is infinite, since the ultimate sacrifice is the sacrifice of ourselves, Kant can be confident that the sacrifice of life for morality is genuine and not merely an appearance. At the same time, Kant turns around his claim later in the Critique of Practical Reason. We have already seen his argument that mastering our fear of death proves our moral freedom. He proceeds later in the text to argue that our moral freedom proves that we are free of death, that is, that we possess an immortal soul. For Kant, the moral law commands us to perfect our moral character, to become perfectly virtuous. However, we all face the fact that we will die before we perfectly realize this virtue. Accordingly, death poses a great challenge to the

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312  Jeffrey Church moral law. Indeed, human life and the moral law are in some sense absurd if we are driven to an end we can never achieve.12 Kant argues, then, that practical reason enjoins us to pursue an end, moral virtue, and so, in order for practical reason’s end not to be irrational, it must assume the means to achieve that end. Since we cannot achieve that end in this life, we are rationally warranted in believing that there must be another life in which we can make steady, “endless progress” toward our moral perfection or “holiness.”13 As a result, he argues that immortality is a “postulate of pure practical reason.”14 That is, the moral law gives us justification to have faith that death is not the end. Death, therefore, is not the summum malum Hobbes took it to be. In this way, the moral life need not appear to be foolish or vain as a Hobbesian would take it to be—​why live morally, a Hobbesian asks, if there is only one life and death destroys all our moral efforts? Kant therefore renders the moral life rational by arguing that it is only intelligible in beings who live on after death. In sum, death threatens to destroy our moral achievements, but they live on with us in the afterlife. In his early essay “Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Aim” (1784), Kant makes a parallel, secular argument. He argues human beings are unique in that unlike other animals, we do not achieve our distinctive vocation in our lifetimes.15 We die before the project of cultural, political, and moral perfection is carried out. In order not to despair about our lot in life, or to regard humanity as an absurd or malformed species, we can regard our vocation as spanning generations, bearing fruit only many centuries after each of us has made his or her contribution.16 Each individual is part of something larger than herself, a process of humanity’s moral maturation. Kant’s reflections are intended to justify hope in the perfect achievement of what he calls the “highest political good, perpetual peace,” that condition in which every human being on earth enjoys freedom.17 That is to say, even though we may each die before our moral ends are carried out in the political world, these individual efforts are not in vain. We can have justified hope that future generations will carry on our efforts and realize the end of perpetual peace. To compare, when considering the argument for the immortality of the soul, my soul lives on after my body dies. Here, my secular, political efforts live on after my death in the memories and efforts of those generations following me. In this way, Kant revives the character of the pre-​ modern political community, summarized, by Edmund Burke, in the following way: as the ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations, it becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born.18 In this way, the Kantian political community conceives of its primary purpose in moral or spiritual terms, as gradually achieving our human “vocation” and thereby realizing the worth or value of human existence over time.19 Kant’s view stands in contrast to the Hobbesian political community which seeks the individual’s self-​preservation at all costs. The Hobbesian subject fears death and looks to politics to find all means to avoid it; the Kantian citizen fears something more than death, which is dishonor, and so takes as his duty becoming worthy of human freedom. In sum, according to Kant, death poses a deep challenge to our moral lives, but the depth of its challenge provides the opportunity to achieve a moral nobility for our species.

Death, Politics, and Morality We saw in the previous section that Kant looks to death to justify his view of human nobility. In this section, we will see that death also shapes how Kant constructs his political and moral theories. His political theory is outlined in a series of works in the 1790s, “On

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Immanuel Kant  313 the Common Saying, that May be True in Theory, But is of No Use in Practice” (1793), “Perpetual Peace” (1795), and the Metaphysics of Morals (1797). Kant’s political theory has a moral foundation, in that its aim is to protect human freedom as an end in itself. What distinguishes his political theory from his moral philosophy, however, is the intention with which one respects the rights of others. For Kant, morality commands us to do the right thing for the right reasons. In contrast to the realm of morals though, politics coerces us to do the right thing and we can act rightly for any reason. His political theory is developed once again in relationship to Hobbes. As we will see, like Hobbes and his early modern successors such as John Locke, Kant defends individual rights and a contractual basis for politics. Like Locke, Kant is a classical liberal thinker, placing great emphasis on universal rights, the rule of law, the separation of powers, and individual liberty. At the same time, he departs from the Hobbesian and Lockean early modern tradition in an important way: the purpose of government, according to Kant, is not self-​preservation or property rights or any other material end. Instead, Kant argues that government preserves freedom. His “Theory and Practice” essay, in fact, contains a main subheading, “Against Hobbes.”20 In this way, Kant’s political theory places less emphasis on preventing death and much greater emphasis on promoting the moral honor and status of independence. Let us begin with Kant’s view of rights and the role of politics, because this view reveals both his debt to the early modern tradition as well as his break from it. Kant, like Hobbes, begins with a conception of the state of nature that is “devoid of justice.”21 Since human beings are free and equal, there is no authority either divine or earthly that has a legitimate right to rule over us by nature. As such, each human being is free and so has “its own right to do what seems right and good to it and not to be dependent upon another’s opinion about this.”22 The problem with this unbounded natural freedom is that human beings have an inner “malevolent tendency to attack one another” in order to secure our animal need for self-​preservation, and that we enter into “dispute” about our rights with one another.23 As such, no individual can gain the assurance that other individuals will not “encroach on what [one] possesses,” and so we all are “authorized to use coercion” to prevent those who would encroach on us.24 As a result, the state of nature is a war of all against all, as each individual is authorized to coerce all the others. Thus far, there may seem to be little difference between Hobbes’ and Kant’s accounts of the natural condition. The difference, however, lies in how the two philosophers respond to the natural condition. For Hobbes, the state of nature is terrible because it threatens our survival and arouses our fear of death. Hobbes argues that we should want to exit the natural condition because political society promises to secure our need for self-​preservation. In short, for Hobbes, we ought to leave the state of nature because of our natural aversion to death. For Kant, by contrast, the state of nature is terrible because it is devoid of true freedom. Everyone is free in the negative sense of being unbounded, but the total effect of this unbounded freedom is the elimination of true freedom. As such, Kant argues we should want to exit the state of nature so that we can realize true freedom, which requires that we establish a common standard of right which delineates and protects the freedom of each individual and thereby brings value into the world for human beings. Indeed, for Kant, “if justice goes, there is no longer any value in human beings living on the earth.”25 One consequence of this difference is that for Kant, unlike Hobbes, we are not thereby authorized to do whatever is necessary to keep ourselves alive in the state of nature, such as breaking promises we have made with other individuals.26 Instead, we are authorized to coerce others only to “leave this state and enter into a rightful condition.”27 In sum, for Hobbes, it is in our self-​interest to leave the state of nature; for Kant, it is our duty to leave it.

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314  Jeffrey Church The aim of the political community for Kant, then, is to realize the freedom of all, freedom in the sense of “independence from being constrained by another’s choice,”28 or, as he also puts it, being one’s “own master.”29 Kant’s view of freedom, then, shares a good deal in common with the neo-​republican theory of “non-​domination” championed by Phillip Pettit, that freedom consists in not being dependent on the arbitrary whim of others, being able to “look another in the eyes.”30 As such, Kant’s political theory, like Pettit’s, will concern itself with the status accorded to individuals in a political society, not simply the distribution of material resources or even more importantly, with the fostering of happiness. Indeed, one of the basic duties of justice for Kant is “be an honorable human being,” which consists in “asserting one’s worth as a human being in relation to others,” not making oneself “a mere means for others but [being] at the same time an end for them.”31 Indeed, Kant argues, honor is more important than life itself.32 States that take as their aim the self-​preservation and happiness of their members dishonor what is distinctive to, and of value in, humanity: our happiness. Such “paternalistic government” treats subjects “like minor children who cannot distinguish between what is truly useful or harmful to them,” and thereby becomes the “greatest despotism thinkable.”33 Accordingly, Kant’s view of political society prioritizes independence and moral honor over preventing death. One important example of this prioritization is Kant’s infamous view of capital punishment. In the context of punishment, indeed, Kant valorizes the “man of honor” who is “acquainted with something that he values even more highly than life, namely honor, while the scoundrel considers it better to live in shame than not live at all.”34 For Kant, government also must uphold honor, and so in this way must sometimes take the life of criminals. On Kant’s view of punishment, those who commit crimes interfere with what is of greatest value in the world, freedom. When freedom is attacked, its honor must be defended through justice, by the state’s taking retribution for the infringement. The state restores what is lost through punishment by compensating the victim, not primarily out of the Lockean aim to preserve the system of property, but out of the Kantian aim of upholding the primary importance of individual independence. In Arthur Ripstein’s apt phrase, the state’s punishment aims to restore conditions “as if [the crime] had never happened.”35 In the case of murder, a criminal not only violates another’s freedom, but actually destroys freedom, snuffing out a life which is the condition for the very possibility of moral freedom. Murder, then, destroys freedom at its roots, for the entire political community, and so the state must demand the greatest retribution in order to uphold the honor of what has been lost. As such, Kant describes the necessity of capital punishment in the strictest terms: Even if a civil society were to be dissolved by the consent of all its members … the last murderer remaining in prison would first have to be executed, so that each has done to him what his deeds deserve and blood guilt does not cling to the people for not having insisted upon this punishment.36 Kant’s view may seem shocking to many people, especially in our contemporary age, in which developed countries have largely turned away from capital punishment. In Kant’s view, we have made a wrong turn, because, in sparing the murderer who has broken the social contract, we express the priority of life over moral honor. For Kant, it is only by sacrificing something of such great value as human life that we can express as a society how much more we value freedom, and how great a violation it is when a murderer destroys that freedom. Finally, Kant is no ascetic defender of freedom, denying material needs and property that would cure diseases and preserve life. Kant builds on the early modern commercial

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Immanuel Kant  315 society project. Like Locke, Kant argues that the modern state ought to do all it can to promote commerce and “prosperity of the citizens” as well as relationships with other nations, by fostering, for example, the arts and sciences.37 He argues that commerce, the arts, and the sciences altogether extend the power of human beings over nature and so expand our ability to satisfy our needs, a collective effort he refers to as “culture.” Even our efforts to lengthen our lifespan are included in this definition.38 However, Kant defends commercial society and culture based not on the reasons of thinkers such as Locke, namely, that culture cultivates the material conditions for peaceful coexistence, commodious living, and self-​preservation. Kant, like Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, recognizes that the limitless expansion of human power in modernity can create new forms of conflict, unhappiness, and “calamities.”39 Unlike Rousseau, however, Kant asserts that modern life itself holds within itself a spiritual principle of self-​limitation of this material expansion. Culture is not then to be regarded as good simply because of its material benefit of staving off death, but should instead be seen as good because it is a step on the path toward the moral liberation of humanity. Though culture introduces new forms of conflict, it nevertheless reduces “the tyranny of sensible tendencies, and prepare[s]‌humans for a sovereignty in which reason alone shall have power.”40 Kant also develops his moral philosophy by attending to the fact of our mortality. As in his political philosophy, so too does Kant in his moral philosophy valorize the moral law over life itself. As we saw above in the example of bearing false witness against an immoral prince, Kant seeks to convince us that moral honor is more important than evading death. The idea that honor is more important than life is intelligible to many in the case of our moral duties to other people, since it is easy to come up with examples about sacrificing our life for doing the right thing to others. But Kant also has an unusual emphasis on the moral duties we owe to ourselves, that these are in some sense more important for him than duties we owe to others. Kant argues that we should respect the humanity in ourselves by not enslaving ourselves, for example, to sex, intoxicants, and the like. This is because for Kant, our natural interests are not what confer value on us, even our natural interest in avoiding death. For Kant, “it is not life that is to be treasured, but rather that one should live it throughout as a man, not, that is, in a state of well-​being, but so that one does not dishonor mankind.”41 Or, as he puts it more succinctly, “he who can no longer live honorably is no longer worthy to live at all.”42 In Kant’s view, life itself has no value in itself. It is only through our moral efforts that we make our lives valuable at all. To further illustrate this point and its implications, consider Kant’s view of suicide. Readers of Kant’s Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals (1785) are always surprised when Kant condemns suicide as running afoul of the categorical imperative. Indeed, Kant’s contemporary followers, such as John Rawls, draw the exact opposite conclusion from Kant’s upholding of autonomy in the case of euthanasia.43 If we are autonomous agents, we should have the right to decide when we die. Indeed, it is that right which is an expression of our dignity. In the Groundwork, Kant considers the example of the person “sick of life because of a series of troubles that has grown to the point of despair.”44 According to Kant, a person who commits suicide also commits a great moral wrong to the humanity in their own person. It is wrong because they treat themselves as a mere means to the animal end of alleviating pain: “he makes use of a person merely as a means to maintain a tolerable condition up to the end of life.”45 Those who commit suicide violate the humanity in their own person, as the human being “is not a thing and hence not something that can be used merely as a means, but must in all his actions always be regarded as an end in itself.”46 Instead, our moral end of improving humanity, not considerations of pleasure and pain, should determine how we relate to life and death.

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316  Jeffrey Church Suicide, however, proves to be a more complicated example on Kant’s view if we venture into his lectures on ethics, since there he recognizes that suicide can be undertaken for reasons other than being “sick of life.” These other reasons help clarify Kant’s view toward suicide, since Kant finds “plausible” other reasons for suicide, namely, moral reasons. In some cases, our death can serve moral ends, as he discusses in the lectures on ethics from the late 1770s. In some cases, the “continuation of life rests upon such circumstances as may deprive that life of its value, when a man can no longer live in accordance with virtue and prudence, and must therefore put an end to his life from honorable motives.”47 Kant approvingly invokes the example of Cato, the famous defender of Roman republican liberty, for not falling into “Caesar’s hands” by committing suicide.48 He discusses Lucretia as well, approving of her behavior—​namely, committing suicide to protest her rape at the hands of an enemy of Rome—​though suggesting that she would have done better by fighting “to the death in defense of her honor.”49 Indeed, Kant admires this ancient, heroic mindset which requires that honor be put above life, because then one is truly free and “bound by nothing from telling the harshest truths to the greatest of tyrants,” since “he can rapidly make his exit from the world, just as a free man can go out of the country if he chooses.”50 At the same time, Kant expresses some concern over the ancient heroic mindset, since the “defenders of suicide try to push human freedom to the limit, which is flattering, and implies that persons are in a position to take their lives if they wish.”51 Freedom is of great value according to Kant, and so the freedom to dispose of one’s life might appear to be a tempting extension of this view, as Rawls, for instance, assumed. Kant worries that the nobility of this view of suicide, as the compulsion to value honor above life, can quickly degenerate into the temptation to the most “appalling vices” unrestrained by any higher aim.52 Accordingly, though Kant admires the ancient, heroic worldview, he ultimately comes down on the side of modernity and Christianity, that God is highest, and those who commit suicide are “rebels against God.”53 In this way, we can find more assurance that human freedom subject itself to a higher law than is provided in the ancient worldview.

Death and Happiness The final part of Kant’s practical philosophy concerns not our moral end, but what our natural, embodied selves aim at, which Kant describes as happiness. In contrast to human beings, animals’ desires are structured and ordered by their natural instincts. Because of our freedom, we can reshape and order our desires as we see fit. We can prioritize some desires and demote others. For Kant, the result of this process is some comprehensive structure to our desires, some idealized end state in which our favored desires are satisfied. Kant calls this idealized end state happiness. Since we are free creatures, we can determine our idea of happiness in different ways. One of Kant’s little-​known sets of reflections in his Lectures on Ethics consists in his suggestions for determining the best idea of happiness. These reflections on happiness are framed against the fact of our eventual death and what “worth” we can bring to life.54 As in the case of right and morality, Kant argues against a Hobbesian hedonist opponent. In this case, he challenges a hedonistic conception of happiness. The hedonistic conception of happiness prioritizes desires for pleasure and “enjoyment” and the avoidance of pain, those “passive” forms of entertainment in which our free agency plays little role and instead our animal nature is satisfied.55 The problem with this conception of happiness, according to Kant, is that it runs up against our finitude. “The enjoyment of life does not fill up time, but leaves it empty,” Kant argues. Thus, when we look back on our lives at the time of our deaths, “in recollection” our lives “strike us as empty.”56 As such, we bemoan that we have done “nothing in [our] life, but have merely squandered time in that way, and then” we “look back upon [our] lifetime,” and we are “at a loss to know how it has come to an end so quickly, since” we have “done nothing in it.”57 The problem with this life is that

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Immanuel Kant  317 material enjoyments are susceptible to the problem diagnosed by Rousseau: in modern civil society, our desires for material goods are ever-​expanding, and we can never fully satisfy the totality of those desires, can never truly achieve this happiness. Also, since these pleasures are passive in nature—​since they are not an expression of our free activity—​they do not endure as part of our character or our achievements. They are something done to us, not something that we do. As a result, we come to our deaths and complain about the “brevity of time when we look back upon it,” and we eventually are “sorry to have lived” at all.58 In sum, for finite beings such as ourselves, enjoyment is not the path to happiness, but the path to despair. Instead, Kant argues, “man feels his life through action, not through enjoyment. The busier we are, and the greater our feeling of living, the more conscious we are of our existence.”59 When we act morally or labor on something or generally contribute to communal efforts, we fill our time, rather than leaving it empty. We fill it because we reshape the world through our own agency, such that the world reflects our own freedom back to us. “The more a man has acted, the more he feels his life, and the more he can remember of it,” because his agency is reflected back at him in all the memories he has and shares with others.60 Thus, when such an individual comes to the end of her life, she is not struck by the emptiness or brevity of life, but that she “dies in fullness of life.” Such an individual is “satiated with life,” and so does not complain that life is short.61 As such, this conception of happiness does not put material enjoyments first, but thick moral and spiritual relationships with friends, family, co-​workers, and so forth. The passive notion of happiness as enjoyment is not achievable because our material desires constantly expand. This active idea of happiness is indeed achievable because we do not aim to compete with others—​to be better or greater than others—​but to help them seek their own ends. This idea of happiness can bring wholeness to our lives, our desires, and our deaths. It may seem that Kant sharply distinguishes between morality and happiness, as if there is no overlap between the two. However, the truth is more complicated. Happiness can come in two different forms, an active and a passive form. The active form of happiness is informed by moral aims and our human longing for freedom. For Kant, we ought to act morally not only because duty unconditionally demands it, but also because it is the path to the greatest satisfaction. Yet this is true, we have seen, because human beings eventually face their own demise. Human beings are unique in our ability to project ourselves in the future and imagine our own deaths. Our reflection on our own death gives us a basis for evaluating the satisfactions we experience in our lives. Death is then not something to be feared, as Hobbes argues. Instead, death clarifies what is of value in life, and provides an important motivation to pursue such value, so that, when we eventually come to face death, we will be prepared for it.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have argued that Kant’s practical philosophy is framed by an important fact of human nature, namely, our mortality. Human beings possess a strong natural aversion to death, and modern life tends to exacerbate that fear as society becomes less religious and more secular. A powerful strand in modern philosophy seeks to reshape human life, community, and happiness to attempt to overcome our fear of death. For Kant, by contrast, it is our death that makes possible the achievement of value and dignity in a secular world. Our fear of death tests us. It tests our political institutions, whether we are willing to stake our lives on the ideals of freedom, equality, and perpetual peace. It tests our moral character, whether we are capable of staking our lives for what is true and right. It tests our idea of happiness, whether we construct our lives around the pursuit of pleasures or around the

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318  Jeffrey Church accomplishment of deeds. Without mortality and our fear of it, moral struggle and moral self-​overcoming become unintelligible and meaningless. Yet it is only this moral longing and aspiration that confers on humanity a value and purpose. Our eventual deaths are the context in which humanity’s moral aspirations take place. Immanuel Kant attempts to console us in our fear of death with the idea that though we may ourselves die, our moral striving as part of the community of humanity will never end.

Notes 1 Young treats Kant on death, but focuses on his view of the sublime. 2 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 4:421. 3 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 4:429. 4 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 4:434–​6. 5 For more on the tendency of the early moderns to lower their sights, see Strauss, ­chapter 5. 6 Hobbes, ch. 13, p. 78. 7 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:71. 8 Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, A802/​B830. 9 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:30. 10 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:30. 11 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:73. 12 On the argument from “absurdum practicum,” see the helpful analysis of Wood. 13 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:123. 14 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 5:122. 15 Kant, “Idea for a Universal History,” 8:19. 16 Kant, “Idea for a Universal History,” 8:30. 17 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:355. 18 Burke, 457–​8. 19 Kant, “Idea for a Universal History,” 8:30. 20 Kant, “On the Common Saying,” 8:289. 21 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:312. 22 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:312. 23 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:312. 24 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:307. 25 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:332. 26 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:307. 27 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:312. 28 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:237. 29 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:238. 30 See Ripstein for a thorough analysis of Kant’s view of freedom and a connection to the republican tradition in general and Pettit in particular. 31 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:236. 32 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:334. 33 Kant, “On the Common Saying,” 8:290–​1. 34 Kant, “On the Common Saying,” 6:334. 35 Ripstein, 305n13. 36 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 6:333. 37 Kant, “On the Common Saying,” 8:298. 38 Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, 5:431. 39 Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, 5:432. 40 Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, 5:433. 41 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:342. 42 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:373. 43 For discussion, see Sandel, ­chapter 19.

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Immanuel Kant  319 44 Kant, Groundwork, 4:421–​2. 45 Kant, Groundwork, 4:429. 46 Kant, Groundwork, 4:429. 47 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:370. 48 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:370. 49 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:371. 50 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:374. 51 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:372. 52 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:375. 53 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:375. 54 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:382. 55 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:381. 56 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:381. 57 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:381. 58 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:382. 59 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:381. 60 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:381. 61 Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 27:382.

References Burke, Edmund. Reflections on the Revolution in France. In The Portable Edmund Burke. Edited by Isaac Kramnick. New York: Penguin, 1999. Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994. Kant, Immanuel. Critique of the Power of Judgment. Translated by Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. —​—​—​ Critique of Practical Reason. In Practical Philosophy. Translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. —​—​—​ Critique of Pure Reason. Translated by Paul Guyer and Allen Wood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. —​—​—​Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. In Practical Philosophy. Translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. —​—​—​“Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Aim.” In Anthropology, History and Education. Translated by Mary Gregor et al. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. —​—​—​ Lectures on Ethics. Translated by Peter Heath. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. —​ —​ —​Metaphysics of Morals. In Practical Philosophy. Translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. —​—​—​“On the Common Saying, that May be Correct in Theory, But is of No Use in Practice.” In Practical Philosophy. Translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Ripstein, Arthur. Force and Freedom: Kant’s Legal and Political Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009. Sandel, Michael. Public Philosophy: Essays on Morality in Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Strauss, Leo. Natural Right and History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1950. Wood, Allen. Kant’s Moral Religion. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1970. Young, Julian. “Death and Transfiguration: Kant, Schopenhauer, and Heidegger on the Sublime.” Inquiry 48, no. 2 (2005): 131–​44.

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32  Overcoming the Mortal Diseases and Short Lives of Republican Governments Publius and Political Immortality Bruce Peabody

At first glance, the Federalist, the 85 essays written at a feverish pace by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay (under the pseudonym Publius) might seem like an unpromising source for recovering a philosophy of death and dying.1 After all, the most pressing goal of these American statesmen was strategic and narrowly political: to replace the Articles of Confederation by securing ratification of the new constitution designed at the Philadelphia Convention of 1787. This rather specific imperative was not necessarily conducive to generating general, durable, and systematic ideas about any topic, never mind the seemingly extraneous problem of human mortality. But the Federalist essays are both pragmatic and philosophical, and they are rife with the language and metaphors of sickness and political death. The essays attend to the urgent matters facing the American nation at the end of the eighteenth century (how to survive in the aftermath of an expensive and disruptive Revolutionary War), while also applying novel discoveries in the “science of politics” (#9) to solve stubborn puzzles of political theory, especially how to keep “popular governments” alive notwithstanding the innumerable “mortal diseases” (#10) that have destroyed them in the past. Publius’s frequent invocations of sickness and death are not simply alarmist; they also frame a proactive, diagnostic approach. Thus, the Federalist both systematically sets out the ailments gripping the Articles of Confederation and searches for their political and social cures. In Federalist #38, Publius extends the physician metaphor, analogizing the fate of the independent American states to a “patient who finds his disorder daily growing worse” and urging his readers to consider carefully a range of proposed remedies. The Federalist’s fears about the death of regimes are closely connected to fears about citizens’ well-​being and survival. Federalist #3 identifies the “safety of the people” as the “first” object of government, a priority that is endangered by “hostilities from abroad” and unlawful violence from within a nation. In the absence of a strong national government, the American people will be simultaneously exposed to the dangers of entropic competition between nations and the “seditions and insurrections [that] are, unhappily, maladies as inseparable from the body politic as tumors and eruptions from the natural body” (#22). Under such circumstances, anarchy will “reign as in a state of nature, where the weaker individual is not secured against the violence of the stronger” (#51). In short, the authors of the Federalist seem absorbed with the possibility of both governments and their political subjects dying—​not out of morbid fascination, but as a way to signal the seriousness of the challenges at hand, and as a prompt for imagining and fashioning a new form of government uniquely structured to safeguard the lives and liberties of citizens. In particular, Publius is committed to creating a republic, a popular government based on representation which protects the “public good” and “private rights” (#10) of its people. The rest of this chapter builds the case that the threat of violence and death is never far from Publius’s specific essays and overall project. The first major section considers how the DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-33

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Publius  321 Federalist defines political death—​that is, how do we know when a political order has come to a final end (as opposed to simply evolving)? Second, and closely related, this chapter examines Publius’s arguments about what forms of this political death should be avoided and lamented. His answers help us distinguish healthful and harmful political change, and better understand the wider goals of the Federalist beyond winning constitutional ratification. The third part of this chapter lays out what Publius learns from history regarding the most likely causes of the death of various political regimes, focusing, especially, on what he identifies as the most serious threats facing republics (and the American republic in particular). The fourth section identifies how the Federalist seeks to promote not simply better political health but a kind of political immortality. While Publius sets out a general taxonomy of governmental sickness, his central concern is diagnosing what endangers the US constitutional regime specifically and advancing “a republican remedy for the diseases most incident to republican government” (#10). But if the authors of the Federalist are successful in this endeavor, they can break free from a historical pattern in which “republics in practice” (#6) have tended to disintegrate and collapse. Unlike human bodies, constitutions can endure for centuries. As Chief Justice John Marshall put it, the Constitution was “designed to approach immortality as nearly as human institutions can approach it.”2 In the concluding fifth section, I consider some implications (and problems) raised by the Federalist’s aspiration to eradicate political illness and achieve the longevity that has eluded past republics.

What Counts as Political Death? Given the historical inflection point at which the Federalist was written—​the transition from one constitution under the Articles to the Philadelphia Constitution—​one might imagine that Publius would clearly delineate how we should know if a political regime has been permanently killed, or if it has been merely altered or legally amended.3 Federalist #22 seems to consider these very issues by calling the Articles “so radically vicious and unsound, as to admit not of amendment but by an entire change in its leading features and characters.” Whatever else the Federalist intends to do, it seeks to eradicate the Articles through a wide-​ ranging “entire change” (#38), replacing them with a superior governing structure. Federalist #22 sketches both the outlines of political death (it involves comprehensive, not interstitial change) and at least one form of good death (terminating the sorry rule of an “unsound” regime). But even if the Federalist’s unsparing critiques of the Articles indicate a willingness to abolish certain regimes, they do not necessarily provide a satisfactory answer to the important question of how we achieve this change. As many commentators have noted, the precise procedures under which the 1787 Constitution sought to replace the Articles may be legally suspect.4 The Articles stipulated that any “alteration” of their terms required unanimous confirmation “by the legislatures of every state.” But the Constitution permitted just nine of the thirteen states to approve the new government and thereby eradicate the “Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union.” Can the death of the Articles be considered good if it is illegal? Federalist #40 wrestles with this problem, inquiring whether the members of the “convention were authorized to frame and propose this … Constitution.” Publius initially argues that the Constitution’s framers “must have reflected, that in all great changes of established governments, forms ought to give way to substance,” a stance that does not address whether all “great changes” (including those that permanently displace existing political orders) are equally legitimate. Federalist #40 next invokes the Declaration of Independence and its identification of the “Right of the People” to “abolish or alter their governments as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.” If the Constitution’s authors

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322  Bruce Peabody had been too hung up on meeting the restrictive legal procedures of the Articles, they would have compromised this “transcendent and precious right”—​which the convention supposedly honored by submitting the Constitution “to the People themselves” (#40). Through a popular ratification process, the framers recognized the people’s “supreme authority” to either “destroy” the Constitution “forever” or approve it, thereby “blot[ting] out antecedent errors and irregularities” in the convention’s procedures (#40). While this discussion leaves open many questions (for example: precisely when can the people’s “transcendent” power to destroy governments be activated?), at a minimum Publius seems to be signaling that the annihilation of governments can be achieved through a political and popular process. To this point, we might note that the Federalist seems to anticipate good political deaths, exemplified by the replacement of the Articles of Confederation with the US Constitution. Furthermore, Publius endorses a somewhat ill-​ defined popular and political basis for implementing sweeping political change and even “destroy[ing]” (#40) repudiated constitutional orders. But the Federalist also embraces a formal, legal process for change, the amendment procedures contained in Article V of the Constitution. As legal scholar Sanford Levinson argues, the provision of this amendment process is an “acknowledgement of imperfection.”5 Indeed, Publius explicitly notes that the Constitution is not “faultless” (#37) and that “useful alterations [to the document] will be suggested by experience” (#43). It is notable, however, that the Federalist does not consider the possibility that the formal amendment process might be used to replace the Constitution in toto, an outcome that seems implicit in both constitutional history and Article V, which allows for calling a “Convention for proposing Amendments” to the nation’s supreme law. This raises a potential tension between the constitutional text and Publius’s thinking since, as we have seen, he argues that “in all great changes of established governments, forms ought to give way to substance” (#40). Are we to glean from this statement that any comprehensive change authorized by Article V would be somewhat suspect or beside the point? The Federalist provides no answer.

Understanding Bad Deaths So far we have the sketch of a definition of political death—​it represents “an entire change” in a government’s “leading features and characters” (#22). But what defines the bad political deaths Publius is trying to avoid? The Federalist never gives us an explicit or systematic answer to this query, but we can construct a general response by working backwards from what it identifies as its core purposes. Federalist #10 distills the essays’ goals as promoting a republic, a polity that will secure “the public good and private rights” while still preserving “the spirit and the form of popular government.” Federalist #37 offers an additional gloss on this idea by stating that the Philadelphia Convention sought to combine “the requisite stability and energy in government, with the inviolable attention due to liberty and to the republican form.” Federalist #43 comes closest to describing undesirable political deaths directly, noting that under the Constitution, the states have a right to “substitute other republican forms” for their existing governments although “they shall not exchange republican for antirepublican Constitutions.” We might conclude from all of this that an “entire change” to a government that departs from or undermines republican values would represent a failure of the Publian project, amounting to a bad death. Does this discussion reveal that Publius is more committed to preserving “constitutionalism”—​that is, a collection of fundamental precepts about politics and law that define a regime and the roles of its leaders and citizens—​rather than promoting any specific constitutional form, including the Philadelphia Constitution of 1787?6 After all, the Federalist advocates for discarding the Articles once they have been judged insufficient to the

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Publius  323 post-​Revolutionary era. Perhaps the Constitution also lives on borrowed time, and it should be re-​evaluated by future generations in the same contingent light to see if it still conforms “to the true principles of republican government” (#1).7 But we have two reasons to doubt that Publius favors regular re-​examination of our supreme law. First, numerous Federalist essays indicate that Publius sees the particular provisions and structures in the Constitution as especially well-​chosen and likely to support republicanism. Thus, in the concluding essay Hamilton tells us that while he concedes the imperfections of the proposed system, “it is the best which our political situation, habits, and opinions will admit, and superior to any the revolution has produced” (#85). Second, notwithstanding the Federalist’s emphasis on the people as “the only legitimate fountain of power,” Publius warns that frequent appeals to popular judgments about the Constitution will disturb “the public tranquility by interesting too strongly the public passions” (#49). Instead, we must cultivate a popular “reverence for the laws” so that the “prejudices of the community” (#49) will generally support a Constitution which, in turn, will support the liberties and happiness of its subjects. In sum, the Federalist urges its readers to consider the specific structure and form of the US Constitution as perhaps the best hope for republicanism in the modern age.

What Kills? The Sources of Political Death Having filled in the basic contours of the Federalist’s picture of both how we should understand political death generally, and what constitutes bad political death specifically, we are in a better position to interpret and evaluate the essays’ efforts to prevent this outcome in the American context. The Federalist surveys an international collection of both “ancient governments” (#63) and “modern” (#43) regimes (including the American states) to diagnose (and propose cures to) the political diseases that infect (and potentially kill) various political orders. One might pause here to question why Publius adopts this historical and comparative orientation. After all, he concedes that there are limits to the lessons provided by the “experience of other nations” (#70) since the Constitution attempts to give rise to a unique polity: a republic which extends over a “great extent of country,” confounding the prevailing assumption that such regimes could only be established “among a small number of people, living with a small compass of territory” (#14). Furthermore, with “a few glorious” exceptions, the fate of most republics across time has been to suffer “tempestuous waves of sedition and party rage” (#9). As a consequence of this grim record, they have fallen under a cloud of “opprobrium” (#10), and Publius anticipates that his audience will regard the proposed constitutional republic with suspicion. Thus, Publius turns to history not to reassure his readers, but to make the case for bold and innovative action. The Federalist draws on the past to demonstrate the failings or irrelevance of other possible governmental forms and to identify general “principles of good government” (#22) that it applies in novel ways to preserve republicanism in the “new world” (#11). For example, Publius defends the Constitution’s specific definition of treason by noting that other nations’ shifting “new-​fangled and artificial treasons have been the great engines by which violent factions” have imposed their “malignity on each other” (#43). So what do we learn from Publius’s abundant historical and contemporary observations about the causes of political death? After aggregating his various examples, we can distinguish three rough categories: the sources of death specific to non-​republican forms of government; the disorders that endanger regimes in general; and, most importantly, the “mortal diseases” (#10) peculiar to republics. In the first class, Publius pays particular attention to what he calls “pure democracies” wherein “a small number of citizens … assemble and administer the government in person” (#10). Such societies give direct vent to “factions,”

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324  Bruce Peabody groups driven by passion and prejudice to attack the “rights of other citizens” and subvert the public interest (#10, #41). These dangerous assemblies are inevitable in heterogeneous societies that value the freedom that allows people to form their own views—​and act on them. “As long as the reason of man continues [to be] fallible, and he is at liberty to exercise it, different opinions will be formed” (#10). In turn, these differences of opinions will coalesce into “a division of the society into different interests and parties” which will lead to “mutual animosities” and “violent conflicts” (#10). Thus pure democracies “can admit of no cure for the mischiefs of faction,” since they will invariably produce majorities that will forcefully target the “rights of the minor party” and “trample on the rules of justice” (#10). As a result, Publius concludes that these regimes “have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths.” (#10). The Federalist depiction of the painful demise of pure democracies serves to warn us against adopting this form of rule while also underscoring the delicacy of finding the right governmental structure that will at once protect liberty, uphold the rights of minor parties, and give expression to popular rule. Since the “latent causes of faction are … sown in the nature of man” the sorry fate of pure democracies across history puts the American people on notice: they must be open to Publius’s innovative solutions if they want to enjoy the freedom and self-​rule that democratic regimes promise but cannot ultimately deliver. The Federalist’s second category involves more general maladies that threaten a range of states including democracies, republics, monarchies, and confederations. Here, we can learn from the examples of other nations, even when their adopted governments are different from the one set out in the Constitution. For example, every state is vulnerable to the “arms and arts of foreign nations” and “the accumulated experience of ages” teaches us that in the face of these threats nations need unified and extensive powers of self-​defense (#6). A number of the Federalist’s essays fret about the ongoing perils nations face from violent invasions and advocate for a permanent, professional, national army.8 A related set of problems facing many states is finding the right balance of power to protect subjects “against external and internal danger” (#37) without jeopardizing their well-​ being and happiness. Several Federalist essays endorse the need for governmental energy and efficiency while also cautioning that we must always control government and guard against our leaders’ “tyranny or treachery” (#55). Federalist #22 notes that “emergencies” in particular will expose a nation’s “goodness or badness … [and] the weakness or strength of its government.” Federalist #70 sympathetically references the office of “Dictator,” an official empowered by the Roman Republic to assume “absolute power” for a discrete period to protect Rome from invasion and insurrection. Publius turns to this history to argue in favor of the Constitution’s energetic and “vigorous Executive” who can help protect the nation from foreign attacks as well as faction and “anarchy” at home (#70). In his third category of political diseases, Publius considers the distinctive threats facing republics, especially the American “confederate republic” that blends national and state governing authority (#6). This peculiar structure enables the US to extend “the sphere of popular government” (#9), that is, to encompass a larger nation with respect to territory and population. But such an arrangement runs counter to the prevailing assumptions of political philosophers that republics need to be “small” (#9) and that extended republics tend to fracture and collapse. Several Federalist essays take seriously this concern about American “disunion” (#6)—​ foreseeing possible schisms between the states as well as mounting tension and hostility between the states and the national government. Such spiraling discord, Publius cautions, would make the nation more vulnerable to foreign invasion and could trigger a range of “domestic factions and convulsions” (#3) within the confederate

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Publius  325 republic. The resulting “dissolution of the Confederacy” would prompt each state to muster its own standing army in anticipation of “frequent war and constant apprehension” (#8). These conditions would, in turn, make civil war more likely. In Federalist #16, Publius describes the prospect of the national government allying with a number of states against the others “as the violent death of Confederacy,” an outcome he distinguishes from the “more natural death” brought on by the gradual dissolution of the union and degeneration of national power. Still another threat the American republic must guard against concerns not disunion and resulting “foreign or domestic violence” (#31) but the possibility that leaders might be seduced with “bribes and intrigues” (#22) to set aside the national interest for their personal advancement. As Publius warns, one “of the weak sides of republics, among their numerous advantages, is that they afford too easy an inlet to foreign corruption” (#22). But the most dangerous disease facing the proposed American regime is a faction formed by a majority of the people. As we have seen, such factions are fatal to pure democracies. But they are also hazardous in republics, which strive to blunt the force of these entities through representatives or delegates who “refine and enlarge the public views” and attempt to steer factious groups towards the “true interest of their country” (#10). But factions remain a constant and endemic threat, especially under a Constitution committed to both protecting liberty and embracing a large union of states. This structure generates a “diversity” of lifestyles, opinions, religions, and economic and political concerns which will invariably result in “a division of the society into different [and conflicting] interests and parties” (#10). In nations committed to popular rule, heterogeneity of opinions, and freedom of thought and action, the emergence of an “overbearing majority” is a constant threat. Indeed, as we have seen, Publius admits that with few exceptions, most republics have lapsed into political turmoil, social enmity, and violence, and he cautions that without a dramatic fix, our own “experiment” in “self-​government” (#39) will meet a similar fate. His proposed solution is to “improve and perpetuate” our flawed but “great Confederacy” (#14) by reinvigorating the nation with a new form of government: an extended, confederate, commercial republic. Such a unique configuration is most likely to ensure that “a coalition of a majority of the whole society” will not “invade the rights of other citizens” (#10) and will instead tend to combine around the principles of “justice and the general good” (#51). Reviewing the details and specific workings of Publius’s innovative political form is beyond this chapter’s focus and scope. But Publius’s insistence that he has solved both the longstanding problems that have bedeviled republics, as well as the immediate threats of the post-​Revolutionary period, suggests a broader ambition directly relevant to this chapter’s themes. In offering a new republican model that will purportedly overcome the historic failings of popular governments, Publius is implicitly laying a foundation for not just outlasting the crisis at hand, but enduring into perpetuity. Stated differently, once we have overcome the “mortal diseases” of popular government, the Federalist opens up the prospect of a kind of political immortality.

The Constitution and Political Immortality Publius gestures to this aspiration somewhat delicately and indirectly. Again, his immediate goal, constitutional ratification, is more modest than creating eternal political life, and he has little to gain by stoking the anxieties of Anti-​Federalist critics who feared entrenching a strong, central government. But the Federalist defends the proposed “extended republic” as a new kind of “experiment” (#14) that can escape the grim trajectories of “the popular governments of antiquity” (#63). Moreover, “posterity will be indebted for the possession” of this innovative regime, a clear signal that the constitutional blueprint has been fashioned

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326  Bruce Peabody to endure for ages to come. Similarly, Publius warns against judging the “proposed Constitution” solely on the basis of “immediate necessities”—​we must also take into account unlimited “future contingencies” the nation will confront (#34). Overall, Publius conveys a sense that the US Constitution will not only bind future generations, but can transcend the traditional life cycles of republics and other polities. This idea finds expression through a number of overt and covert strategies. Perhaps most obviously, as noted, the Constitution allows for amendments to respond to the inevitable imperfections in our supreme law. According to Federalist #43, the constitutional amendment process achieves a balance between “that extreme facility, which would render the Constitution too mutable; and that extreme difficulty, which might perpetuate its discovered faults.” Publius further insists that the amendment process is sufficiently responsive that it will not impede “a spirit of accommodation to the reasonable expectations” of change demanded by the states and the people (#85). The Federalist both anticipates the Constitution’s longevity and takes steps to protect it by presaging unknowable political exigencies of the future, including the demands of future people (#37). By mandating that regime change must come through official, legal, constitutional procedures, the Constitution’s framers reaffirm the document’s own authority. As we have already seen, Publius develops a second path to political immortality in Federalist #49, which makes the case that the Constitution should be maintained through a form of civic adulation. The essay begins by criticizing a proposal to provide a regular popular mechanism for altering the Constitution or correcting “breaches of it” (#49). While such a move “seems strictly consonant [with] republican theory” it would threaten constitutional stability by implying a general “defect” in our supreme law. Moreover, “frequent appeals” to the people would “deprive the government of that veneration which time bestows on every thing.” If we were “a nation of philosophers” it might be safe to turn to the judgments of the populace on a regular basis, but in “every other nation,” including the American republic, the safer course is to inculcate a “reverence for the laws” and the existing political order (#49). This reverence will help ensure the continuity of constitutional governance over time. A third way in which the Federalist signals its interest in political perpetuity (and not just survival) is the most subtle, but perhaps the most profound. Federalist #78, in the course of supporting the powers and independence of the federal judiciary, defends the courts’ power to interpret the “fundamental law” of the Constitution as a means of keeping the other branches (especially the legislative) within their limits. But, Publius tells us, this does not imply “a superiority of the judicial to the legislative power. It only supposes that the power of the people is superior to both” (#78). The stratagem here, which the Federalist references at other junctures,9 is to fix the root of popular sovereignty within a Constitution that declares itself supreme law. In this view, the Constitution’s claim to bind us (and future generations) is not a function of custom, legal contract, the superior authority of the framers, or the perfection of the adopted constitutional language. Instead, the Constitution’s “supreme authority” (#39) stems from its establishment by an “intelligent people” who, supposedly, with “one voice” convened the Philadelphia Convention and then endorsed its handiwork (#2). As James Madison later wrote, the Constitution “was nothing more than the draft of a plan, nothing but a dead letter, until life and validity were breathed into it by the voice of the people, speaking through the several State Conventions.”10 Thus the Constitution’s claim to political and legal immortality is supported by its indissoluble link to the popular approval of a founding generation; while those who ratified the Constitution are long dead, their transcendent authority (and political blessings) somehow radiate to the present. In turn, the Constitution gives rise to the American people’s own sense of immortality by allowing them to survive “beyond the natural, physical limits of

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Publius  327 their species” (as political theorist Ann Norton puts it) through the ongoing ideals and institutions of constitutional governance.11 The people gift ongoing life to the constitutional text through initial ratification and ongoing consent, and, reciprocally, the text extends the projects of the American people past their individual lifespans, allowing them to “exchange their material constitution for an ideal constitution of their own devising.”12

The Future of the Federalist Project Well into its third century of life, the Constitution, and the Federalist essays that helped bring it into existence, have been unambiguously successful by many measures. The longevity of the Constitution (the oldest in the world) is particularly striking from a comparative perspective. As the scholars Tom Ginsburg and Zach Elkins have documented, over the past two hundred years, the average lifespan of constitutions across the globe has been about 18 years; in other words, many nations have abandoned, replaced, or dissolved their national political charters in less than a generation.13 In contrast, the US Constitution’s endurance signals that the Federalist vision of republican rule has remained attractive to many citizens and leaders across the years, and has helped fight off the mortal diseases that have struck and wasted so many other regimes. Stated differently, Publius’s promise to frame “a government for posterity as well as ourselves” (#34) has been vindicated across wars, civil unrest, and severe economic privation. Within a generation of the Constitution’s drafting, the nation faced one of the very dangers anticipated by Publius as the British reoccupied American lands, laid siege to Baltimore and New Orleans, and sacked the nation’s capital in the War of 1812. During the American Civil War, the Federalist’s anxieties about “disunion” (#6) and the possibility that violence between the states would end the American “experiment” (#14) assumed an especially bloody, urgent, and destructive form. In addition to contributing to the successful fight to ratify the US Constitution, the Federalist has grown in influence both as an authoritative guide to constitutional interpretation, and as the “best commentary on the principles of [American] government,” as Thomas Jefferson put it.14 Of course, the essays’ ongoing importance has been enhanced by both the continuation of the constitutional project and the growth of national power—​at home and across the globe. Thus, the long life of the Federalist and the long life of the republic it championed are closely intertwined. Moreover, the Federalist’s sustained investigations of political disease, mortality, and death have longstanding relevance. Following World War II, and in the wake of the collapse of (sometimes republican) regimes across the globe, political scientists returned to the themes of political mortality that preoccupied Hamilton, Madison, and Jay.15 More recently, the cratering of political trust, the rise of hyper-​partisanship, and the success of populist and authoritarian leaders across the globe generated a proverbial industry of scholarship investigating whether we were experiencing the death throes of democracy.16 The passage of time gives us a chance to appreciate not only the enduring power and pertinence of the Federalist, but its limitations and unresolved tensions. For example, Publius (and other supporters of the Constitution) argued that the amendment process would serve as a source of political durability and legitimacy by allowing for corrections to the original document forged in Philadelphia. As the Philadelphia Convention delegate George Mason explained, while the Constitution “will certainly be defective,” the amendment process provides “an easy, regular and Constitutional way” to repair these defects, rather than relying on change through “chance and violence.”17 But in practice the amendment process is neither “easy” nor “regular” and, as a consequence we must either live with our constitutional flaws or try to work around them. As the political scientist Donald Lutz has shown, the US Constitution is extraordinarily difficult to alter—​perhaps “the hardest constitution in

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328  Bruce Peabody the world to change through formal amendment.”18 Moreover, constitutional change seems to be harder to come by in recent decades; if one exempts the Twenty-​Seventh Amendment (which was ratified over the course of more than two centuries), no amendment has been approved since 1971.19 Of course, one could make the case that this resistance to change is part of the Constitution’s framework for promoting immortality, but such an emphasis prioritizes stability at the expense of both error-​correction and popular governance; over time, the strong bones of the Constitution may threaten to become ossified. A second dilemma (if not paradox) nested in the Federalist concerns Publius’s promotion of “veneration” as a way to preserve the spirit and form of republican regimes. From the outset, the Federalist imagines itself as a test of whether “societies of men” can survive through collective reason and choice rather than “accident and force” (#1). But Publius simultaneously celebrates and elides the people’s “supreme authority” (#40) to authorize and control their forms of government. As political scientist Jeffrey Tulis has argued, the Constitution refashions the people’s right to transform their government—​an expressly revolutionary power in the Declaration of Independence—​into a more modest, interdependent, and legalistic amendment process.20 In this way, Publius favors the Constitution’s specific legal authority and forms at the expense of the Declaration’s articulation of direct and radical popular sovereignty. More broadly, the Constitution is not an invitation to political debate but rather the solemn settlement of a debate in the past … Political debate after the Constitution is confined to tensions among its terms. It is no longer a debate about those terms and their fundamental alternatives.21 This outcome, a constitutional order that at once insists upon the people’s ultimate governing authority and wants them to forget it, is a potential contradiction, if not a “fundamental incoherence.”22 Although the nation is arguably “founded with an unprecedented appeal to reason, the Constitution is preserved by faith.”23 We can imagine possible solutions to these and other puzzles contained within the Federalist and the enduring regime it created. For example, a “catastrophe,”24 or the prospect of one, could impel meaningful constitutional change either through the formal amendment process or expressions of “popular constitutionalism,” in which, as legal scholar Larry Kramer puts it, the people themselves take “active and ongoing control over the interpretation and enforcement of constitutional law” and challenge prevailing understandings of the Constitution.25 But, of course, these responses may be too late to save a republic that is critically ill. And, as political scientist Sotirios Barber notes, “Blind veneration of the Constitution would hardly nourish the virtues of the intellect and spirit needed when timely change is necessary to avert disaster.”26 Regardless, the authors of the Federalist still speak to us with eloquence and often alarming prescience. Haunted by the existential threats of war and revolution, and charged by the crises of a discordant Union, it is no surprise that their warnings, their counsel, and even their shortcomings are inflected and shaped by an abiding fear of political death.

Notes 1 The author is grateful to Erin Dolgoy and Kimberly Hale for their invaluable comments on earlier drafts of this chapter, and to John Finn, Sanford Levinson, and Jeff Tulis for many of the ideas developed in this essay. 2 Cohens v. Virginia (1821).

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3 See, generally, Levinson, “How Many Times.” 4 Ackerman, 69. 5 Levinson, “Introduction,” 3. 6 Brandon, 64. 7 Similarly, Jefferson famously proposed that every constitution “naturally expires at the end of 19 years.” Jefferson, “To James Madison” (1789). 8 Publius, #28, #29, #34, #46. 9 Publius, #22, #39, #14. 10 Quoted in Arnold, 277. 11 Norton, 124. 12 Norton, 124. 13 Cited in Levinson, Framed, 335–​6. 14 Diamond, 659; Jefferson, “To James Madison” (1788). 15 See, e.g., Huntington. 16 See, e.g., Levitsky and Ziblatt. 17 Quoted in Levinson, “Introduction,” 3. 18 Lutz, 261. 19 Peabody, 157. 20 Tulis. 21 Tulis, 121–​2. 22 Tulis, 116. 23 Tulis, 125. 24 Levinson, Framed, 85. 25 Kramer, 959. 26 Barber, 164.

References Ackerman, Bruce. “Higher Lawmaking.” In Responding to Imperfection: The Theory and Practice of Constitutional Amendment, 63–​87. Edited by Sanford Levinson. Princeton University Press, 1995. Arnold, Richard. “How James Madison Interpreted the Constitution.” New York University Law Review 72, no. 2 (1997): 267–​93. Barber, Sotirios. “Notes on Constitutional Maintenance.” In Constitutional Politics: Essays on Constitution Making, Maintenance, and Change, 162–​6. Edited by Sotirios A. Barber and Robert P. George. Princeton University Press, 2001. Brandon, Mark E. “Constitutionalism and Constitutional Failure.” The Good Society 9, no. 2 (1999): 61–​7. Cohens v. Virginia, 19 US 264 (1821). Diamond, Martin. “The Federalist.” In History of Political Philosophy, 659–​79. Edited by Leo Strauss and Joseph Cropsey. University of Chicago Press, 1987. Huntington, Samuel P. Political Order in Changing Societies. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968. Jefferson, Thomas. “Letter to James Madison,” Nov. 18, 1788. Founders Online. —​—​—​“Letter to James Madison,” Sept. 6, 1789. Founders Online. Kramer, Larry D. “Popular Constitutionalism, circa 2004.” California Law Review 92 (2004): 959–​1011. Levinson, Sanford. Framed: America’s 51 Constitutions and the Crisis of Governance. Oxford University Press, 2012. —​—​—​“How Many Times Has the United States Constitution Been Amended? (A) < 26; (B) 26; (C) 27; (D) > 27: Accounting for Constitutional Change.” In Responding to Imperfection: The Theory and Practice of Constitutional Amendment, 13–​36. Edited by Sanford Levinson. Princeton University Press, 1995. —​—​—​“Introduction: Imperfection and Amendability.” In Responding to Imperfection: The Theory and Practice of Constitutional Amendment, 3–​11. Edited by Sanford Levinson. Princeton University Press, 1995.

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330  Bruce Peabody Levitsky, Steven and Daniel Ziblatt. How Democracies Die. New York: Penguin Random House, 2019. Lutz, Donald S. “Toward a Theory of Constitutional Amendment.” In Responding to Imperfection: The Theory and Practice of Constitutional Amendment, 237–​74. Edited by Sanford Levinson. Princeton University Press, 1995. Norton, Anne. Republic of Signs: Liberal Theory and American Political Culture. University of Chicago Press, 1993. Peabody, Bruce G. “The Twice and Future President Revisited: Of Three-​Term Presidents and Constitutional End Runs.” Minnesota Law Review Headnotes 101 (2016): 121–​61. Publius. The Federalist. Edited by George W. Carey and James McClellan. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2001. Tulis, Jeffrey K. “Constitution and Revolution.” In Constitutional Politics: Essays on Constitution Making, Maintenance, and Change, 116–​27. Edited by Sotirios A. Barber and Robert P. George. Princeton University Press, 2001.

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33  Hegel on Death and the Spirit Cecil L. Eubanks

Death and the spirit are intimately intertwined in the thought of Georg Wilhelm Hegel (1770–​1831). They are developed by Hegel in three major works: The Phenomenology of Spirit, The Science of Logic, and The Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences. Significant cultural and political moments of Hegel’s project are explored in Elements of the Philosophy of Right and the posthumously published lectures on The Philosophy of History. The immense scope of what Hegel attempts is a study of the evolution of individual and social structures of human consciousness (what Hegel terms a phenomenology); a history of freedom; a theology of the Christian God; a politics of the ethical society; and the elevation of absolute knowing into the philosophical science of modernity. The text where this is done most thoroughly, and where death figures most prominently, is The Phenomenology of Spirit.1 Hegel’s preface to that work, written after its completion, contains a remarkable overview of what he strives to explain. Death, if that is what we want to call this non-​actuality, is of all things the most dreadful, and to hold fast what is dead requires the greatest strength … But the life of Spirit is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that endures it and maintains itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in utter dismemberment, it finds itself … Spirit is this power only by looking the negative in the face, and tarrying with it. This tarrying with the negative is the magical power that converts it into being.2 The task of this chapter is twofold: First, it examines the Phenomenology’s exploration of death and determinate negation through Hegel’s discussions of the following topics: the struggle for recognition; the ethical community explored by the ancient Greek poet Sophocles’ play, Antigone; the fury of destruction in the French Revolution; and the death of the Christian God and subsequent rise of philosophy. Second, it explores the political implications of Hegel’s musings on death.

Death and Determinate Negation Hegel understands death as the end of human life. However, he also uses death as a metaphor for his system of knowing and logic. Comprehending that metaphor is crucial to understanding the implications of death in all its existential reality. The explanatory process most often used by Hegel is called determinate negation, and its most eloquent expression is found in Hegel’s Preface to the Phenomenology: The Bud disappears in the bursting-​forth of the blossom, and one might say that the former is refuted by the latter; similarly, when the fruit appears, the blossom is shown DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-34

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332  Cecil L. Eubanks up in its turn as a false manifestation of the plant, and the fruit now emerges as the truth of it instead. These forms are not just distinguished from one another, they also supplant one another as mutually incompatible. Yet at the same time their fluid nature makes them moments of an organic unity in which they not only do not conflict, but in which each is as necessary as the other; and this mutual necessity alone constitutes the life of the whole.3 Determinate negation is a dialectic in which death, a negation, occurs. The bud is negated by the blossom, which, in turn, is negated by the fruit. These negations are also part of the life and death of forms of human consciousness, of culture, even of gods. Understanding each of them, as well as “the life of the whole,” is critical. Hegel is fond of identifying these occurrences as “moments” in the life of human consciousness and of spirit. Another etymological issue in this consideration of determinate negation is what Hegel means by spirit. When he refers to the life of the spirit, Hegel means the life of the mind. Thus, the Phenomenology is, in part, the story of the development of human consciousness. However, the life of the spirit also refers to the consciousness of a people, or of a people’s culture, their politics, art, religion, the spirit of their history. How do we understand the determinate negation of human being? What shape does human consciousness take in the face of death? Why does it develop in such a manner, and what are the consequences of that development? These questions are poignantly confronted in the first chapters of the Phenomenology. The development of human consciousness initially takes shape in a mere and simple sensation of the world of objects. Hegel calls this a form of “natural consciousness.” Quickly, however, our consciousness of the world leads us to consciousness of self and of others. (Hegel is not contending that consciousness unfolds in this linear fashion; he is merely reducing our understanding of consciousness to identifiable moments.) The “I,” as a subject, is conscious of a world, of objects, and the “I” is conscious of that world through its senses. Inevitably, “I” becomes conscious of itself, as well as others.4 It is in this state of natural being that we also see death, the natural condition of the negation of life; and, initially, we have no way of incorporating this natural condition into our understanding of the world. We come to realize that death is the end of consciousness, and we grow to love life and fear death. Love and fear are desires.5 Spirit is motivated by desire or passion, as well as by reason. The first manifestation of that passion, a new moment, is what Hegel calls the struggle for recognition. This is, in no small way, the beginning of human history for Hegel; and it is a history of violence, unhappiness, anxiety, and death.

The Struggle for Recognition As a human being seeks recognition, it seeks it from another self-​conscious being. It seeks a universal, namely its own presence in the world of particulars. We might even say that it seeks its own freedom or identity, and it does so with respect to and at the expense of others and their freedom. It cannot conceive of its freedom in relationship to those others, save in a manner that is a form of threatened restraint. In the ensuing battle between these egos, some will be willing to risk their lives for that recognition. Others will fear death more deeply and acquiesce to the dominance of those who are the risk takers, the more powerful. The result of these negations, or inevitable wars, is a moment of “settling,” during which those who take the risks become the masters over those who acquiesce and become slaves, perhaps the most famous of Hegel’s many stages of consciousness: the master and the slave.

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Georg W. F. Hegel  333 Hegel develops the logic of recognition carefully: “the relationship of two self-​conscious individuals is such that they prove themselves and each other through a life-​and-​death struggle.”6 The presence of death, which is inevitable in this conflict, “shows that each staked his life and held it of no account both in himself and in the other.”7 Both individuals survive the struggle. Both recognize the importance of individual, unfettered freedom, what Hegel will often call an “immediate” freedom, by which he means undeveloped, immature, and incomplete. Both recognize that life is essential to this freedom. They exist, however, in two opposed shapes of consciousness: one is the independent consciousness whose essential nature is to be for itself, the other is the dependent consciousness whose essential nature is simply to live or to be for another. The former is lord [master], the other is bondsman [slave].8 Neither will be fulfilled in this war; ironically, the slave may be more fulfilled. A new human relationship has emerged in the Phenomenology, one based on the desire for recognition and fear of death. The master takes the risk of death to achieve recognition from the slave. The master’s recognition, however, is dependent upon another consciousness, and a slave consciousness at that! In addition, what also remains for the master is a dependency on the slave for the things of consumption. The slave has chosen to acquiesce and avoid death, but the slave’s relationship to the world of things is a partial salvation. In that world of work, the slave is able to achieve a level of self-​consciousness not afforded to the master. The slave forms and shapes things out of nature. As Hegel concludes, completing the irony: “It is in this way, therefore, that consciousness qua worker, comes to see in the independent being [of the object] its own independence.”9 Both master and slave possess a recognition and a freedom that is limited, largely to the world of things. Both are searching for an independent self-​consciousness; neither finds it. Perhaps that independence can be found in thought itself, not in another or in work. Hegel briefly considers consciousness in search of pure independence, a freedom that is solely a form of self-​consciousness or thought itself. He departs from his discussion of death and considers forms of reason that might be alternatives to the dilemma that slave and master face and the independent self-​consciousness they so desire. Quickly and surely, he finds stoicism and skepticism, even asceticism, incomplete. The result of this search for self-​ recognition, the fate of the master and slave, is the “unhappy consciousness.” This unhappy consciousness, or rather Hegel’s treatment of it, then turns to the social and the spiritual realm, to a more fulfilling relationship between individuals, ultimately to what is perhaps the most important of Hegel’s forms of consciousness, namely, the ethical community. The master–​slave encounter taught us that human relationships are more complex than we thought; while death is an integral part of the master–​slave relationship, so, too, is life. Death and life will remain integral to Hegel’s discussions of the ethical community. As he turns from mere individuality to community, Hegel directs his attention to the formative communities of history. His “moments” now become Greece or Rome or even Immanuel Kant’s world of moral universals, as measures of human communities, both in terms of their capacity to fulfill human needs, but also in their capacity to form ethical societies. Historical and theoretical communities share space in this selection of formative moments, alongside political communities and historical events. Yet, death remains an essential ingredient of these new forms of living and knowing. In this context, Hegel’s attention turns to two revealing moments of death, life, and the ethical society: Sophocles’ play, Antigone, and the French Revolution.

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The Ethical Community: Antigone The narrative of Antigone is elegantly simple. Polynices and Eteocles, the two sons of Oedipus, were to become co-​rulers of Thebes. Their uncle, Creon, would rule as a regent king until they came of age. The brothers dispute each other’s right to the kingship and the result is civil war. Eteocles defends the kingdom; Polynices is in rebellion against it. Thus, for Hegel, Sophocles has brilliantly illustrated the insufficiency of the family as an ethical institution. The wars of self-​consciousness do not end with the family; they continue. The tragedy begins with brothers fighting against one another; the family, the institution that is a primary educative body for teaching altruism, is torn asunder. Both brothers die in the conflict; Creon assumes the throne once again; and he decrees that Eteocles, defender of the city-​ state, will be given a proper burial. Polynices, on the other hand, will be denied any burial, as he was a traitor to the city-​state. Antigone, sister to Polynices and Eteocles, has pledged to honor both brothers. She disobeys Creon’s edict and buries Polynices. In her defense she argues that she acts on behalf of two important sets of social values, one familial, the other religious. She values the blood and kinship of family, as well as the higher law of the gods. Both systems of value require that the bodies of the dead are properly buried. Creon, to the contrary, argues that the city-​state and the duties of citizenship have been defiled. He arrests, and entombs Antigone, expecting her to die. Family, love, life, death, and city-​state are intertwined in a manner that symbolizes the complexity of human association. Creon’s son, Haemon, pleads with his father to save the life of his beloved Antigone, and to listen to the citizens of Thebes, who think he is arrogant and unwise in his decision to punish Antigone. Creon comes to see the wisdom of his son and the citizens, but too late. Haemon, Antigone, Eurydice (Creon’s wife) have all died, by their own hand. Creon is alone, now, in his sorrow, and the Chorus speaks the final word on the matters at hand: “You have learned justice, though it comes too late.”10 The tragedy of Antigone lies in the irony of its depiction of the Greek city-​state. According to Hegel, in the ancient Greek world household and city were supposed to be interdependent. Each needs the other. The family is the deep, unconscious, and intuitive world of human being. Hegel identifies it with the sacred and, controversially, with women, like Antigone. In the Philosophy of Right, Hegel will develop more carefully and more generally the role of the family in teaching altruism, duty to that which is beyond the self. The family will produce citizens, and it will produce some citizens who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the state. In contrast, the world of the state, not just the Greek state, is the world of reason and force, of human law, which Hegel identifies with men. The state will engage in war, often for the sake of unity, and it will ask citizens to die in those wars. Antigone illustrates the ironic and tragic occurrence of a member of a family, Polynices, who is willing to die in a war against his state, a civil war. Antigone must be true to the sacred traditions of her world, which require a proper burial of human beings so that their souls will not be homeless. She will honor her brother and the gods in that fashion. Creon must answer to his true calling to protect the city and punish the traitor. The tragedy, for Hegel, is the irreconcilable conflict between two abstract duties: Antigone’s duty to the gods and Creon’s duty to the city. Both are necessary; they exist in interdependency. That they should conflict in this manner and that neither should see the other’s perspective illustrates a failure to deal with the immediacy of the unexpected, sometimes the tragedy of the unexpected. What Hegel has done in his analysis of Antigone, however, is to integrate death into the life of the community. Death can be less or more than individual moments; now, it becomes part of ethical life in which the laws of the gods and the laws of human beings must be considered, measured, and even celebrated. Indeed, in his exceptional study of Death and Desire, Brent Adkins

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Georg W. F. Hegel  335 concludes: “the state achieves its wholeness through the sacrifice of some of its members and the family takes the work of death on itself in burial rites.”11 Yet, Hegel is not advocating that states go to war; he is observing that they do and that the outcome of those wars, death, is a moment of sacrifice in which the state achieves a status close to, but not fully as, an ethical community. This consideration of death and duty, sacrifice, and burial is incomplete. It is, for Hegel, a moment of understanding, important in its limited aspect, but lacking in a full comprehension of freedom and community.

The Ethical Community: The French Revolution Hegel leaps from ancient Greece to the modern world in his next descriptive account of death and the ethical community. This moment is a commentary on the Enlightenment and the Protestant Reformation, both to be celebrated for their contribution to human freedom and both perilously solipsistic in their abstract views of freedom and autonomy. This solipsism is symbolized by the French Revolution. If Antigone is a lament on the proper relationship between the individual and community, the French Revolution is a moment of individual actualization in which death is the only realm of political action. Hegel gives an ominous name to this section of the Phenomenology: “Absolute Freedom and Terror.”12 In Hegel’s depiction of the French Revolution, “Spirit thus comes before us as absolute freedom.”13 No power can resist it. The conscious, unfettered self, has become absolutely free; and its first impulse, largely because it cannot conceive of any substance other than itself, is to destroy all social groups and classes, all cultural expressions of the spirit that had been a part of the story of history. Its universal is itself. Put differently, the self has destroyed culture and has work to do in the creation of a new culture; but it does not have the capacity to do that work. It can only negate. As Hegel writes, the newly free and conscious self “cannot achieve anything positive, either universal works of language or of reality, either of laws and general institutions of conscious freedom, or deeds and works of a freedom that wills them.”14 It can only imagine and execute a Reign of Terror, “only negative action; it is merely the fury of destruction.”15 The power of Hegel’s assertions about absolute freedom is worth considering in full measure: The sole work and deed of universal freedom is, therefore, death, a death too which has no inner significance or filling, for what is negated is the empty point of the absolutely free self. It is thus the coldest and meanest of all deaths, with no more significance than cutting off a head of cabbage or swallowing a mouthful of water.16 Hegel has discovered a totalitarian impetus in the search for absolute freedom. In Antigone, death was the work of nature. On behalf of the community, the family honored and incorporated death into the community through burial rites. Now, death is the work of the community itself.

Death and Revealed Religion For Hegel, the process of understanding the education of human consciousness is still not complete. He has yet to take into account the question of subjectivity and morality in modern religion, most specifically in Protestant Christianity. One more death remains. Its occasion for Hegel is both theological and political in import, and it hearkens back to Antigone and spirit’s movement toward a rapprochement of freedom and ethical society. Spirit needs a conscience, or more broadly, a moral consciousness in which the human being can participate. Reason can help in this regard, but it will be insufficient, at least initially.

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336  Cecil L. Eubanks As Hegel’s analysis of Antigone illustrated, moral consciousness, or transcendence, comes from religion and the laws of the gods. At this moment of spirit’s evolution, however, it is not the religion of the Greeks to which Hegel returns. It is to what he calls manifest or revealed religion. More precisely, it is Protestant Christianity, with a highly developed sense of universal freedom, in the priesthood of the believers, and a God that becomes human and dies. The unique quality of Christianity is that “the divine Being is revealed.”17 The Christian God creates a world and then enters that world. “Good enters into actuality and appears as an existent self-​consciousness.”18 In this human moment of time and place, the Good/​ God (Jesus) actualizes itself and then dies or sacrifices its existence and returns to a spirit of divine Being. “Spirit is thus posited … in universal self-​consciousness; it is its community.”19 The creation, birth, and death of the spirit have power to create a community of believers in altruism, goodness, sacrifice, even of justice. Hegel did not think Protestant Christianity marked the end of the development of the spirit. It was a powerful moment, but one too embedded into what he called “picture-​ thinking.”20 The union of individual and community is too much a matter of illusion, image, and ritual. Thus, even this powerful moment of Christianity must be negated. Picture-​ thinking must be negated by pure thought, or what Hegel called Absolute Knowing, wherein the negations, the deaths, are ended, and spirit emerges as a “pure universality of knowing, which is self-​consciousness.”21 It will unite “the objective form of Truth and of the knowing Self in an immediate unity.”22 This ending of the Phenomenology will prepare the way for Hegel’s monumental epic, The Logic, in which this form of knowing, the language and the “Science of Knowing,”23 will be explained in all of its nuances and complexities. One final comment about the omnipresence of death or negation in Hegel’s Phenomenology, largely to dispel the claims of any readers asserting that Hegel was describing a history of the spirit, with a happy ending in thought itself. Hegel ends the Phenomenology with an observation about what we have learned about the spirit, our culture, our politics, and ourselves. We have seen, he observes, a “gallery of images” in this “slow-​moving succession of Spirits.” We have come to know something about death, rebirth, and the moral imagination, but this knowledge will sink into the “night of its self-​consciousness” and spirit will have to “start afresh to bring itself to maturity as if, for it, all that preceded were lost and it had learned nothing from the experience of the earlier Spirits.”24 Nonetheless, memory of these moments remains embedded in our consciousness, and when we are faced with new challenges to the conscience of the spirit, when we recollect the spirit anew, we may hope that our musings are informed with “maturity” that is “none the less on a higher level than when it starts.” The goal, after all, is to reveal the “depth of Spirit.”25

The Philosophy of Right Who took up the challenge of recollecting new moments of the spirit? As George Armstrong Kelly aptly points out: “Hegel’s psychology is moral, not analytical,” and it, therefore, must “shift its ground” to the world and history.26 It was Hegel himself who embraced this task in Elements of a Philosophy of Right, a work that turns to the political manifestations of the ethical society, and was published some fourteen years after the Phenomenology of Spirit. What distinguishes the Philosophy of Right is that it examines the institutional framework of how Hegel viewed his world, the beginning of the modern world, and its ability to manifest the moral psychology of the Phenomenology. Recall that the Phenomenology is an account of the movement of consciousness through history. Death, or negation, plays a prominent role in that history. Hegel insists throughout that history has a telos. History is the progressive realization of freedom in the life of human beings. Yet, as the Phenomenology also makes clear, freedom is not simply the absence of restraint. Freedom is choosing what

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Georg W. F. Hegel  337 is right: “the moral man is not he who merely wills and does that which is right … but he who has the consciousness of what he is doing.”27 That view of freedom, for Hegel, means a constancy of attention to the removal of the distance between the idea of the good and our free choice to be determined by that good. That is what he means by ethical life. In the Philosophy of Right, Hegel once again posits the notion of the ethical society in which the moral human being is capable of choosing the good and living within its requirements. Here he brings Greece and Aristotle into his own world and asks: where is the ethical life to be found? How can it be measured and encouraged? With the advent of the Protestant Reformation and its notion of the priesthood of the believers, with the emergence of capitalism and its notions of a free market, and with the development of liberal democratic reforms that broadened the scope of what it meant to be a citizen, what shape might the ethical life take and, again, how might it be encouraged? Or, to phrase the matter in Hegelian language, what are the new challenges to the conscience of the spirit? Hegel first examines these questions in terms of Abstract Right, Morality, and Ethical Life, wherein Abstract Right, namely human rights, is posed as the particular claims of individual rights; Morality is identified as the universal claims of the community; and Ethical Life is a moment of balance or mutual recognition between the individual and community. He quickly moves from that abstract discussion to a consideration of the modern human institutions that reflect the tensions between these terms. The family is the source of altruism, yet it is particular in character, not universal. The family is where altruism is first taught and learned, where the passions of love lead to a sense of sacrifice and obligation to one’s spouse, one’s children, siblings, and parents. Yet, it is open to dissolution, fragmentation, even tragedy, as in the case of Antigone or in the Genesis narrative in which Cain, in a moment of jealous rage, murders his brother, Abel. The family’s claim to altruism is based on kinship, which begins to fragment not only in the aforementioned violence but also when children start their own families or when divorce between husband and wife occurs. Thus, the family is an indispensable institution in the life of modernity, as it was in the classical Greek world, but it is insufficient to the task of creating a fully mature ethical life. If the family is identified as the home of particular altruism, civil society is characterized as universal egoism. It, too, is an indispensable institution in the life of modernity. Indeed, it is so vital that Hegel dwells on it at some length, both as a defender and a critic. Civil society is the marketplace, where human beings gather and exchange the products of their labor. We would call it market liberalism. As he examines this liberalism, Hegel becomes one of the first authoritative commentators on the modern world.28 Civil society, he argues, is a necessary moment in human development. The acquisition of property is essential to the development of personality, a form of recognition, as it was called in the Phenomenology. In the Philosophy of Right, he writes of property as the “embodiment of personality.”29 This marks the beginning of a powerful defense of property rights. The struggle for recognition now becomes realized in the mixing of one’s labor in the world and acquiring a sense of ownership and, literally, a sense of self. In civil society, it is the case that needs are met by the acquisition of property, but there is a higher order of need in that acquisition. Hegel puts the matter as follows: If emphasis is placed on my needs, then the possession of property appears as a means to their satisfaction, but the true position is that, from the standpoint of freedom, property is the first embodiment of freedom and so is in itself a substantive end.30 Property is ultimately an end, an education in recognition, ownership, and selfhood.

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338  Cecil L. Eubanks Hegel draws two conclusions from this view of property as personality. The first is that a system of common ownership cannot satisfy this need for recognition of selfhood. There must be private ownership, so that the will of an individual is recognized. The second conclusion, Hegel argues, follows the logic of the first. If property is the embodiment of personality, then it must be, in some form, available to everyone.31 Yet, in this recognition of self through property, civil society contains its own determinate negation or death. The forces of self-​interest, or egoism, and the massive disparities in wealth that it creates, leave too many without the necessary “recognition” to be a free person. Hegel issues a very Aristotelian32 warning about the excesses of universal egoism: Particularity by itself, given free rein in every direction to satisfy its needs, accidental caprices, and subjective desires, destroys itself and its substantive concept in this process of gratification … civil society affords a spectacle of extravagance and want as well as of the physical and ethical degeneration common to them both.33 Hegel’s solution to the limitations of civil society, as well as to the ultimate development of ethical life, was the creation of a state that reflects universal altruism. That state consists of the following: a limited monarchy; a system of laws protecting the rights of citizens and property; the existence of a pluralism of religions and estates/​classes, with a large middle class; a representative assembly; and a public administrative bureaucracy.34 The last of these is a bridge between civil society and the state. Its development begins in the formation of a class within civil society, a large universal class of civil servants, whose tasks are “the universal interests of the community” and in whom “private interest finds its satisfaction in its work for the universal.”35 It is this universal class that will become that administrative bureaucracy in which he places so much faith. It was Hegel’s hope that such a class would encourage shopkeepers to become citizens, willing to pay taxes and serve the public realm, in the manner of what Aristotle, his intellectual mentor, called pursuit of the good. Hegel clearly thought that public-​spiritedness was lacking in the modern world. He feared the death of the political if all human relationships were defined as economic transactions. Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, much like his Phenomenology, is an educative narrative, the story of movement from right, to morality, to the ethical life. The question he poses is how can the spirit develop a conscience or how can the ethical life emerge in our social lives? In the course of that narrative he makes it clear that the family, civil society, and the state are all part of that process of learning. All are essential human institutions in the development of the ethical life. One may quarrel, and many do,36 with Hegel’s choice of the state as the realm of universal altruism. It is more difficult to contest his hope for a rapprochement between the human being as a moral agent who creates the laws, customs, and institutions of a society, and who also wills obedience to those very creations. That is the notion of freedom he defends; that is the actualization of ethical life he expects to be created. One could easily conclude that Hegel was right about the fundaments of civil society, albeit wrong about its impending death; and more seriously wrong about the state, which has yet to assume the lofty status of ethical society. Hegel was no nationalist; and his desire to protect the ethical life from a death at the hands of a solipsistic view of freedom was a powerful one. However, he underestimated the rise of the nation-​state and its ability to use the very bureaucracy in which he placed so much faith to commit unspeakable crimes in the twentieth century. Yet, that passion for a view of freedom that wills obedience to a universal altruism is not dead. Indeed, and yet again, one could say, with Hegel, that “the life of Spirit is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that

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Georg W. F. Hegel  339 endures it and maintains itself in it.”37 And, one could conclude, with Hegel, that the spirit does still need a conscience, and our task is to “start afresh” in seeking its maturity.

Notes 1 Hereafter referred to as the Phenomenology, translated by A. V. Miller. Miller capitalized Spirit in his translation. Hegel did not, and I have followed Hegel’s example while retaining Miller’s capitalizations in the quotes. 2 Hegel, Phenomenology, §32. 3 Hegel, Phenomenology, §2. 4 Hegel, Phenomenology, §177. 5 Peter Kalkavage explores this nicely. I am indebted to his discussion of Hegel’s Phenomenology in an aptly titled book: The Logic of Desire. 6 Hegel, Phenomenology, §187. 7 Hegel, Phenomenology, §188. 8 Hegel, Phenomenology, §189. 9 Hegel, Phenomenology, §195. The best-​known discussion of this relationship between master and slave is found in Kojève. 10 Sophocles, 201. 11 Adkins, 96. 12 Hegel, Phenomenology, §582. 13 Hegel, Phenomenology, §584. 14 Hegel, Phenomenology, §588 15 Hegel, Phenomenology, §589. 16 Hegel, Phenomenology, §590. 17 Hegel, Phenomenology, §759. 18 Hegel, Phenomenology, §777. 19 Hegel, Phenomenology, §781. 20 Hegel, Phenomenology, §796. 21 Hegel, Phenomenology, §796. 22 Hegel, Phenomenology, §805. 23 Hegel, Phenomenology, §808. 24 Hegel, Phenomenology, §808. 25 Hegel, Phenomenology, §808. Hegel does not place a time frame on this forgetting and remembering. Perhaps it is a generational matter; most decidedly it is a constancy of vigilance in the pursuit of an ethical society. 26 Kelly, 35. Kelly’s work is a marvelous critique of this analytic tradition and presents a more balanced and nuanced Hegel. 27 Hegel, The Philosophy of History, 269. 28 For a discussion of the development of neoliberalism, as well as critical perspectives on it, see the following: Brown; Mirowski and Plehwe. 29 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §51. 30 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §45. 31 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §49. 32 For Aristotle’s analysis of property, class, and politics, see his Politics, Book IV, especially ­chapters 11–​16. 33 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §185. 34 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §141–​§229. 35 Hegel, Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, §205. Hegel provides a lengthy analysis of the process through which this class is formed. 36 Those who argue that Hegel is an authoritarian include Russell; Popper; and Voegelin. More sympathetic scholars include Avineri; Taylor; Smith; and Kelly. 37 Hegel, Phenomenology, §32.

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References Adkins, Brent. Death and Desire in Hegel, Heidegger and Deleuze. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Aristotle. Politics. Trans. Carnes Lord. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013. Avineri, Shlomo. Hegel’s Theory of the Modern State. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972. Berlin, Isaiah. Freedom and Betrayal: Six Enemies of Human Liberty. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014. Brown, Wendy. Undoing the Demos: Neoliberalism’s Stealth Revolution. New York: Zone Books, 2015. Hegel, G. W. F. Hegel: Texts and Commentary. Translated with commentary by Walter Kaufmann. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1977. —​—​—​ Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Translated by A. V. Miller with Analysis of the Text and Foreword by J. N. Findlay. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977. —​—​—​ Hegel’s Philosophy of Right. Translated by T. M. Knox. New York: Oxford University Press, 1967. —​—​—​ Hegel’s Preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit. Translation and Running Commentary by Yirmiyahu Yovel. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005 —​—​—​ The Philosophy of History. Translated by J. Sibree. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1956. Houlgate, Stephen. Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013. Ireton, Sean. An Ontological Study of Death. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1977. Kalkavage, Peter. The Logic of Desire: An Introduction to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Philadelphia: Paul Dry Books, 2007. Kelly, George Armstrong. Hegel’s Retreat from Eleusis. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978. Kojève, Alexandre. Introduction to the Reading of Hegel. Edited by Allan Bloom. Translated by James H. Nichols, Jr. New York: Basic Books, 1969. Mirowski, Philip and Dieter Plehwe (eds.). The Road from Mont Pèlerin: The Making of the Neoliberal Thought Collective. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015. Pippin, Robert B. Hegel on Self-​Consciousness: Desire and Death in the Phenomenology of Spirit. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011. Popper, Karl. The Open Society and Its Enemies. New York: Routledge, 2011. Russell, Bertrand. A History of Western Philosophy. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1967. Smith, Steven B. “Hegel’s Critique of Liberalism.” American Political Science Review, 80 (March 1986): 121–​39. Sophocles. Antigone. Translated by Elizabeth Wyckoff. The Complete Greek Tragedies. Vol. II. Edited by David Grene and Richmond Lattimore. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959. Taylor, Charles. Hegel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Voegelin, Eric (1972). “On Hegel—​A Study in Sorcery.” In The Study of Time, 418–​51. Edited by J. T. Fraser, F. Haber, and G. Muller. New York: Springer Verlag, 1972.

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34  Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death Søren Kierkegaard’s Philosophy of Love Jamie Aroosi

Søren Kierkegaard (1813–​55), the influential Danish philosopher and theologian, did not often explore the concept of death directly—​although we will explore those places that he did—​so much as death presents itself as a particularly useful concept for understanding his thought. As we will see, despite its infrequent mentions, death is a unifying concept in Kierkegaard’s thought, because the often hidden enemy on the horizon is always death. Wittingly or unwittingly, our lives have become consumed by death, as we forever seek to protect ourselves from the ever-​present onslaught of time. But as Kierkegaard helps us see, if we allow our lives to be consumed by death, our lives take on the meaning of their absence—​the meaning of our life becomes that of death. Instead, as Kierkegaard urges, if we overcome our fear of death, we might find life. And the true meaning of life is not found in our mortality but in our capacity for love.

Context and Background Situating Kierkegaard within Western political thought presents an interesting dilemma. Generally considered to be a founding figure in contemporary Western thought—​a position typically reserved for Kierkegaard, Karl Marx, and Friedrich Nietzsche—​he is all but unread by contemporary political theorists.1 However, this wasn’t always the case. In fact, in perhaps the two most important periods in twentieth-​century Western thought—​interwar Germany and post-​WWII France—​Kierkegaard was everywhere. As a result, Kierkegaard’s presence in contemporary political thought is both omnipresent and hidden; he pervades contemporary thought through his influence on its founding figures, but he remains hidden because those who currently traffic in his thought are often unaware of its origins. For a philosopher whose work is particularly difficult to interpret, his neglect is not a total surprise. While Kierkegaard is justifiably considered to be among those responsible for the nineteenth-​century end of Western thought and its subsequent rebirth in the twentieth century, he wrote in what he called an “indirect” style of writing. Instead of adopting a conventional philosophical approach, such as that of his German idealist forebears (including Kant and Hegel), Kierkegaard rarely shared his own thoughts directly. Instead, he used his writing as a tool meant to orient his readers towards discovering the truth for themselves. He therefore employed multiple pseudonyms, many of which have their own “personalities,” while also drawing richly on irony, metaphor, and parable. As a result, it becomes difficult to ascribe any particular idea within Kierkegaard’s writings to Kierkegaard himself, making it all the more difficult to identify his influence on subsequent thought. Kierkegaard’s style of writing reflected a transformation he meant to effect within the world of philosophy, and one that his historical contemporary, Marx, similarly sought to achieve. In Theses on Feuerbach, Marx famously proclaimed that: “The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point is to change it.”2 Unlike Marx, DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-35

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342  Jamie Aroosi however, Kierkegaard was not interested in changing “the world” and its social structures. He was interested in changing the individuals within it. And his indirect style of writing was his tool for achieving this. Consequently, his writing is best considered as a sort of dialogue with his readers; rather than telling them what he believes, he instead told them what he believed they most needed to hear. As a result, it is often important to read Kierkegaard’s writing as a form of praxis. Rather than conventional forms of writing whose purpose is to share meaning, Kierkegaard’s writing is often best considered as an opportunity for provoking personal change. As mentioned, many of Kierkegaard’s most important works were written in an “indirect” style and published pseudonymously. Kierkegaard’s authorial output, however, was actually twofold: on the one hand, he wrote his more overtly philosophical books in an indirect style meant to provoke spiritual and intellectual development in his readers; but on the other hand, he wrote a parallel series of religious and spiritual works that were published under his own name and that were more “direct” in style. Known as his “dual authorship,” Kierkegaard’s oeuvre would alternate between a more indirect philosophical work and a more direct religious work, with the former meant as spiritual and philosophical challenges to his readers and the latter as more direct explications of his own faith. While the indirect, philosophical authorship has garnered more attention, it is in the religious works that Kierkegaard most directly engages with the topic of death. Kierkegaard’s most direct thoughts about death are found in two works, Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions and Works of Love. Interestingly, the former work explores the conclusions we should draw when we reflect upon our own death, while the latter work explores those conclusions we should draw when reflecting on the death of others. Taken together, Kierkegaard offers a comprehensive reflection on our experiences of death.

Kierkegaard’s Ethic of Love Works of Love is a good place to begin when considering Kierkegaard’s reflections on death, because it more directly orients us towards the central core of his thought. For instance, Works of Love is widely considered to be Kierkegaard’s most comprehensive ethical work, and for him, truly ethical actions are only those that are grounded in love.3 However, while Works of Love is the text that directly explores the nature of love, the primary purpose of Kierkegaard’s “indirect” works lies in cultivating such loving individuals. Consequently, Works of Love offers a glimpse into the ultimate purpose of Kierkegaard’s work. An ethic of love is an unusual sort of ethic because works of ethics typically attempt to demonstrate the truth of their doctrines so that we might all be rationally convinced to adopt them. However, as Kierkegaard repeatedly demonstrates in many of his other works,4 an ethic of love is unlike other forms of ethics, because love is a quality that not everyone possesses. For Kierkegaard, love is a quality that we acquire through the personal transformation that his “indirect” works are meant to effect—​a personal transformation often referred to as a “leap of faith”—​but which can also be described as a moment of radical openness.5 In dropping the many barriers that keep people apart we can learn to overcome our fear of personal disclosure, in an act that allows us to “leap” past our fears and into the supporting comfort of love. It is impossible, however, to convince someone of the truth of an ethic based in love; if a person lacks the quality of love, they have no way of verifying the truth of the ethic that follows from it. In this light, we can better understand the twofold nature of Kierkegaard’s authorship: the “indirect” works are those that are concerned with helping his readers make a “leap” of their own so that they can become loving individuals, while his “direct” works are those that give voice to Kierkegaard’s own reflections on the topic of love. More

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Søren Kierkegaard  343 simply, the indirect works are written to the unloving other in the hope that they become loving, while the direct works are those that are written to his fellow loving individuals as a form of personal reflection on the nature of love. Consequently, these direct works might not convince us of the superiority of an ethic grounded in love—​but they are not meant to. Instead, they can help us learn to understand a form of love that we may or may not possess.

The Death of Others and the Purity of Love With this distinction in mind, Kierkegaard’s thoughts on death in Works of Love offer important insights into how Kierkegaard imagines the quality of love. These reflections are contained in his essay, “The Work of Love in Recollecting One Who Is Dead,” in which Kierkegaard argues that the relationship we have with those who have died is one of the ultimate tests of the purity of our love.6 Purity is essential because self-​interest easily corrupts our motivations while love counsels a purely unselfish concern for others. And our relationships with the dead can help us answer three essential questions about the purity of our love: is our love given unselfishly, is it given freely, and is it faithful? If we can answer in the affirmative for all three questions, then our love might be pure. First, for Kierkegaard, our love is at its purest when it is given selflessly—​when we overcome any personal benefit that might accrue to those who proffer love—​so that our love is given solely for the sake of others. However, in loving others who are alive, the subtle insinuations of selfishness exist as a constant temptation, because we often expect repayment for our love, even if that repayment is little more than the reciprocity of love.7 While these insinuations do not necessarily taint our love, they do make it difficult to determine if our love is truly unselfish in its motivation, or if selfishness has crept in subtly. In loving those who are dead, however, we can better determine the truth of our motivation. As Kierkegaard writes, “Truly; if you want to ascertain what love there is in you or in another person, then pay attention to how he relates himself to one who is dead.”8 As Kierkegaard recognizes, love is a relationship. However, as Kierkegaard also recognizes, any relationship necessarily influences the people who are within it.9 Consequently, within any relationship—​even a loving relationship—​the relationship itself is going to color our ability to interpret those within it. After all, given the complexity of any human relationship, it is ultimately impossible to determine if the love that is given is truly given from purely unselfish motives, or if self-​interest has somehow impinged. As Kierkegaard explains, If one wishes to observe a person, it is very important … [to] look at him alone … [otherwise] the observation must keep a special account of the influence the second person has on the person who is the object under observation … And if, in conversation with someone, you understand the art of making yourself no one, you get to know best what resides in this person.10 However, it is impossible to remove ourselves from a relationship in order to be objective, unless we are relating to someone who is both present but also absent; that is, unless we are relating to someone who is meaningful to us but who is also dead. But when a person relates himself to one who is dead, there is only one in this relationship, inasmuch as one who is dead is no actuality; no one, no one can make himself no one as well as one who is dead, because he is no one.11

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344  Jamie Aroosi As a consequence, the one who is dead “is only the occasion that continually discloses what resides in the one living who relates himself to him or that helps to make manifest the nature of the one living who does not relate himself to him.”12 In other words, our relationships with those who are dead are the relationships that can most clearly disclose if our love is truly “unselfish.”13 After all, death removes any hope of reciprocity. Therefore, “If love still abides, then it is truly unselfish.”14 Given the relational nature of love, our expectation of reciprocity (with those who are living) is one way that we can taint the purity of our love. In such cases, the problem begins with ourselves, as the selfishness that we bring into the relationship taints it. However, for Kierkegaard, our love is often rendered impure through a cause that originates with the other, for example with those who are being loved. Often, the other’s desire for love leads them to pressure us into giving it. In such cases, it becomes difficult to determine if our love is given “freely,” as it should be, or as a consequence of this “extortion.” As Kierkegaard explains, “The child cries, the pauper begs, the widow pesters, deference constrains, misery compels, etc. But any love in work that is extorted in this way is not free.”15 While everyone deserves love, only the love that is given freely is to be truly considered love. As a result, our relationship to the dead reemerges as a test for determining the purity of love. In their inability to extort us for our love, in their inability to make any demands upon us, the love that we give to those who are dead is the freest kind of love. “There is no one who inconveniences the living less than one who is dead, and there is no one easier for the living to avoid than one who is dead.”16 Therefore, in loving a person who is dead, their “helplessness,” or inability to ask of us anything, is a true test of whether that love is given freely. And so, as with the unselfishness of our love, by removing one of the sides in our loving relationships we can view ourselves more clearly. Finally, the last quality of love that our love of the dead reveals is its faithfulness. For Kierkegaard, true love is only that love which abides, because fickle and fleeting love is not truly love at all. Similar to the way that death tests if our love is freely given, it also tests the faithfulness of our love. Such enduring unreciprocated love necessarily testifies to its own abiding or faithful nature, since the absence of the person who is loved renders them incapable of playing a role in maintaining love. As Kierkegaard writes, In order to test properly whether a person’s love is faithful, everything can of course be removed whereby the object could in any way help him to be faithful. But all this is absent in the relationship to one who is dead, who is no actual object. If love then continues, this love is the most faithful.17 Altogether, therefore, our relationships with those who are dead best serve as a test for the purity of our love. Consequently, Kierkegaard encourages us to “recollect” those we have lost—​to maintain our loving relationships with those who have died—​because this helps us remain truly loving individuals. In this way, we not only keep the dead alive in the embrace of our love, but we also learn how to better love those who remain alive. “The work of love in recollecting one who is dead is thus a work of the most unselfish, the freest, the most faithful love. Therefore go out and practice it; recollect the one who is dead and just in this way learn to love the living unselfishly, freely, faithfully.”18

Our Own Death and the Earnestness of Life In Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions, Kierkegaard turns from a consideration of the relationship between love and death to reflect upon three different moments or “occasions” in the lives of his contemporaries: confession, marriage, and lastly, death. In the last of these

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Søren Kierkegaard  345 discourses, “At a Graveside,” Kierkegaard explores the significance that the contemplation of our own eventual death should hold for those of us still alive. For Kierkegaard, the contemplation of death should help us become more earnest. While Kierkegaard is rightfully viewed as a forerunner of twentieth-​century existentialism and its discourse of “authenticity,” Kierkegaard’s use of the term “earnestness” (Alvoren) sheds even clearer light on his thought and its influence. Granted, Kierkegaard’s project ultimately aims at helping us accept our authentic, loving selves, but it is by taking the task of living seriously—​by cultivating earnestness—​that we do so. In this task, death proves to be an invaluable aid. As Kierkegaard explains in “At a Graveside,” death possesses three important qualities—​ it is decisive, indefinable, and it is inexplicable—​and reflecting on these qualities can help us become more earnest.19 First, in referring to death’s decisiveness, Kierkegaard’s intention is to draw our attention to the finitude of life. Regardless of when death’s “decision” to take our life occurs, if we reflect on death, we each recognize its inevitability. Consequently, rather than squandering this finite commodity of time, we might learn to treasure it, in much the way that the scarcity of a commodity drives up its price.20 Death, however, does not create this scarcity in the material world but in the spiritual world, because “Death itself produces a scarcity of time [Dyrtid paa Tid] for the dying.”21 As Kierkegaard wants us to see, we are all individuals with a limited amount of time remaining. However, Kierkegaard’s intention is not to encourage a miserly attitude towards life, in which our fear of death causes us to squander our lives instead of living them. Instead, the opposite is true, because earnest reflection on death’s decisiveness serves as a remedy for a common psychological and spiritual malady: postponement.22 For Kierkegaard, postponement “is a consolation in life, [and] a false flatterer,” because when we put off for tomorrow what we should do today our conscience is eased.23 While postponement can relate to any number of things, for Kierkegaard, foremost is the task of living a truly meaningful life. For Kierkegaard, it is by living lives that are motivated by love—​by living lives that are dedicated to the service of others—​that our lives take on their ultimate meaning. The decision to live such a life, however, is a difficult one, and rather than accepting the burden that such a life brings, we instead “postpone” it. That is, we tell ourselves that there is still time to change our lives—​that there is still time to accept the burden of living for others—​and this allows us to continue living our selfish and superficial lives. We thereby postpone the act of truly or authentically living by telling ourselves that we have time to do so later. As such, postponement acts as “a safeguard in life,” protecting our shallow lives from the deeper demands placed upon us, just as it acts as “a hypocritical deceiver,” because we tell ourselves that there is still time to accept life’s burden. But death changes this calculus, as it forces us to confront life’s finitude. And finitude declares that rather than having an endless future into which we can postpone this decision, if we don’t act soon, we might be too late. As for his second description of death, that it is indefinable, Kierkegaard means to draw our attention to “the equality of annihilation” by which death comes for everyone regardless of worldly differences.24 Rich or poor, saint or sinner, “death makes no distinctions … it recognizes neither status nor age.”25 And through its indifference, death demonstrates that many of the pursuits to which we dedicate our lives—​wealth, status, power—​are of little true significance, because death comes for us all. “So death is indefinable—​the only certainty, and the only thing about which nothing is certain.”26 Consequently, death teaches us to pay little heed to these trivial pursuits. Instead, we might learn to be grateful for the life that we have, thereby learning that the truly important question pertains to how we have decided to live—​have we chosen lives that are lived in the pursuit of the ultimately meaningless acquisition of wealth, status, and power, or, have we chosen a life governed by a sense of love that is so great even death does not diminish it? The certainty of death—​the certainty

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346  Jamie Aroosi that death comes for us regardless of worldly difference—​provides the “necessary surveillance” to watch over us, encouraging us to live our lives earnestly.27 That is, death’s indefinable nature serves as a tool ensuring we maintain an earnest approach to life. Finally, Kierkegaard’s third description of death is that it is inexplicable. “That is, whether or not people find an explanation, death itself explains nothing.”28 And yet, we nonetheless desire an explanation. Consequently, “the earnestness lies in just this, that the explanation does not explain death but discloses the state of the explainer’s own innermost being.”29 In other words, death introduces a fundamental uncertainty into our lives. And rather than being explained itself, the answers we find reflect back upon our own state instead; they reflect back upon our ability to live with life’s—​or really death’s—​uncertainty. “Therefore, the inexplicability is not a request to solve enigmas, an invitation to be ingenious, but is death’s earnest warning to the living.”30 It is a warning that hearkens back to Socrates, because without ultimate certainty, the only appropriate response to death is to try and live a life engaged in constant self-​examination.31 As Kierkegaard writes, as soon as someone opens the door to uncertainty, the teacher is there, the teacher who will at some time come to give a test and examine the pupil … And this testing by death—​or with a more commonly used foreign word to designate the same thing—​this final examination [Examen] of life, is equally difficult for all.32

Despairing Unto Death Turning to Kierkegaard’s more philosophical and “indirect” authorship (where one cannot always clearly discern his specific voice), the theme of death pervades many of these works. This is perhaps most notable in The Sickness Unto Death, one of Kierkegaard’s most important works, and which explores a central concept in his oeuvre: despair.33 As Kierkegaard explains, it is only through love that we come to see ourselves and others truly. Consequently, if we live in the absence of love, we are living lives of untruth. And such lives—​lives in which we fail to accept our authentic selves—​are lives of “despair.” In The Sickness Unto Death, Kierkegaard offers a succinct definition of despair. As he argues, “To despair over oneself, in despair to will to be rid of oneself—​this is the formula for all despair.”34 In other words, despair is a condition in which we attempt to will ourselves away; it is a condition in which we “will to be rid of oneself.” For instance, Kierkegaard believes that we only discover and appropriate our true selves when we learn to become loving individuals, because love is the medium that reveals our true self. However, there are many reasons why we avoid this truth. Facing ourselves can be a fraught task, riddled with guilt over past indiscretions and filled with embarrassment over transgressions suffered, and so we often avoid the disclosure that love brings. Moreover, insofar as love serves as the foundation of Kierkegaard’s conception of ethics, love also brings with it an ethical burden. That is, when we become loving, we are confronted with the actions that a true love for others brings, and this is a burden that few of us wish to bear.35 After all, if we are truly acting out of love we are acting for the sake of the other, rather than for what our own self-​ interest might dictate. Consequently, Kierkegaard realizes that we often wish to avoid this burden by hiding behind untruthful conceptions of ourselves so that we don’t have to face the burden that acknowledging ourselves as loving individuals would entail. That is, we “will to be rid of oneself ”—​we will away our true selves—​by willing to be someone other than ourselves, so that we thereby live according to this false self-​image rather than the true self that love reveals.36 This inauthenticity, for Kierkegaard, “is the formula for all despair.”37

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Søren Kierkegaard  347 In “At a Graveside,” Kierkegaard reflects on the unavoidable fact that death is humanity’s shared fate. In this light, death is a condition of life that we must accept rather than a fate we might try to avoid. However, despair is a condition that ruins the life that we do have, leading Kierkegaard to call despair a danger worse than death.38 In other words, it is not the knowledge of our own deaths that prevents us from living while we are alive, it is despair, because despair is a condition in which we are not truly and authentically living. However, beyond this connection between death and despair—​which is a sickness unto death—​Kierkegaard imagines an even closer relationship, because our very fear of death serves as a prime cause of our despair.

Learning to Live with Loss In order to see the relationship between despair and our fear of death, we need to turn to Kierkegaard’s most misunderstood work, Fear and Trembling. The central story in Fear and Trembling is the biblical story of Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of his son, Isaac. As the story goes, God appears before Abraham and asks him to make a sacrifice of Isaac as a test of his faith. Abraham agrees, sets off to the top of Mt. Moriah where he plans to make the sacrifice, but he is stopped by an angel at the very moment he is to commit the act. As the central story in Fear and Trembling, and one that elicits no small amount of admiration from Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous author, there is little wonder why this work garnered Kierkegaard a reputation as an irrationalist.39 But even though Kierkegaard appears to be counselling obedience to “God’s command” regardless of God’s demand, this interpretation could not be further from the truth of Kierkegaard’s argument. Instead, Kierkegaard is arguing that unless we overcome our fear of death—​ both of our own and that of others—​we will never overcome our despair. If we are unable to overcome our fear of death, this fear will forever lead us to try and control others rather than accepting them. At the onset of Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard suggests that there might be an alternative explanation for this biblical story—​beyond seeing it as a parable about blind faith. For instance, he writes this work under the pseudonym Johannes de Silentio, or Johannes of Silence, and Johannes is quite clear in asserting that he does not know the true meaning of the story.40 To him, it appears to concern an attempted murder, but he also asserts that this couldn’t possibly be the truth.41 We are therefore being told a story by an author who alleges that he does not know what it means but who insists its true meaning is not found in the apparent meaning. Consequently, the story is presented as a puzzle to be solved, and whose solution is anything but the obvious. To this, Kierkegaard adds another clue, by way of the book’s epigram.42 This epigram refers to an ancient story in which the last king of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus (535–​509 BC E ), sends a coded message to his son Sextus. In the story, Tarquinius takes a messenger on a stroll in his gardens, casually lopping off the heads of some poppies, and then sends the servant to Sextus without uttering a word. Sextus thereby interprets that he is to execute the leading men in the town of Gabii, which he has just conquered, all while the messenger is unaware of the meaning of the message—​or even that he is carrying one. In this way, Kierkegaard hints that Johannes is also transmitting a secret message in Fear and Trembling, albeit one of which even Johannes is unaware (as Johannes states). Furthermore, there is one thing about which we can be certain: this message cannot mean precisely what it appears to mean—​that we should be willing to sacrifice our children on God’s command. After all, this interpretation takes the biblical story quite literally, when Kierkegaard has made it clear that its meaning—​if there is any—​is metaphorical.

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348  Jamie Aroosi It doesn’t take long for Kierkegaard to clear up the confusion, even if he does so in his typically “indirect” style. His clarification arrives in the form of four introductory “exordia” or introductory sections, each of which offers a different retelling of the story of Abraham and Isaac.43 Paired with each retelling is a parallel story of a mother weaning her child. However, each of these retellings—​be it the story of Abraham or that of the weaning mother—​ends in the same way: Abraham and Isaac, who are father and son, as well as the mother and child, fall into despair. In each retelling the reason they fall into despair is because of their fear of loss. For the breastfeeding mother and child, weaning is inevitable. As Kierkegaard explains, this event can be a time of great sorrow, because both mother and child lose the intimacy of the relationship they once shared. “The child who first lay under her heart and later rested upon her breast will never again be so close.”44 Moreover, as children continue to grow, as they become ever more independent, this burgeoning independence can be accompanied with even greater sorrow, because every step towards independence is also a step away from the intimacy that their original dependency bred. In this light, Kierkegaard asks: what is life but a process of constant loss, and a process of constant loss that ends in the ultimate loss of death? In this context, the meaning of the parallel story of Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Isaac becomes clear. Rather than interpreting this story as entailing a horrific sacrifice, by pairing this story with one detailing the inevitable losses in life, Kierkegaard demonstrates that we need to learn how to let go of those we love so that they might grow into the independent individuals that they can become. That is, as with the mother who “sacrifices” her child through weaning, in his multiple attempts to retell the story of Abraham and Isaac, Kierkegaard is instead exploring the difficulty of “sacrificing” those we love in a way that doesn’t consume us with sorrow. In other words, as Kierkegaard realizes, we begin our lives bound by the bonds of dependency, but these inevitably fray and dissolve. Therefore, we have to find a way to replace these bonds with even stronger bonds that allow us to remain committed to one another while also embracing our own independence. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, the way we do this is through love.

Conclusion: Finding Freedom through Love and Death For Kierkegaard, death is something with which we each need to struggle, and it is all too easy to become consumed by it. If we are consumed by our fears of death and loss, rather than, say, celebrating the growing independence of our children, we will sorrow over this development, because we will see each step in the direction of independence as simultaneously a diminution of the bond we once held. This is similarly true of our other relationships, as our fear of loss so often leads us into relationships of domination rather than those of freedom. In this way, our fear of loss—​our fear not only of losing our children but also everyone else—​can lead us down the path of despair. In such a case, we choose to live according to a false sense of self that fails to recognize the independence—​the freedom—​of ourselves and others, and we thereby remain within relations of dependency that fail to recognize the truth. But in so deceiving ourselves, we are comforted by the feeling of control that dependency often breeds. However, as Kierkegaard repeatedly suggests, we can overcome despair if only we learn to cope with death. And the way that we do this is not by refusing to let others go, but by accepting this loss. If we allow the bonds of dependency to fade away, we can replace them with bonds that are even stronger, because we can learn to love others for the independent and unique individuals that they are. While this might require that we sometimes “sacrifice” the existing relationships that we hold with people as these relationships are

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Søren Kierkegaard  349 outgrown, it does not mean we will lose the people themselves, because the underlying bond of love unites us. And so, if only we learn death’s lessons properly, we might learn to love Isaac in a way that puts his need for freedom above our need for control, just as every mother must learn to let her children be free, and so that we too can become the kind of authentic and free individuals who are united in an enduring and supportive community of love.

Notes 1 See, for instance, Arendt. 2 Marx, 5. 3 See, for instance, Evans. 4 See, for instance, Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling. 5 Aroosi, 51–​68, 83–​102. 6 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 345–​58. 7 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 349. 8 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 347. 9 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 347. 10 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 347. 11 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 347. 12 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 347. 13 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 349. 14 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 349. 15 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 351. 16 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 352. 17 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 355. 18 Kierkegaard, Works of Love, 358. 19 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 78, 85, 96. 20 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 83–​4. 21 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 83–​4. 22 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 79. 23 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 79. 24 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 89. 25 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 91. 26 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 91. 27 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 95. 28 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 96. 29 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 97. 30 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 100–​1. 31 Kierkegaard often uses Socrates as an example of radical doubt and praises him for demonstrating what a life of earnest self-​examination looks like. See, for example, Fear and Trembling, 5–​8. 32 Kierkegaard, “At a Graveside,” 102. 33 Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death. 34 Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death, 20. 35 For a political example, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is perhaps the best. See Aroosi, 191–​5. As King argues in “Letter From Birmingham Jail,” love compelled him to challenge injustice no matter where it was found, just as it compelled him to “break unjust laws.” 36 Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death, 20. 37 Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death, 20. 38 Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death, 9. 39 See, for instance, Kaufmann, 18. 40 Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 37. 41 Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 37.

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350  Jamie Aroosi 42 Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 3. 43 Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 9–​14. 44 Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 13.

References Arendt, Hannah. “Tradition and the Modern Age.” In Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought. New York: Penguin Books, 1968. Aroosi, Jamie. The Dialectical Self: Kierkegaard, Marx, and the Making of the Modern Subject. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Evans, C. Stephen. Kierkegaard’s Ethic of Love: Divine Commands and Moral Obligations. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004. Kaufmann, Walter (ed.). Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sartre: Basic Writings of Existentialism by Kaufmann, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kafka, Heidegger, and Others. Revised and Expanded Edition. New York: Penguin, 1975. Kierkegaard, Søren. “At a Graveside.” In Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions. Translated and edited by Edna H. Hong and Howard V. Hong. Kierkegaard’s Writings 10. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993. —​—​—​ Fear and Trembling. In Fear and Trembling /​Repetition. Translated and edited by Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Kierkegaard’s Writings 6. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. —​—​—​ The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition for Upbuilding and Awakening. Translated and edited by Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Kierkegaard’s Writings 19. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. —​—​—​ Works of Love. Translated and edited by Edna H. Hong and Howard V. Hong. Kierkegaard’s Writings 16. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995. King, Martin Luther, Jr. “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” In A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr, 289–​302. Edited by James Melvin Washington. New York: HarperCollins, 1991. Marx, Karl. Theses on Feuerbach. In Karl Marx, Frederick Engels, Collected Works, Volume 5, Marx and Engels: 1845–​47. New York: International Publishers, 1976.

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35  Immortality and Angst in Tocqueville’s America Benjamin T. Lynerd

On June 29, 1831, eight weeks into his nine-​month tour of the United States, Alexis de Tocqueville (1805–​59) reported home from Yonkers, New York, that his early impressions of America were forming “a jumble of contradictory notions” in his mind.1 The French aristocrat, along with his companion, Gustave de Beaumont, had already begun to turn their survey of the American penal system on behalf of King Louis Philippe into a farther-​ reaching study of American society. After filing their official report in 1833, both men would go on to achieve international fame for their reflections on the New World, Beaumont in his novel Marie (1835) and Tocqueville in his two-​volume Democracy in America (1835 and 1840).2 What mystified Tocqueville at this early stage was the nation’s religious culture. On the surface, Christian piety appeared to dominate American life in a way he had never witnessed in Europe: The Sabbath is strictly observed. I have seen streets opposite churches roped off during service. The law absolutely requires these things, and even stronger than the law is opinion, which compels everyone to show up at church and abstain from all entertainment.3 Even so, Tocqueville could not shake the nagging sense that these public pieties actually concealed a “reservoir of doubt and indifference.” While America as yet lacked Europe’s critical mass of militant atheists, to Tocqueville’s eye religious faith in the United States was “obviously inert.” “What was once a strong impulse is growing feebler by the day,” he suspected—​despite the fact that he and Beaumont were touring America on the crest of a religious revival that swept nearly every town they visited. Grasping for clues to this paradox, Tocqueville wondered whether the ways in which Christianity was being fashioned into a civil religion, a project central to the revival itself, had yielded a kind of theological modus vivendi that left many parishioners cold. “Enter any church,” he writes, “and you will hear sermons about morals; not one word about dogma—​nothing at all likely to fluster one’s neighbor or awaken the idea of dissent.”4

The Paradox of American Spirituality By the time he published Democracy in America, Tocqueville’s puzzlement over the character of American religion had ripened into an intricate, and today well-​known, thesis concerning the relationship between religion and democracy. Whatever it lacks in theological depth, he argues, Americans’ religious culture is precisely what enables them to sustain both a representative form of government and a market economy. Liberal democracy is contingent upon citizens who are self-​restrained, and the American brand of Christianity, Tocqueville DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-36

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352  Benjamin T. Lynerd surmises, supplies precisely the belief mechanism needed to properly channel the materialism that had undone so many other egalitarian experiments.5 Tocqueville homes in on one particular aspect of American culture to make this point: the pervasive craving for immortality. “In ages of faith,” he writes, “the final aim of life is placed beyond life.” The “men of those ages” are able to “fix their eyes … on some static object toward which their progress is ever directed, and they learn by imperceptible degrees to repress a crowd of petty passing desires” in order to “satisfy the one great permanent longing which obsesses them.”6 Far from inhibiting commercial pursuits (except on Sundays), the American obsession with the immortal imbues these pursuits with a specific purpose—​namely, to cultivate the virtues of self-​governance, such as sobriety, industry, and public spiritedness. Americans grow rich, Tocqueville observes, in the belief that building a fortune can itself be an act of worship and carry eternal significance, for themselves as well as for the nation. In the American conscience, religion, morality, commerce, and politics all come together—​in Tocqueville’s words, to “harmonize earth with heaven”—​in a way that sustains an ethos of personal and collective self-​government.7 However, while this thesis might have eased Tocqueville’s initial perplexity over American attitudes toward religion, it only gave way to another, far deeper problem that he never quite resolves: how can Americans be so free, so prosperous, and so confident in their destiny, and yet at the same time be so miserable? While Tocqueville is captivated by Americans’ theology of the immortal, he is equally taken with the restlessness, angst, and “strange melancholy” that seem to hang in the air. What strikes Tocqueville about American life is not just its boundless freedom and wealth, but also its joylessness. For all the material goods that they possess Americans seem oddly incapable of happiness; their greatest achievements ultimately feel empty and trivial, and are propelled by an obsession with death—​an incessant “remembrance of the shortness of life.” As Tocqueville explains, “Apart from the goods he has, [the American] thinks of a thousand others which death will prevent him from tasting if he does not hurry. This thought fills him with distress, fear, and regret.”8 Broader surveys of Jacksonian America confirm Tocqueville’s impressions. Indeed, he seems not to have seen the half of it. Death was the pop cultural phenomenon of the day. Americans were reveling, for instance, in the gothic fiction of Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, and Herman Melville –​what the literary critic Leslie Fiedler calls “a literature of darkness and the grotesque in a land of light and affirmation.”9 Historian Marc Schantz traces numerous death-​related developments in American life to this decade, from the birth of the modern eulogy to the creation of the modern cemetery. Schantz notes that American art and poetry often fetishized the ideal conditions for one’s passage into the afterlife, with “graphic depictions of heaven” as a world not-​too-​far removed from earth.10 The America which Tocqueville encountered, in other words, was fixated on the end of life and the hereafter. In this chapter I propose that what underlies the angst Tocqueville witnesses in America is, in fact, Americans’ concept of the immortal, a connection that becomes evident when we examine the revivalist theology that was sweeping the country in the early 1830s. The revival drew Christians away from the dogmatic Calvinism that had long dominated the religious landscape and toward a religion that was more ecumenical, Pelagian, and civic-​minded. The new theology was heavily moralistic, as Tocqueville himself observes, and it affirmed the American project in all of its dimensions by embracing both democratic politics and the free market as venues of Christian virtue. It also advanced a postmillennial eschatology that depicts the American republic and its citizens as agents of divine redemption for the world at large. Indeed, this combination of anthropocentric and millennialist theology is precisely what made the idea of immortality at once so exhilarating and so frightening for Americans in the antebellum era. It placed the very timeline of Christ’s second coming on the shoulders

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Alexis de Tocqueville  353 of ordinary people, predicating the redemption of the human race on their performance in every facet of life. Dozens of American divines promoted these views in the early nineteenth century, but no one more influentially than the itinerant preachers Lyman Beecher (1775–​ 1863) and Charles Grandison Finney (1792–​1875), who could command audiences in the tens of thousands for weeks on end, and whose published sermons made them into figures of international renown. For several weeks in the autumn of 1831 Tocqueville and Beaumont traveled in the wake of rallies led by Beecher and Finney throughout New England. The Christians the Frenchmen encountered were as sensitive to the millennial expectations for the republic as any generation in American history. To understand Tocqueville’s impressions, therefore, we must have a fuller portrait of what many contemporaneous Americans believed concerning the purpose of their own mortal lives and their place in cosmological history. Thus, after examining the civil religion that captivated Tocqueville, this chapter will fill in some of the theological texture, with a particular focus on the sermons of Beecher and Finney, which elucidate the link between this belief system and Americans’ morbid obsession with death.

American Civil Religion and the Afterlife Democracy in America offers something of a rebuttal to Jean-​Jacques Rousseau’s claim that Christianity is inherently subversive to democracy—​that self-​governing nations instead need a civil religion grounded in the prerogatives of the state. Rousseau’s misgivings focus on Christianity’s culture of submissiveness, its anti-​materialism, and above all, its focus on the immortal. His ideal religion would aim at forming citizens rather than saints, laying out a clear-​cut path from the earthly realm to the hereafter with simple dogmas like a “beneficent, prescient, and provident Divinity, the life to come, the happiness of the just, the punishment of the wicked, the sanctity of the social Contract, and the Laws.”11 Tocqueville’s portrait of Christianity in America suggests that Rousseau may have underestimated its adaptability to the aims of civil religion. While retaining many traditional doctrines, Tocqueville argues, American Christianity had seized a foothold in the national conscience by affirming the materialism and freedom Americans cherish, and by shaping their meaning with “mores” that run deep into the culture.12 Tocqueville traces this project to the Puritans, who were simultaneously “ardent sectarians and fanatical innovators,” cultivating mass piety alongside support for civil and commercial liberties. From the start, this dichotomy was seen as complementary rather than conflictual: Religion regards civil liberty as a noble exercise of men’s faculties, the world of politics being a sphere intended by the Creator for the free play of intelligence … Freedom sees religion as the companion of its struggles and triumphs, the cradle of its infancy, and the divine source of its rights. Religion is considered as the guardian of mores, and mores are guarded as the guarantee of the laws and pledge for the maintenance of freedom itself.13 Key to this balance, Tocqueville observes, is the unique manner in which American Christianity asserts the confluence of the mortal and immortal realms. Far from degrading the material world, the American concept of immortality spiritualizes it. Nothing in the present lacks eternal significance in the American mindset. As Alan S. Kahan notes, “the promise of eternal bliss was, for Tocqueville, simply another form of materialism.”14 Any temporal or earthly pursuit can be an act of worship or of impiety, advancing or undermining one’s standing before God. Constantly “thinking of the other world,” Tocqueville surmises, Americans “have found out the great secret of success in this,” namely, to embrace

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354  Benjamin T. Lynerd self-​discipline –​to “fix some general and definite aim as the object of their actions here below and direct all their efforts toward it,” rising above the “casual and ephemeral desires” that stand in the way.15 The immortal horizon, as Americans understand it, not only encourages self-​discipline; it tempers the vices that lead to factional discord. Since Tocqueville views self-​ interested materialism as the overriding threat to a free society –​the “dangerous malady of the human spirit” –​any belief system that channels this instinct into something more ennobling can effectively solve the fundamental problem of democracy. American Christianity, in Tocqueville’s view, has cracked the code, charting a road to heaven paved with civil and commercial virtues, yielding a society that is ambitious and yet restrained, egalitarian and yet consensually self-​governing.16 None of this is to say that Democracy in America is sparing in its critique of American society. Tocqueville’s remarks on the tyranny of the majority and on the intellectual shallowness of Americans are well known. What have attracted less attention are his thoughts on American angst, collected in a chapter entitled “Why Americans are Often So Restless in the Midst of Their Prosperity.” In this chapter, Tocqueville considers the implications of Americans’ demographic and psychological restlessness. They migrate, for instance, at an astonishing rate, not just moving across the country, but shifting their careers, livelihoods, and hobbies: An American will build a house in which to pass his old age and sell it before the roof is on; he will plant a garden and rent it just as the trees are coming into bearing; he will clear a field and leave others to reap the harvest; he will take up a profession and leave it, settle in one place and soon go off elsewhere with his changing desires. If his private business allows him a moment’s relaxation, he will plunge at once into the whirlpool of politics. Then, if at the end of a year crammed with work, he has a little spare leisure, his restless curiosity goes with him traveling up and down the vast territories of the United States. He will travel five hundred miles in a few days as a distraction from his happiness.17 The fact of this transience is of less interest to Tocqueville than what seems to propel it, namely, a peculiar sense of dread that besets even the most upwardly mobile Americans. Tocqueville is almost embarrassed to compare the “jovial disposition” he has seen among impoverished Europeans to the “cloud” that overshadows Americans—​the “freest and best educated of men in circumstances the happiest to be found in the world,” men who seem “serious and almost sad even in their pleasures.” It is angst, in other words, that drives Americans into a constant state of motion, rendering them incapable of relishing their material and moral achievements. This comes as a genuine mystery to Tocqueville. “It is odd,” he admits, “to watch with what feverish ardor Americans pursue prosperity” on the one hand, and on the other, “how they are ever tormented” by the fear of failure.18 Tocqueville devotes the rest of the chapter to puzzling over the nature of this angst. He identifies two possible sources, both of which are embedded in the nation’s mores. One is America’s egalitarian ethos—​the absence of birthright prerogatives—​which levels the field, increases social mobility, and thus raises all kinds of unhealthy expectations. An “ambitious man,” Tocqueville notes, “may think it easy to launch on a great career and feel that he is called to no common destiny.” This not only fosters an atmosphere of relentless competition; it opens up a much wider gap between what people anticipate from life and what they can realistically attain. “The constant strife,” he observes, “between the desires inspired by equality and the means it supplies to satisfy them harasses and wearies the mind.” This frustration is an unavoidable feature of an egalitarian society. “Men will never establish an equality which will content them.”19

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Alexis de Tocqueville  355 A second, even more fundamental reason Americans are constantly worried is the everyday pressure to achieve feats of significance while the clock ticks on their mortal opportunities. “Remembrance of the shortness of life,” Tocqueville explains, keeps the American “continually in agitation, so that he is always changing his plans and his abode.”20 Thus emerges the central irony of immortality in Tocqueville’s America. The very belief system that enables Americans to create a prosperous and virtuous society incapacitates them from deriving even the slightest pleasure from it. Americans pursue wealth and self-​government because they have to, not because it affords them any joy.

Revivalist Theology Deeper roots of this tension, I submit, are to be found in the evangelical revival that was sweeping the United States at the time of Tocqueville’s visit. Often called the Second Great Awakening, this revival touched every sect of American Christianity from the late 1810s through the early 1840s; it featured weeks-​long tent meetings across the country, a dramatic surge in church membership, and the spread of local reform societies pushing initiatives like temperance, sabbath-​keeping, and the abolition of slavery. Tocqueville’s own fascination with these societies occupies a well-​known chapter in Democracy in America.21 Focusing on personal liberty and morality, the theology of this movement accentuated the elements of American religion that so intrigued Tocqueville. This theology, I argue, is the very drug—​ with its manifold aftereffects—​that both inspired and disquieted the Christians Tocqueville encountered on his tour.22 The sermonic output of two leading itinerants in this revival, Lyman Beecher and Charles Grandison Finney, brings this theology to light. Their influence was palpable in every town Tocqueville and Beaumont visited in 1831. On September 12, for instance, the two Frenchmen attended a rally for Polish independence in Boston where they listened to Beecher endorse the cause at length with “patriotic and truly republican sentiments.”23 Their visit, shortly thereafter, to upstate New York came on the heels of a revival meeting at which Finney had preached daily for months. In large part because of this proximity to Beecher and Finney, the historian Mark Noll concludes, “that what Tocqueville heard in the course of 1831 … reflected the actual state of religion in American politics before and during the time of his visit.”24 I highlight four distinctive aspects of this revivalist theology—​its postmillennial eschatology, its republicanism, its moral perfectionism, and its underlying spiritual anxiety—​the combined force of which was perhaps evident to Tocqueville, but whose enduring impact on the American psyche becomes clearer still when we consider each in turn. These facets of the revivalist theology hold in a kind of synergy the features of a national temperament that might otherwise seem paradoxical in Tocqueville’s account—​namely, America’s unabashed materialism, its aspirational spirituality, and its gothic obsession with death. The most distinctive feature of the Second Great Awakening, and of antebellum Protestantism in general, is its postmillennial understanding of Christ’s Second Coming. This belief, based upon a particular reading of the Book of Revelation, holds that Christ will not return to judge the earth until after a lengthy era of divine redemption, during which all but the most recalcitrant humans will find salvation. Postmillennialism is, at least on the surface, an optimistic eschatology, pointing to a period of spiritual ascendance. The premillennial view, which would not come into vogue among evangelicals until the early twentieth century, reverses this sequence of events, forecasting an inexorable moral decline followed by abrupt annihilation, an outcome that most Christians in the early republic found inconsistent with God’s benevolent nature. As Finney explains, “This world was created to aid in accomplishing the good of universal being, and it will not be destroyed until its work

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356  Benjamin T. Lynerd is fully done.”25 This “work,” as understood by preachers like Finney and Beecher, entails the advancement of the human condition in every conceivable aspect –​spiritual, moral, civil, and even material. The historian James Moorhead notes that postmillennialism “became more than a matter of dating the Second Coming: it came to denote an understanding of history as a gradual improvement according to rational laws that human beings could learn and use”—​a progressive ideology with a divine telos.26 American revivalists took this eschatology one step further, promoting the view that the United States had been called by God to play a unique role in redemptive history—​that God, in effect, planned to “usher in the millennium through the hallowing of America.”27 In a sermon that he delivered on multiple occasions, including once before the Connecticut state legislature, Beecher points to several signs “which justify the hope that this nation has been raised up by Providence to exert an efficient instrumentality in this work of moral renovation.”28 Among these signs are America’s republican form of governance, its broad distribution of land, and most importantly, its commitment to Christian morality, all of which the revivalists depicted as evidence of embryonic progress in need of vigilant protection and further cultivation. The Christianity of Tocqueville’s America, in other words, revolved around a theology of millennial expectation. As Finney promised nearly every time he spoke from a pulpit, Americans could “bring on the millennium in three years,” if they united in pursuing moral purity.29 By the thousands, American citizens were embracing the belief that their individual lives had cosmic significance—​that their brief stretch on earth could very well advance the long arc of human redemption.30 However, the last thing revivalists wanted Christians to believe was that America’s millennial calling was a foregone conclusion. Instead, they warned, the millennial trajectory is conditioned on many variables, and could easily be derailed. Citizens themselves must continually secure the nation’s role in redemptive history, in the first place by maintaining its republican credentials. American Protestants of this era, Moorhead notes, tended to “make the Republic itself an object of eschatological fulfillment.”31 Beecher, for instance, predicates the spiritual progress of humanity at large on a comprehensive change in “the prevailing forms of government,” a global revolution in which Americans had, provisionally at least, undertaken a vanguard role. He identifies three essential conditions of spiritual enlightenment: first, “the earth must be owned by those who till it”; second, “the monopoly of power must be superseded by the suffrages of free men”; and third, “the rights of conscience” must be protected. These conditions are the very pillars of nineteenth-​century republicanism, the marks of self-​government in both private and public life.32 Beecher justifies the need for republican government on the belief that genuine spiritual maturity cannot obtain unless people act on their own volition, without coercion. Only within a context of maximum individual freedom can humanity develop and exercise true Christian virtue. Thus, the synergy of republican and Christian virtues that Tocqueville observed was not a mere relic of Puritan culture but a central concept in a religious mindset that was taking fresh root throughout the United States. But while Tocqueville views Christianity as advantageous to liberal democracy, revivalists like Beecher and Finney see the dependence working in the other direction: for them, republican freedom is not the end, but rather the means for pursuing moral perfection among the citizenry. Their logic is rooted in a Pelagian view of human agency—​the belief in free will and in rational moral standards—​and, as such, reflects a broad shift away from the Calvinism that had dominated the First Great Awakening a century earlier.33 Finney, in fact, made it his mission to convince Calvinists—​including Beecher, with whom he succeeded early on—​that God created humans with the requisite freedom of will to pursue a right moral standing with God. Directly challenging the notion that conversion and sanctification

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Alexis de Tocqueville  357 are the exclusive work of the Holy Spirit on the human soul, Finney insists that “a change of heart is not that in which a sinner is passive, but that in which he is active.”34 For Finney, it is not even possible to distinguish between good and evil unless humans have complete moral agency: “Voluntariness,” he states, “is indispensable to moral character … an action, to be praise-​or blameworthy, must be free.”35 Indeed, Tocqueville’s observations on the confluence of religiosity and liberalism in America only make sense against the emerging Pelagian backdrop. While Tocqueville acknowledges the conditionality of liberty on the maintenance of virtue, the reverse is also true: one cannot be moral unless one is free. Adjunct to the doctrine of free will for revivalists like Beecher and Finney is the embrace of achievable moral standards. Pelagians reject not only the doctrine of original sin, but also the Calvinist idea that God demands a level of undivided affection that is impossible to attain but for God’s direct intervention in one’s soul.36 Beecher and Finney certainly hold that Christians must love God above all worldly goods. But they also promote a task-​oriented morality that is well within the grasp of an ordinary, upstanding citizen, an ethic that focuses on the disciplines that make for a successful earthly life, such as honesty, sobriety, industry, and chastity, alongside traditional acts of Christian piety like sabbath-​ keeping.37 Hence the explosion of temperance societies and Sunday Schools in the 1820s and 1830s—​on which Tocqueville himself commented at length.38 The whole point of the revival, in the account of preachers like Beecher and Finney, is to demonstrate to the wider world the power ordinary people have to fulfill the salvific plans of God. Americans, in their view, are better poised than any people in history to model this. Beecher declares it the “design of heaven” that America would “show the world by experiment of what man is capable.”39 “The application of religious and moral influence is,” he concludes from this premise, “the great duty to which, as a nation, we are called. On this influence depends our rise or fall—​our glorious immortality or our hasty dissolution.” It is hardly surprising that these three beliefs—​in millennial expectation, in the sanctity of the republic, and in the imperative of moral perfection—​amount to an extraordinary burden on ordinary Christians in America. These beliefs, indeed, hold the key to the restless fixation on death which Tocqueville observed but did not fully understand. The divine calling that rests on every citizen to fulfill the nation’s eschatological destiny comes with enormous stakes and limited time for enactment. “You cannot for an hour or a moment defer obedience” to God, Finney would preach, “without deserving eternal damnation.”40 The free agency that believers have over their moral life only deepens their personal responsibility for their failures. There is as much cause, in other words, for concern as for hope. And there are limited opportunities during one’s mortal life to get it right, while the nation itself hangs in the balance. “Will our blessings be perpetuated,” asks Beecher, “or shall ours be added to the ruined republics that have been?”41 Indeed, Finney’s claim to fame in the 1830s was the use of an evangelistic technique, deployed with great theatricality during the New York revivals of 1830–​1, known as the “anxious bench.” Finney would call a volunteer from the community to take a seat on stage and be subjected to a barrage of questions concerning the state of his or her soul, the outcome of which was often a catharsis of wailing and weeping, with many from the audience coming forward to confess their sins, get baptized, or recommit to the faith. As Paul Johnson describes it, these conversions became “grand public spectacles,” with people “sweating their way into heaven surrounded by praying neighbors.”42 The anxious bench illustrates, perhaps better than anything else, the explicit role of angst within revivalist religion, and, more broadly, the terrifying flipside of the American gospel. As Moorhead notes, while grand aspiration might have been the overriding theme of revivalist preachers like Beecher and Finney, “they also betrayed anxieties about a future latent with supernatural judgement

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358  Benjamin T. Lynerd and calamity,” should the nation fail to live up to its promise. “Even the Redeemer Nation,” Moorhead explains, enjoyed at best a provisional exemption from travail—​an exemption conditional on the continued righteousness of the American people. Judgment hung precariously over the nation; and whenever strains or conflict did erupt within the Republic, the stark categories of apocalyptic judgment were available to render those problems intelligible.43

Conclusion In ironic ways, the expectant outlook on the afterlife that stimulated Americans to hard work and self-​discipline also fostered an atmosphere of unease. America’s claim to cosmic grandeur could as easily inspire feelings of helplessness and despair as a sense of confidence in the future. Tocqueville was attuned to this irony, but did not quite possess all the pieces of the puzzle. These pieces avail only upon a closer look at the revival afoot during his tour. The combination of democratic enthusiasm and spiritual angst that Tocqueville detected among Americans was the natural consequence of a religion that placed the weight of redemptive history on the shoulders of ordinary citizens. American Christianity of this era did not merely affirm democratic values; it predicated the salvation of the human race on their taking root in the New World, and predicated this outcome on the day-​to-​day character of the common folk. The fixation on the immortal, therefore, comes as something of a mixed blessing to a young republic. It is easy to see, as Tocqueville saw, its potential to inspire public virtue. It is equally important to note the dread it might arouse as well. While fewer Christians embrace postmillennialism today than in the nineteenth century, a familiar combination of assertiveness and apprehension still marks the American church. The revivals of recent decades, particularly those that gave rise to the Christian Right, have been propelled by a rhetoric nearly identical to that of the Second Great Awakening, predicating the future of the American republic on the maintenance of Christian virtue and of limited government. The pithy mantra, “If America ever ceases to be good it will cease to be great”—​which twentieth-​century evangelists, oddly enough, often misattributed to Alexis de Tocqueville —​captures the Pelagian logic of this thinking.44 The specter of godless communism during the Cold War only sharpened the force of this logic, providing common ideological ground among Christians and civil libertarians on the right wing of American politics.45 A kind of “purpose-​driven” materialism has reinforced this political alliance by giving religious cover to American capitalism, and driving Christians headlong into the throes of commerce and money-​making much as it did in the 1830s. Indeed, the modern Republican Party has secured the loyalty of evangelical voters with an ideological narrative that connects the dots between free-​market prosperity and national righteousness. Christians who isolate themselves from commercial and political life are the exceptions to the rule; personal and national affluence continue to serve as signs of divine blessing and redemptive efficacy—​a “City on the hill” for the world at large. Nonetheless, the prospect of moral failure continues to haunt the church just as it did in Tocqueville’s America, generating today, as then, a sizeable market of jeremiadic literature fixated on death, hell, and eschatological ruin. In ways that mirror the secular fetish for horror and violence, Christian readers today provide a steady demand for apocalyptic fiction, such as Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins’s best-​selling “Left Behind” series (1995–​ 2007), as well as for book-​length prophecies on American decline.46 The Pelagian formula that underlies the anxiety of American Christians today, however, is nothing new. It

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Alexis de Tocqueville  359 pervaded the age of Finney, Beecher, and Tocqueville, and it has remained a cornerstone of American Christianity ever since. When the immortal fate of the republic rests on the backs of mere mortals, it is hard not to worry.

Notes 1 Tocqueville, Letters from America, 87. 2 Beaumont and Tocqueville; Beaumont. 3 Tocqueville, Letters from America, 87–​8. 4 Tocqueville, Letters from America, 90–​3. 5 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 290–​9. 6 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 547. 7 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 287. 8 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 537–​8. 9 Fiedler, 29. 10 Schantz, 70–​125. 11 Rousseau, 148–​51. 12 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 46–​7, 287–​97, 443, 542–​6. 13 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 47. 14 Kahan, 192. 15 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 547–​58. 16 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 543–​4; see also Hinckley, 41 and Kitch, 947. 17 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 536. 18 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 536. 19 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 537. 20 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 537. 21 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 513–​17. 22 The theological trends described here are more fully explicated in works like Tuveson; Johnson; Hatch; and Noll, America’s God. 23 Pierson, 235. 24 Noll, “Tocqueville’s America,” 285. 25 Finney, Oberlin Evangelist, 195. 26 Moorhead, “Between Progress and Apocalypse,” 526. 27 Smith, 21. 28 Beecher, 7. 29 Johnson, 3–​4. 30 The theologian Timothy L. Smith (22–​3) argues that this dogma was making “social radicals” out of the even the sleepiest communities, rousing citizens to activism in a myriad of moral causes. 31 Moorhead, “Between Progress and Apocalypse,” 531. 32 Beecher, 8–​10. 33 The ancient debate over free will between the followers of Pelagius (c.355–​420) and Augustine (354–​430) resurfaced in modernity as a subtext to the debates over natural rights. See Nelson. 34 Finney, Sermons on Important Subjects, 7. 35 Finney, Sermons on Important Subjects, 46. 36 Edwards makes the best-​known case for this kind of unattainable morality among American Calvinists of the colonial era. 37 Beecher, 25–​7. 38 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 242–​3. 39 Tocqueville, Democracy in America, 17. 40 Finney, Sermons on Important Subjects, 38. 41 Beecher, 38. 42 Johnson, 102. 43 Moorhead, “Between Progress and Apocalypse,” 534–​5.

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360  Benjamin T. Lynerd 44 No one knows for certain the origin of the quote, or of Tocqueville’s association with it, but it was circulating in American popular culture by the mid-​1950s in the speeches of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, and became a rallying cry of the Christian Right in the 1970s and 1980s. 45 See Warren; see also Lynerd, 159–​98. 46 The sixteen novels in the “Left Behind” series, by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins and published by Tyndale House between 1995 and 2007, imagines the Biblical apocalypse unfolding with a set of American and Israeli heroes standing against globalist figurations of the anti-​Christ. See also Guinness.

References Beaumont, Gustave de. Marie or Slavery in the United States: A Novel of Jacksonian America. Translated by Barbara Chapman. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1958. Beaumont, Gustave de and Alexis de Tocqueville. On the Penitentiary System in the United States and Its Application in France with an Appendix on Penal Colonies. Translated by Francis Lieber. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard, 1833. Beecher, Lyman. The Memory of Our Fathers. Boston: T. R. Marvin, 1828. Edwards, Jonathan. The Nature of True Virtue. Eastford, CT: Martino Fine Books, 2015 [1765]. Fiedler, Leslie. Love and Death in the American Novel. New York: Stein and Day, 1966. Finney, Charles G. Sermons on Important Subjects. New York: John S. Taylor, 1836. —​—​—​ The Oberlin Evangelist. Vol. 5. Oberlin, OH: James M. Fitce, 1843Fraser, James W. Pedagogue for God’s Kingdom: Lyman Beecher and the Second Great Awakening. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1985. Guinness, Os. A Free People’s Suicide: Sustainable Freedom and the American Future. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2012. Hatch, Nathan O. The Democratization of American Christianity. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989. Hinckley, Cynthia J. “Tocqueville on Religious Truth and Political Necessity.” Polity 23, no. 1 (1990): 32–​52 Johnson, Paul E. A Shopkeeper’s Millennium: Society and Revivals in Rochester, New York, 1815–​1837. New York: Hill & Wang, 1978. Kahan, Alan S. “Democratic Grandeur: How Tocqueville Constructed His New Moral Science in America.” In Tocqueville’s Journeys, 179–​ 203. Edited by Christine Dunn Henderson. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2014. Kitch, Sarah Beth V. “The Immovable Foundations of the Infinite and Immortal: Tocqueville’s Philosophical Anthropology.” American Journal of Political Science 60, no. 4 (2016): 947–​57. Kling, David W. A Field of Divine Wonders: The New Divinity and the Village Revivals in Northwestern Connecticut, 1792–​1822. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993. Lynerd, Benjamin T. Republican Theology: The Civil Religion of American Evangelicals. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Moorhead, J. H. “Between Progress and Apocalypse: A Reassessment of Millennialism in American Religious Thought, 1800–​1880.” Journal of American History 71, no. 3 (1984): 524–​42. —​—​—​“Social Reform and the Divided Conscience of Antebellum Protestantism.” Church History 48 (1979): 416–​30. Nelson, Eric. The Theology of Liberalism: Political Philosophy and the Justice of God. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019. Noll, Mark A. America’s God. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. —​—​—​“Tocqueville’s America, Beaumont’s Slavery, and the United States in 1831–​32.” American Political Thought 3, no. 2 (2014): 273–​302. Pierson, George Wilson. Tocqueville in America. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1959. Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques. The Social Contract and Other Later Political Writings. Translated by Victor Gourevitch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Schantz, Mark S. Awaiting the Heavenly Country: The Civil War and America’s Culture of Death. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008.

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Alexis de Tocqueville  361 Smith, Timothy L. “Righteousness and Hope: Christian Holiness and the Millennial Vision in America, 1800–​1900.” American Quarterly 31, no. 1 (1979): 21–​45. Tocqueville, Alexis de. Democracy in America. Translated by George Lawrence. New York: HarperCollins, 2006. —​—​—​ Letters from America. Translated by Frederick Brown. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010. Tuveson, Ernest Lee. Redeemer Nation: The Idea of America’s Millennial Role. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Warren, Rick. The Purpose-​ Driven Life: What on Earth Am I Here For? Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2002.

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36  “What Is Odious in Death Is not Death Itself, but the Act of Dying” John Stuart Mill on the Political Philosophy of Death and Dying Helen McCabe

John Stuart Mill (1806–​73) remains one of the most famous names in political philosophy and ethics. His On Liberty (1859) is viewed as the great defense of individual liberties, particularly freedom of speech. His Utilitarianism (1861) is a key work in one of the main schools of moral thought. Death was a frequent presence in Mill’s life. His lifelong concern with population control and family planning was catalyzed by finding the corpse of an abandoned baby when he was 17; a close friend killed himself on his 24th birthday; Mill’s father died when Mill was only 30. Moreover, he was only able to marry his beloved Harriet Taylor after the death of her first husband, and was himself a widower a mere seven years later. Dying, too, was a familiar concern: throughout their lives, he and his wife were plagued by ill health: Taylor experienced a long period of intermittent paralysis;1 Mill stood by powerless as Taylor nursed her husband through terminal cancer, likening the disease to “demons”;2 as well as depression, Mill himself had recurrent heart and gastric problems. Most seriously, both Mill and Taylor suffered from tuberculosis, which eventually killed Taylor in 1858. The anguish caused by the disease also led Mill’s much-​loved younger brother George Grote Mill to kill himself in 1853. Mill’s utilitarian ethics gave him a specific view of death and dying, rooted in the view that “The mere cessation of existence is no evil to anyone … What is odious in death is not death itself, but the act of dying, and its lugubrious accompaniments,”3 which include the suffering of both those who die and those who care for them, and mourn their loss. Suffering is bad, for Mill, rather than death itself. “[T]‌he idea” of death “is only formidable” Mill adds, “through the illusion of imagination which makes one conceive oneself as if one were alive and feeling oneself dead.”4 That would indeed be painful and terrible: but it is not anything we will actually experience. Death is a “cessation” of consciousness, and therefore of the experience of pain (or pleasure). We may know we are going to die, but we will never know that we are dead. Dying, therefore, is of much greater concern in Mill’s political and ethical philosophy than death. Mill sought to mitigate the suffering associated with dying. Death ought to be accepted as a fact of life—​and in that respect, had an ethical function of reminding us that time was short in which to perform important duties and conduct “experiments in living.”5 Mill’s is a life-​affirming philosophy, fundamentally opposed to suffering, and championing equal opportunity to maximize our happiness in our own way. In this chapter, I discuss the utilitarian background of Mill’s view of death and dying; his controversial views on the death penalty; and how he viewed death as a potential spur to doing our duty. In the conclusion I also discuss some modern political implications of Mill’s view. DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-37

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Utilitarianism, Death, and Dying Mill was a utilitarian. He learned this philosophy from his father (James Mill) and mentor (Jeremy Bentham), but developed his own version of it over the course of his lifetime.6 Utilitarianism is a form of consequentialism –​that is, the system of ethics which says we should judge the morality of actions based on their outcomes (or consequences), in utilitarianism’s case whether the consequences produce happiness. “Utility,” or happiness, means “pleasure … together with the absence of pain.”7 The fundamental principle of utilitarianism—​sometimes called “the Greatest Happiness Principle”—​“holds that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness.”8 Utilitarianism is not only a system of personal ethics, however, but a political project. Humans organize themselves into societies which have structures designed to make happiness more or less easy to achieve for different people. Monarchs, reformers, voters, legislators, and policy-​makers should act so as to promote the greatest general happiness. For instance, ill health is a major source of suffering and pain; societies which provide high-​ quality care to only a very few rich people are likely to have much lower general utility than societies which provide high-​quality, free (or affordable) health care to everyone. Similarly, living together in societies creates opportunities for pleasure, but social structures can bar access to those opportunities for some people. For example, in Mill’s time women were not allowed to attend universities, or work in many professions; nor could they stand for political office. In Mill’s view, this severely limited their opportunity to experience pleasure, and caused many women pain.9 Mill’s utilitarianism led him to focus throughout his life on improving people’s opportunities to experience pleasure, and limit their likelihood of experiencing pain. He knew that some pain was unavoidable—​for instance, we will likely all lose loved ones, or experience disappointments in our personal lives or careers—​but he thought suffering could be lessened. For instance, he argued forcefully for the provision of welfare to the unemployed, saying that it may be regarded as irrevocably established, that the fate of no member of the community needs to be abandoned to chance; that society can and therefore ought to insure every individual belonging to it against the extreme of want; [and] that the condition even of those who are unable to find their own support, needs not be one of physical suffering, or the dread of it.10 His famous arguments in On Liberty regarding the importance of allowing people maximal opportunities for “the free development of individuality”11 and his long campaigns to eradicate the “aristocracies of colour, race, and sex,”12 as well as to break down class barriers and class-​based privileges13 were all aimed at constructing a society in which people would have maximal and equal opportunities for pursuing their own happiness in their own way. Mill’s view of death and dying therefore, is conditioned by his concern for maximizing utility, and particularly for avoiding suffering. Understanding his utilitarianism helps us see why he thought dying was worse than death: death is a cessation of experience—​there is neither pleasure nor pain. Dying is an experience often associated with a great deal of pain, both for the one who dies and those who mourn them. Ethically speaking, then, dying is of more concern than death.

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364  Helen McCabe

The Death Penalty Mill’s position that dying is much worse than death helps to explain his opposition to abolishing the death penalty. Mill supported restricting the use of the death penalty, but believed contemporary society needed to retain this punishment for cases of aggravated murder (i.e. particularly violent murders) where the evidence is “conclusive,” “the attendant circumstances suggest no palliation of the guilt” and “nothing … make[s]‌it probable that the crime was an exception to … [the perpetrator’s] general character rather than the consequence of it.”14 His reasons were threefold. First, that for the security of life it was necessary to attach “impressive” and serious consequences to this crime. Mill saw security as “the most vital of all interests,” and the “most indispensable of all necessaries, after physical nutriment.”15 Without security in regard to our lives, persons, and the inviolability of our rights, we will always suffer—​at the very least—​the pains of anxiety and fear. And while so suffering, we can experience very few pleasures. Indeed, Mill adopts a very Hobbesian view of the primary importance of security: without the security of socially protected rights and liberties, Mill thinks life will be, in Hobbes’ words, “solitary, nasty, brutish and short.”16 Given this prime importance, threats to security of life need to be taken seriously, and so Mill advocates the death penalty for aggravated murder as properly expressing society’s commitment to everyone’s security, and as the best means of deterring people from violating or threatening anyone’s security of life.17 Mill’s second reason for arguing against the abolition of the death penalty is that, of all the available options of the requisite severity, the death penalty inflicted the least suffering on the criminal. The alternative to the death penalty, in contemporary penal codes, was life imprisonment with hard labor. Mill felt “the short pang of rapid death” faced during execution involved less pain than being “immur[ed] in a living tomb, there to linger out what may be a long life in the hardest and most monotonous toil … debarred from all pleasant sights and sounds, and cut off from all earthly hope.”18 For the criminal, according to Mill, the death penalty, as opposed to a life of imprisonment with hard labor, was the better alternative. It may seem strange to argue that the death penalty is “humane.” But Mill challenged the idea that it was more “humane” to deprive someone of everything that makes life worth living rather than to sentence him to death. He asks, “Is death, then, the greatest of all earthly ills?” and added “It is not human life only, not human life as such, that ought to be sacred to us, but human feelings. The human capacity of suffering is what we should cause to be respected, not the mere capacity of existing.”19 Judges and jurors who could not bring themselves to sentence someone to death were disregarding the pain they inflicted by what appeared more lenient sentences—​they mistakenly thought a swift death was worse than a lifetime of suffering. Elsewhere, Mill criticized such jurors’ “maudlin weakness and moral poltroonery”;20 rebuked judges’ “shortsighted tenderness”;21 and commented, “the tender mercies of thoughtless people are cruel.”22 Opponents of the death penalty, of course, reject Mill’s arguments, especially opponents who think capital punishment is never even prima facie justifiable.23 Mill’s view serves to show, however, the depth of his commitment to the “sacred[ness] … of human feeling,” and his deep-​rooted belief that not only was “the human capacity of suffering … what we should cause to be respected, not the mere capacity of existing” but that ceasing to exist, in and of itself, was neither good nor bad—​it was the suffering associated with death which was an evil. Mill’s previous argument may seem to be in some tension with his final reason for opposing abolition of the death penalty. Mill thought it was the best deterrent for future criminals. “There is not,” he wrote, “any human infliction which makes an impression on the

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John Stuart Mill  365 imagination so entirely out of proportion to its real severity as the punishment of death.”24 Although this terror might not have the same effect on “hardened criminals,” such “a punishment which acts principally through the imagination” makes an immense impression on “those who are still innocent,” arousing feelings of “horror” and exerting a “restraining influence” on temptation.25 Mill wanted the general public to retain this “horror” of death, such that the death penalty would be an effective deterrent against murder. But he also wanted jurors (drawn at random from the general public) to recognize that a lifetime of suffering was worse than a swift death, and thus actually impose the death penalty. If jurors did not impose the penalty, then it was worthless as a deterrent: but it seems in order to impose it, jurors must have lost some of their “horror” of death. That is, they must have lost some of the very “horror” that makes the death penalty an effective deterrent.26 This may be a contradiction in Mill’s thought, and show that his arguments in support of the death penalty do not really hold water. But his emphasis on the reality and seriousness of suffering retains relevance for countries who have the death penalty, particularly around the suffering involved in executions, and in the often long periods of incarceration before death. Mill’s views also have additional implications for penal policy. His strictures against judges and juries who were content to “immur[e]‌” people “in a living tomb” remain significant today, even where the alternative punishment is not death. “[H]as it been considered what sort of mercy this is?” Mill asks.27 If we were really able to comprehend the horror of long terms of imprisonment, particularly with hard labor, this would “be so shocking that when the memory of the crime is no longer fresh, there will be almost insuperable difficulty” in continuing to enforce such punishment. But, Mill says, “very probably,” the reality of imprisonment will not be “realized in all its rigor by the popular imagination.” This insight may have salience for modern juries, judges, and legislators, as well as parole boards, especially in societies where “getting tough on crime” seems only to mean increasing sentences. Jurors—​in Mill’s view—​over-​estimated the “horror” of death, and were lacking in the imaginative capacity which would allow them to properly realize the “horror” of lengthy imprisonment. Although motivated by a dislike of inflicting suffering, they were—​in his view—​actually lacking in sympathy for those they sentenced to long terms of incarceration. Sympathy was a vital element of Mill’s philosophy, and his battle to develop it is linked to death and dying in at least two moments of his own life.

Mill on Sympathy, Death, and Duty Mill’s early education has become infamous in the annals of both philosophy and pedagogy.28 He was educated almost entirely by his father; his relationship with his mother was strained throughout his life; and his relationship with his siblings was clouded by the fact that his father made Mill their teacher. Despite living in a large family, Mill had a very isolated childhood. In order to curb arrogance, his father also impressed on Mill that he himself was nothing special, and that any little boy with so dedicated a father could have achieved as much in the same amount of time, if not more quickly.29 Mill’s intellectual capabilities—​in the fields of languages, history, experimental science, geography, political economy, and philosophy—​were carefully calculated, as was his physical exercise: Mill had dancing lessons, rode horses, went for long walks, and even trained in a gymnasium set up by Bentham, complete with trapeze.30 Looking back on his childhood during a period he referred to as “a crisis in my mental history,”31 Mill felt his emotional capacities had been ignored. Indeed, he thought his education had left him incapable of feeling emotion.

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366  Helen McCabe He was rescued from this fear when he was “moved to tears” on reading a passage from Jean-​François Marmontel’s Memoirs about Marmontel’s father’s death: “the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel he would be everything to them—​would supply the place of all they had lost.” “The oppression of the thought that all feeling was dead within me was gone,” Mill says. “I was no longer hopeless: I was not a stock or a stone. I had still, it seemed, some of the material out of which all worth of character, and all capacity for happiness, are made.”32 This realization shaped Mill’s understanding of human nature (that we are emotional and feeling creatures as well as rational ones), contributed to his views on the importance of sympathy, and helped distinguish his approach to utilitarianism from Bentham’s. Almost thirty years later (in 1853–​4) Mill and his wife Taylor both became very ill. Taylor was so ill, in fact, that they decided to separate for the first time since their marriage (in April 1852) so she could seek a healthful climate.33 Mill likened separation from her to a kind of living death—​“words of love in absence are … what keeps the blood going in the veins—​but for them … I should have only a sort of hibernating existence like those animals found in the inside of a rock”34—​that is, a kind of fossilized existence. (What he writes in this letter, when Taylor was merely away on holiday, gives us a glimpse of how he must have felt after her death: apparently, during all the time it took for his step-​daughter Helen Taylor to hear of her mother’s decease, and travel from England to Avignon, Mill had not left the room in which Taylor died, and was plunged into a very deep depression.) There is a strong sense in these passages that life without sympathy, love, and the other “imaginative” emotions is a “living death.” Love, however, is a sort of charm against death, or at least dying: What a sense of protection is given by the consciousness of being loved, and what an additional sense, over and above this, by being near the one by whom one is and wishes to be loved the best. I have experience at present of both these things; for I feel as if no really dangerous illness could actually happen to me while I have her to care for me; and yet I feel as if by coming away from her I had parted with a kind of talisman, and was more open to the attacks of the enemy than while I was with her.35 In both passages, Mill uses the language of being “stone” and “rock” to describe life without sympathetic emotions. Sympathy for others, and an imaginative capacity to feel their pain as our own, were vital, Mill believed, for humanity and “worth of character.”36 A general capacity for imagination and feeling was vital for any real happiness. Indeed, sympathy was a central element of Mill’s utilitarianism, as it is what makes utilitarianism psychologically feasible. It is sympathy which, on Mill’s view, forms the basic bond of human society: without it we would be in a Hobbesian state of nature.37 Once we cease to live in relations of “master and slave,” and form a “society,” our “social feelings” are gradually improved (over centuries), until we “grow up unable to conceive as possible … a state of total disregard for other people’s interests.”38 Mill looked forward to a “perfection” of this feeling of sympathy, and a society of equals arising from (and helping to sustain) it, in which we could “never think of, or desire, any beneficial condition” for ourselves “in the benefits of which” everyone else is “not included.”39 In such a world we might not have managed to eradicate all suffering—​most obviously, we will not be able to avoid all the “lugubrious accompaniments” of death, such as, for instance, grief. Indeed, we might feel more sorrow because of our more expansive sympathies. But we would, Mill thought, have the best possible chance of achieving the greatest happiness for the greatest number. For one thing, truly being “in unity” with others might make us more willing to act so as to end preventable death and suffering (including from preventable diseases, poverty, pollution,

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John Stuart Mill  367 or poor health and safety standards), because it would no longer be possible to ignore the interests of those who suffer from these things. In modern societies, though “the smallest germs of the feeling are laid hold of and nourished by the contagion of sympathy and the influences of education … and external sanctions,” the embedded and enduring “aristocracies of colour, race, and sex”40 mean there are “large portions of mankind whose happiness it is … practicable to disregard.”41 That is, a lack of sympathy means we find it easy to disregard the interests—​and therefore the happiness—​of a great many people, particularly if we occupy positions of power in society, most notably being white, male, and rich. In Mill’s personal experience, cultivation of sympathy was linked to death and dying (as discussed above), but it could also be cultivated through a variety of experiences, educational practices, and institutions, including what he called the “Religion de l’Avenir,” or the Religion of Tomorrow, sometimes also called the Religion of Humanity.42 Mill was brought up, and remained, an agnostic.43 His interest in religion was primarily in its social and individual utility, and his preferred religion had no “supernatural” element.44 He viewed religion as arising—​as a sociological phenomenon—​from the fact that human existence is “girt round with mystery,” and because human life was so often filled with suffering for which we sought consolation.45 He saw it as a powerful tool for educating the sympathies, and improving people’s ability to be good utilitarians. Mill knew that his opponents would say that it was “impossible that great and elevated feelings can connect themselves with anything laid out on so small a scale” as a single human life.46 But Mill denied this. “Carpe diem” was a rational response to the shortness of our own lives, and could be a useful spur to doing our duties.47 “But” he adds—​crucially—​“that because life is short we should care for nothing beyond it is not a legitimate conclusion; and the supposition, that human beings in general are not capable of feeling deep and even the deepest interest in things which they will never live to see, is a view of human nature as false as it is abject.” In particular, though an individual life may be short, “the life of the human species is not short,” indeed it is “practically equivalent to endlessness.”48 Moreover, the human species has an “indefinite capability of improvement,” and thus “offers to the imagination and sympathies a large enough object to satisfy any reasonable demand for grandeur of aspiration.” Thus, we do not need the idea of Heaven to have an idea of eternal life—​it is just not our life, but that of our species. In this way, “Humanity” could inspire and fulfill, through similar feelings of eternity and perfection, the human craving for “higher things.” It could also fulfill our human need for “consolation,” currently so often filled by supernatural elements of religion (most obviously, the idea of life after death). One way “Humanity” could offer consolation was by holding out the ideal of a world without suffering, and giving us a sense that we were working to achieve this by engaging in campaigns for social improvement. That is, we could range ourselves on the side of “Good” in an epic battle between “Good” and “Evil” in this world, without needing a supernatural element, as provided by many religions. We would not ourselves experience the consolations of Heaven in this future Heaven on Earth, but we could experience the consolation of knowing we had done our bit to achieve it as soon as possible. In the shorter term, Mill thought we should become closer to “our younger contemporaries,” and “live … in the life of those who are to follow” us “up to the hour of death,” knowing that their lives would continue, and sharing in their hopes for progress which might be achieved in their lifetimes, or that of their “younger contemporaries.”49 (This may be one reason Mill kept up correspondences with younger political reformers right up to his own death.) Inter-​generational relations, then, could help lessen some of the “lugubrious accompaniments” of death, because we would be consoled, not by the idea of Heaven, but

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368  Helen McCabe by the thought of the happiness which lay ahead for those we leave when we die. And the grief of the living might be lessened through the consolation of knowing we were continuing a battle for human progress in which those we loved had been our comrades—​in some sense, they would “live on” in our continued fight, and we could find consolation in achieving aims they too wanted to see realized. Finally, Heaven, Mill thought, was most strenuously desired by those “who have never been happy” in this life: “Those who have had their happiness can bear to part with existence: but it is hard to die without ever having lived.”50 Utilitarian reform, and the expansion of our sympathetic capacities, could do away with some of the need for “consolation” by making it less likely that anybody would “never have lived,” not least because it would be almost impossible for those with power to ignore the interests (and thus the happiness) of those without. The Religion of Humanity is in some ways a means of “overcoming” or “defeating” death. Mill did think, however, that a certain awareness of death is “needed for the performance of our duties.” He was emphatic that we should not brood on death:51 we should, though, be sufficiently aware of it that we are prudent about our own lives and the lives of other people. This thought may also have been drawn from personal experience. Mill’s and Taylor’s decline in health in the 1850s prompted Mill to consider “the shortness & uncertainty of life, & the wrongness of having so much of the best of what we have to say, too long unwritten & in the power of chance.”52 He added, “I am determined to make better use of what time we have.”53 He set himself and Taylor a challenge of trying to complete what they felt they wanted to say within two years, and out of that came many of their most famous writings, including On Liberty. One might think that, as utilitarians, Mill and Taylor would have felt a pressing duty to write these works even without the spur of approaching death. But we should remember that there is often a gap between the dictates of morality and individual motivation—​even for philosophers—​and we can read Mill as seeing knowledge of death as helping bridge that gap. In particular, we may feel we have a duty to do something of benefit to others at some time, but we should be aware that time is not unlimited in which to do that, and recognition of our own mortality makes us less likely to pass up on important opportunities to fulfill our duties.

Conclusion Mill’s view of death and dying has implications for a wide range of policy areas including for welfare spending, health and safety legislation, regulation of pollution, farming standards. Here, though, I want to conclude by focusing on some questions pertaining to medical ethics and public health. The view that dying is worse than death might make us look carefully at the question of how to fund high-​quality end-​of-​life or elder care for everyone, an increasingly salient question for those of us living in societies with aging populations. Relatives—​often spouses or children—​may have to shoulder a significant financial burden, perform tasks which they find distressing, and watch loved ones suffer. Mill’s utilitarianism asks us challenging questions about the support they are offered from the state and society, and on whom the burden of providing care should fall. Relatedly, Mill’s view has implications for questions around funding for research into increasing longevity: is this research spurred by a real response to human need (and to the alleviation of suffering), or wrong-​headed aversion to death? Are these longer lives going to be of good quality, or merely increasing periods of suffering? Sometimes, these

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John Stuart Mill  369 debates can seem like science fiction, with people living forever via their “consciousness” being “uploaded” to a computer program. The question of suffering in this case is rarely considered, yet these consciousnesses would have to witness the death of old friends, loved ones, and all familiar landmarks as an eternity of time passed. Would this be overall worth it, for extended life, on a utilitarian calculus? We cannot know the answer to these questions, but philosophy has been pondering problems relating to eternal life for millennia, and the answer is not unequivocally that it would be a good thing. Thirdly, Mill’s view impacts questions on legalizing euthanasia, or assisted dying, for those experiencing great suffering. If what is bad about death is the suffering that surrounds it, then this should be seriously considered when debating the law around assisted dying. This is particularly the case when we contemplate the suffering experienced not just by the person dying, but their loved ones as they take on the risks and burdens associated with helping their loved one achieve their wish of assisted dying—​which can involve arrest, fines, and even imprisonment. Of course, there are good arguments on the other side of the debate, too. But Mill’s argument certainly has bite when we consider terminal degenerative diseases which involve a great deal of suffering that people would very much like to avoid, but are currently prevented from doing so by the state. Lastly, there are consequences for considerations about public health. One of Mill’s longest friendships was with public health campaigner Edwin Chadwick, and Mill’s views have relevance for modern times, too. People’s mental suffering during “lockdown” responses to the COVID-​19 pandemic, for instance, reminds us that it is not always good, or healthy, to “dwell” on death. On the other hand, death rates which were unimaginable at the beginning of the year 2020 led many to argue that politicians ought to have “dwelled” on the human cost of disease, death, and dying rather more. Similarly, taking seriously death’s closeness and reality—​ as Mill advised—​ without “dwelling” on it, might help with individual people’s decision-​making when it comes to complying with public health edicts, for instance wearing facemasks to slow the spread of the disease. In comparison with the suffering experienced by many of those who contract COVID-​19, and the suffering of the families of those who are infected and who die from it, the claim that wearing a mask is an intolerable burden to the otherwise healthy seems less plausible when we consider our global public health crisis in light of Mill’s own utilitarian theory. Mill hoped we could be spurred by the consciousness of our own certain death to act in ways which help increase happiness—​of people we know and love, but also more generally, if we had the chance to be a “public benefactor.”54 Sympathy was key to improving people’s motivations and actions, and Mill thought it was very important that all social institutions aimed at improving our sympathetic capacities. In Mill’s era and our own, there are still vast swathes of the world’s population whose interests can be, and are, “practicably ignored.” Progress towards “political improvement,” which for Mill entailed the “levelling of those inequalities of … privilege between individuals or classes,” seems to be moving at a glacial rate, if not actually receding. It is not only life which is important for Mill, but living. Death, as a cessation of experience, is bad, but not as bad as we imagine it to be, and certainly not as bad as the often-​ painful process of dying. We should take the significant badness of suffering very seriously in political decision-​making. We should not dwell on the unavoidability of death, though we should pay it due attention, using that inevitability as a spur to perform our duties. Most importantly, we should cherish intimate relationships, which are the life-​blood of happiness, and expand the range of our sympathies beyond our immediate friends and family to embrace society—​perhaps even the world—​at large, and help secure the ethical end of general happiness.

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Notes 1 Jacobs (134–​46) reads this as a symptom of syphilis. However, Taylor’s symptoms do not support this posthumous diagnosis. For instance, the paralysis caused by syphilis is permanent and irreversible, but Taylor recovered. 2 Taylor Mill, 366–​7. 3 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 427. 4 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 427. 5 Mill, On Liberty, 281. 6 For good accounts of Mill’s utilitarianism, see Donner; Riley; and Brink, among others. 7 Mill, Utilitarianism, 209. 8 Mill, Utilitarianism, 210. 9 Mill, Subjection of Women; and On Liberty, 260–​75. 10 Mill, Principles of Political Economy, 360. 11 Mill, On Liberty, 261. 12 Mill, Utilitarianism, 259; see also Subjection of Women and The Negro Question. 13 E.g. Mill, Autobiography, 239–​ 41; Mill, Principles of Political Economy, 758; Mill, Reform Party, 487–​8. 14 Mill, Capital Punishment, 267. 15 Mill, Utilitarianism, 251. 16 Mill, Chapters on Socialism, 749. 17 For more on the importance of security to Mill’s utilitarianism, see Riley. 18 Mill, Capital Punishment, 268. 19 Mill, Capital Punishment, 269–​70. 20 Mill and Taylor, Acquittal of Captain Johnstone, 865. 21 Mill and Taylor, Corporal Punishment, 1138. 22 Mill and Taylor, Case of William Burn, 954. 23 See, for example, Bedau, “Capital punishment”; Reiman; and Ten. 24 Mill, Capital Punishment, 268. 25 Mill, Capital Punishment, 269. People opposed to utilitarianism often also dislike this view of punishment, which is using one person as a means to affect the actions of other people. Deontologists, for instance, think we can only punish for retributivist reasons: Mill thinks retributivism is fundamentally flawed. 26 See also Ten’s argument that Mill’s view of death as a “relatively minor evil” increases the likelihood that people will view murder as not so very serious a crime, and perhaps commit it more when there is a death penalty if they have adopted Mill’s reasoning. 27 Mill, Capital Punishment, 267. 28 For Mill’s account (in which, notably, his mother is never once mentioned), see Autobiography, 5–​39. 29 Mill, Autobiography, 35–​7. Mill continued to believe this, as Autobiography, 33–​7 shows. 30 Bentham, “Letter 3208,” 136; Mill, Journal of a Year in France, 35. 31 Mill, Autobiography, 137. 32 Mill, Letter 122, 145. 33 Mill, Letter 100, 108; Mill, Letter 103, 111. 34 Mill, Letter 102, 110. 35 Mill, Diary, 641. 36 See also Mill, Utilitarianism, 211–​13. 37 Mill quotes this passage from Hobbes in Chapters on Socialism, 749, but it underpins his discussion of sympathy in Utilitarianism, 230–​2. 38 Mill, Utilitarianism, 231. 39 Mill, Utilitarianism, 231. 40 Mill, Utilitarianism, 259. 41 Mill, Utilitarianism, 232. 42 Mill, Letter 126, 152.

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John Stuart Mill  371 43 Mill, Autobiography, 41–​5. 44 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 403–​5. 45 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 418–​19. 46 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 420. 47 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 420. 48 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 420; and Mill, Utilitarianism, 216. 49 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 426; Mill, Utilitarianism, 215. 50 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 426. 51 Mill, Three Essays on Religion, 484. 52 Mill, Letter 122, 141. 53 Mill, Letter 122, 141. 54 Mill, Utilitarianism, 220.

References Bedau, Hugo Adam. “Capital punishment.” In Matters of Life and Death, 148–​62. Edited by Tom Regan. New York: Random House, 1980. —​—​—​ The Death Penalty in America. New York: Random House, 1982. Bentham, Jeremy. “Letter 3208. To Simon Bolivar, 13 August 1825.” Correspondence of Jeremy Bentham. Edited by Luke O’Sullivan and Catherine Fuller. London: UCL Press, 2006. Brink, David O. “Mill’s Deliberative Utilitarianism.” Philosophy and Public Affairs 21, no. 2 (1992): 67–​103. Donner, Wendy. The Liberal Self. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991. Jacobs, Jo Ellen. The Voice of Harriet Taylor Mill. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 2002. Mill, John Stuart. All references are to the Collected Works. Edited by John M. Robson et al. 33 vols. Toronto: University of Toronto Press; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963–​91 —​—​—​ Autobiography. Vol. I. —​—​—​ Capital Punishment. Vol. XXVIII. —​—​—​ Chapters on Socialism. Vol. V. —​—​—​ Considerations on Representative Government. Vol. XIX. —​—​—​ Diary. Vol. XXVII. —​—​—​ Journal of a Year in France. Vol. XXVI. —​—​—​Letter 100. To Harriet [Taylor] Mill, [23 August, 1853]. Vol. XIV. —​—​—​Letter 102. To Harriet [Taylor] Mill, 11 January, 1854. Vol. XIV. —​—​—​Letter 103. To Harriet [Taylor] Mill, 30 August, 1853. Vol. XIV. —​—​—​Letter 122. To Harriet [Taylor] Mill, 29 January, 1854. Vol. XIV. —​—​—​Letter 126. To Harriet [Taylor] Mill, 7 February, 1854. Vol. XIV. —​—​—​ On Liberty. Vol. XVIII. —​—​—​ Principles of Political Economy. Vols. II and III. —​—​—​ Reorganization of the Reform Party. Vol. VI. —​—​—​ The Negro Question. Vol. XXI. —​—​—​ The Subjection of Women. Vol. XXI. —​—​—​ Three Essays on Religion. Vol. X. —​—​—​ Utilitarianism. Vol. X. Mill, John Stuart, and Harriet Taylor. All references are to the Collected Works (see above, Mill, John Stuart). —​—​—​ Corporal Punishment. Vol. XXV. —​—​—​ The Acquittal of Captain Johnstone. Vol. XXIV. —​—​—​ The Case of William Burn. Vol. XXIV. Reiman, Jeffrey. “Why the Death Penalty Should be Abolished in America.” In Louis P. Pojman and Jeffrey Reiman The Death Penalty: For and Against, 67–​133. Edited by Louis P. Pojman and Jeffrey Reiman. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1998.

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372  Helen McCabe Riley, Jonathan. Liberal Utilitarianism: Social Choice Theory and J.S. Mill’s Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Taylor Mill, Harriet. The Complete Works of Harriet Taylor Mill. Edited by Jo Ellen Jacobs. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1998. Ten, C. L. “Mill’s Defense of Capital Punishment.” Criminal Justice Ethics 36, no. 2 (2017): 141–​51.

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37  Death and Dynamism in Nietzsche’s Political Philosophy Laura K. Field

If Solon (630–​560 BC E ), the Athenian lawgiver and statesman, was right to say that we should “look to the end” of a life to judge human happiness, then Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844–​1900 C E ) should be counted among philosophy’s saddest souls.1 In 1889, at the age of 44 and during a period of tremendous productivity, Nietzsche suffered a mental breakdown from which he never recovered. He would never live independently again. For the next decade, his public recognition as a philosopher would surge, while Nietzsche personally struggled with terrible dementia and eventually fell into an uncommunicative state. Towards the end of the century, he suffered a series of paralyzing strokes, and he died from pneumonia on August 25, 1900 at the age of 55. In the course of Nietzsche’s decline, his work came under the full control and management of his sister, Elisabeth Förster-​Nietzsche, a committed anti-​Semite who eventually joined the National Socialist Party. Over the course of the early twentieth century, she edited and reworked her brother’s unpublished writings to better fit Nazi ideology. Nietzsche’s legacy continues to struggle under the weight of these actions. Tempting though it may be to try to disentangle Nietzsche’s ideas from the realities of his life, especially within the confines of a short chapter, such an approach would be misguided. The conditions surrounding Nietzsche’s death raise significant questions for scholars and readers seeking to understand his philosophic legacy. Furthermore, when it comes to matters of death and dying, Nietzsche’s writings, more than most, force us into a direct confrontation with historical contingency and the reality of human finitude. His philosophy should not be reduced to his brutal physical demise or the ignominy of his political legacy, but neither can his thoughts be detached from those historical conditions and circumstances. Nietzsche’s unfortunate decline and death were bound up with individual idiosyncrasies and circumstances, but this was a man who considered questions related to life, death, and the afterlife throughout his career, and deeply. He never shied away from difficult existential concerns, and he offered potentially transformative answers to some of humanity's most enduring questions. Nietzsche’s philosophy of death and dying has everything to do with his own affirmative embrace of life. Nietzsche looked at human finitude in a way that embraced worldly risk. Above all else, his works are a conscious confrontation with and rejection of the tradition that he calls idealism—​the idea of a perfect ideal realm or afterworld that is metaphysically prior to this one—​and so offer a break with his philosophic predecessors. With his infamous proclamation that “God is Dead,”2 Nietzsche announces more than the demise of the Judeo-​ Christian deity: he anticipates the demise of otherworldliness as such, and of all notions of permanent, immovable, Truth. In these and other ways, Nietzsche’s philosophy is of this world, and this world alone. To encounter it is to wrestle with the hard limits of human physicality, as well as the difficult reality of historical accident. The question, for Nietzsche, DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-38

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374  Laura K. Field is not whether there are transcendent worlds or an afterlife. The question is how quickly human beings can learn to live and thrive without them. This chapter examines Nietzsche’s account of death first by considering the basic contours of his tragic outlook. I then turn to consider Nietzsche’s very strident critiques of modern (predominantly Christian) morality, as well as of Western epistemology. It is difficult to understand the tenor of Nietzsche’s later works without first gaining some sense of the sincerity and severity of his critiques. I conclude with a discussion of the mature Nietzsche’s views on death and human mortality.

Nietzsche’s Tragic Pessimism Nietzsche’s skepticism about biblical traditions, including the Christian account of death and dying, informs many of his earliest published writings. He threw himself into the ancient Greek (pagan) world with a mind wide open to alternative ways of thinking about basic human questions such as the meaning of human consciousness, culture, politics, and finitude. In contrast to his academic colleagues (whom he sometimes viewed with disdain), Nietzsche was inspired by poetry and philosophy, including the creative, generative works of the Greeks in the time of Socrates, whom Nietzsche found to be life-​affirming. Indeed, Nietzsche’s lifelong philosophic output would center around many of the same ancient questions posed by the Greeks, now considered from within the context of a modern Enlightenment culture grappling with the full freighted legacy of Christian doctrine (including belief in sinfulness, salvation, and the afterlife). Nietzsche’s first published work, The Birth of Tragedy (1872), is a whirlwind tour of the early Greek perspective on tragedy, in twenty-​three parts. Since Greek tragedy relied upon the unexpected decline in fortunes of its protagonists (including their death or the death of those they loved), and the meaning the audience could cull from these experiences and resulting suffering, it served as a rich medium for Nietzsche’s ruminations on mortality and culture: How did the tragic form of drama emerge in Greek culture? What kinds of questions did the tragedians ask, and what effects were they hoping to achieve? Nietzsche clearly believed that the ancient tragedians and philosophers understood something that had been lost on most of his contemporaries, a position that left him ostracized from his field.3 The Birth of Tragedy offers a good glimpse of Nietzsche’s unusual and ambitious philosophic style, full as it is of poetry and invention, of novel historical theorizing layered through with political myth-​making. As Nietzsche himself described it years later, the book is “image-​mad and image-​confused, sentimental, saccharine to the point of effeminacy, uneven in tempo, [and] without the will to logical cleanliness.”4 In some of its substance, however, the text is also extremely unsentimental. Though Nietzsche does not confront his reader directly with the idea of the death of God (a formulation he develops years later), or with questions about the Christian afterlife, he does draw attention to the bleak pessimism that was part of the ancient outlook. The most vivid example is when Nietzsche recounts the story of Midas (a Phrygian king in Greek mythology) and his encounter with the wisdom of Silenus (the companion of the Greek god Dionysus). According to the ancient tale, King Midas sought Silenus and asked, “What is the best thing in life for men?” Silenus responded, laughing: Oh, wretched ephemeral race … why do you compel me to tell you what it would be most expedient for you not to hear? What is best of all is utterly beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you is—​to die soon.5

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Friedrich Nietzsche  375 Nietzsche uses this story to expose his readers to the boundaries of the tragic outlook: what if, at bottom, life has less than zero meaning? What if it would be better never to have been born? Thus we can see that even in Nietzsche’s earliest works, he is contemplating questions of life and death. Silenus, of course, is not alone in seeing the world through a pessimistic lens. Nietzsche reminds us that pessimism of some kind pervades ancient Greece: words nearly as bleak come from the mouth of Homer’s Achilles, probably the greatest Greek hero of all. In the Odyssey, Odysseus visits Achilles in Hades, and the young, dead hero explains to his living elder that Hades is home to “numb, dead people … the shades of poor exhausted mortals.” Achilles goes on famously to declare that he “would prefer to be a workman /​ hired by a poor man on a peasant farm /​than rule as king of all the dead.”6 Thus one great hero warns another about death’s dreadfulness. At bottom, however, The Birth of Tragedy is not about staring into the abyss of nihilism or wallowing in despair. Nietzsche raises the specter of ancient pessimism, but he is more interested in the question of Greek overcoming. He proceeds to argue that “the Greek knew and felt the terror and horror of existence,” and that very knowledge is what inspired their greatest art. According to Nietzsche, the genius of Homer is that he is able to “reverse the Silenian wisdom” and transform it into a joyous affirmation of life. The Homeric Achilles feels himself so at one with existence that his lamentations become a song of praise: “It is not unworthy of the greatest hero to long for a continuation of life, even though he live as a day-​laborer.”7 According to Nietzsche, Homer’s art is a triumph of personal and cultural overcoming. The Homeric poems present “an abysmal and terrifying view of the world,” but the artist Homer is able to transcend that outlook through his storytelling and beautifying illusions. A key insight in The Birth of Tragedy is that a confrontation with finitude might ultimately bring more joy than the promise of eternity. It is an idea that travels with Nietzsche throughout his life. The “tragic pessimism” of his earlier work evolves and takes different shapes, but he never abandons this simple ancient proposition that life’s meaning is enhanced by awareness of its fleetingness.8 Nietzsche returns to the theme of tragic pessimism and the meaning of mortality in what would become his most well-​known work, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (published between 1883 and 1885). In this work, Nietzsche becomes something like the artist-​creator described in The Birth of Tragedy. The book includes brazen new atheistic teachings on finitude and humanity. Indeed, all of Nietzsche’s later writings—​from Thus Spoke Zarathustra onward—​ are characterized by a confidence and illusion-​shattering bombast that are absent in the intervening years.9 In Zarathustra he writes like a prophet. Around this same time, Nietzsche also wrote a book called Beyond Good and Evil (1886). One of his final books is entitled The Antichrist (1888), and he figures as a stand-​in for Christ in Ecce Homo (written in 1888, but not published until 1908).10 Before further considering the mature Nietzsche’s ideas about death, I want to say something about why Nietzsche came to believe that such a defiant way of looking at the world was politically necessary.11 Why write a work of overtly tragic public philosophy? Why set out to destroy illusions? And why on earth claim the mantle of the Antichrist? To understand Nietzsche’s unique ideas about mortality, it is useful to discuss his critique of the belief system that prevailed in his own day.

Pessimism and Politics There are doubtless many reasons for Nietzsche’s extraordinary authorial choices. The decision to write poetically about the finality of death is grounded in several key insights. First,

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376  Laura K. Field Nietzsche came to believe that Christian morality was a failure. Second, he believed that Western metaphysics—​grounded in various kinds of idealism, from Plato, to Christianity, to Immanuel Kant—​was simply untrue. Furthermore, Nietzsche believed that it was only a matter of time before the public began to see these problems too. He worried that, if people came to feel that there is no such thing as morality and no such thing as truth, it would be socially and politically catastrophic. Why was Nietzsche so critical of the Christian outlook? The Genealogy of Morality (1887) is his most sustained consideration of modern moralism, in which he offers an account of how the relatively healthy pre-​Platonic value-​system (based on what Nietzsche took to be noble, aristocratic virtues) was transformed to resemble the modern Christian one (based on equality and service to others). His thesis is that modern moral reflexes originate in what he calls “slave morality,” in contradistinction to “master morality.” The latter is grounded in experiences of strength and power, whereas the former originates in an experience of weakness and suffering. The core of Nietzsche’s complicated argument is that slave morality is fundamentally reactive and derivative: it involves groups of vulnerable people lashing out against “the strong” and blaming them for their difficult circumstances. It also involves the belief that exploitation on the part of a master is fully intentional and consciously realized: that is what makes it evil rather than simply bad.12 According to Nietzsche, the fact that such a mode of thinking dominates the world is attributable not to Jesus, but to his priestly successors—​men like the Apostle Paul (in this context Nietzsche also quotes a long, awful passage from Tertullian). These priestly types are able to gain extraordinary power in the world by persuading others—​especially the strong—​of their sinfulness and guilt.13 The attribution of evil becomes, in the hands of the priests, something like a form of psychological warfare against the strong. Eventually, the former masters become subdued by their sense of culpability. Ultimately, a culture is born in which strength and virtue are viewed with suspicion, while those who are shaped by slave morality believe themselves to be good. At this point in the culture’s development, “goodness” comes to have a fundamentally negative character marked by deficiency: I am good insofar as I am harmless or not evil, not because I have experienced something in life worth affirming. As Nietzsche sees it, the problem is not a simple one of right and wrong. Rather, it is that the very definition of right and wrong have been completely overhauled and reversed, on the basis of shaky moral ideas. The problem for Nietzsche is not that the “masters” bear no responsibility for the oppression and atrocities that they perpetuate. It is rather that the very idea of total moral responsibility is a harmful, illusory, and self-​serving invention (as he puts it elsewhere, “the priests at the head of ancient communities wanted to create for themselves the right to punish—​or wanted to create this right for God. Men were considered ‘free’ so that they might be judged and punished—​so that they might become guilty”).14 For Nietzsche, the idea of full moral accountability—​the idea of a truly free will—​is nonsensical. No one is a simple free agent in the way that the priests supposed.15 Nietzsche argues instead that human action is, to a very considerable degree, the result of unconscious organic drives and instincts over which we do not have full control. We may be able to articulate our desires, and learn to refine and sublimate them, but puritanical ideas about moral good and evil are delusions. And, of course, just as there is no evil and there is no sin, there is no Christian resurrection and no salvation, and no heavenly afterlife. This moral outlook, to the extent that it can be referred to as such, goes against every standard contemporary modern moral intuition, as well as most aspects of Christian theology. Nietzsche’s way of thinking also runs straight up against traditional Western epistemology: just as the moral world does not contain simple good and evil acts or deeds, there is no such thing as pure truth and falseness. When Nietzsche eventually announces that “God is Dead,” he is referring to the traditional biblical god, but he is also referring to

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Friedrich Nietzsche  377 a death of abstract ideals and truths more generally. Nietzsche is talking about the impossibility of objective, “real,” capital-​T Truth. When he questions Christian sin and morality, he challenges notions such as salvation and the afterlife. By questioning the possibility of objective truth, Nietzsche raises even starker questions about the livability of this world. Nietzsche raises the question of truth and falsity on the first page of Beyond Good and Evil (the preface famously begins, “Supposing truth to be a woman”), among other contexts: What compels us to assume there exists any essential antithesis between “true” and “false”? Is it not enough to suppose grades of apparentness and as it were lighter and darker shades and tones of appearance—​different valeurs, to speak in the language of painters? Here Nietzsche targets traditional philosophical antitheses or binaries. From Plato to St. Augustine to Kant, philosophical thinkers in the so-​called Western tradition rely heavily on a conception of a “true” or “ideal” realm of unconditional truth or being, that is always contrasted with this earthly “apparent” realm of flux and change. Nietzsche is arguably the first modern philosopher to reject the “two-​world” conception of truth openly, and instead to embrace moral and epistemological relativity. For Nietzsche, there is no “ideal” realm—​ no universe “out there” where the Truth exists in a perfect unchanging state. There is simply this world. Whatever truth there is—​moral or otherwise—​it is with us here. Nietzsche also takes up the question of idealism in Twilight of the Idols (1889), where his account goes something like this: the very early philosophers understood truth to be something they experienced and lived (“he lives in it, he is it”), but over the course of millennia this mode of thinking and living became radically transformed. Truth eventually came to be something that a person might aspire to find “out there”—​something that existed only as a fable or theoretical possibility, or, in the Christian view, something that was “unattainable for now” but could perhaps be discovered through repentance, and eventually bring salvation. Nietzsche goes on to discuss the unravelling of this Christian ideal through subsequent waves of philosophical skepticism—​from Kant, to the positivists, to later cynics and nihilists. He concludes by observing that the refutation of Christianity’s other-​worldly idealism appears to be a catastrophe for salvation and for truth in this life, leaving us with little to hope for. If there is no “true” world of ideas, and no absolute, stable conception of morality, then people—​especially people conditioned to think this way for millennia—​are likely to feel completely unmoored. Nietzsche anticipates that the kinds of insights that he offers might bring about widespread spiritual nihilism and political chaos, and it is not possible to account for Nietzsche’s authorial decisions absent some understanding of these premonitions. But it is also necessary to recognize that Nietzsche did not consider himself to be subject to nihilism and despair. He clearly felt that he had an alternative perspective on life and death to offer the world. For him, the end of the so-​called “true world” also means that we have “abolished” the “apparent one”—​meaning that we no longer have to think of this world as secondary or delusory, and we can start to treat it as vital and real. For Nietzsche, this is cause for celebration: “the end of the longest error” and “a high point of humanity.” The end of idealism means the rediscovery of this one real, all-​too-​human world. Furthermore, the fall of the two-​world metaphysics doesn’t mean the end of truth: it means radically reconceiving how truth is understood. In a similar vein, from Nietzsche’s perspective, the end of Christian morality does not signal the end of morality per se (i.e., of good and bad, better and worse); it means the end of the mistaken concept of evil, and of notions like guilt and punishment. For Nietzsche, God is dead (and so is the devil), but goodness is not.16

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378  Laura K. Field It bears repeating that Nietzsche recognized how bewildering this would have seemed to many of his contemporaries—​and how radical it still sounds today from a Christian perspective, or even just an everyday commonsense one. And yet, by the time he writes his final works, Nietzsche is completely uninterested in tempering his views, and instead seems convinced that the world is in need of his radical new outlook.17 Towards the opening of his unconventional autobiography, Ecce Homo, in a chapter called “Why I am a Destiny,” Nietzsche explains succinctly what he thinks is at stake spiritually and politically in his life’s work: I contradict as has never been contradicted before and am nevertheless the opposite of a No-​saying spirit. I am a bringer of glad tidings like no one before me; I know tasks of such elevation that any notion of them has been lacking so far; only beginning with me are there hopes again. For all that, I am necessarily also the man of calamity. For when truth enters into a fight with the lies of millennia, we shall have upheavals, a convulsion of earthquakes, a moving of mountains and valleys, the like of which has never been dreamed of. The concept of politics will have merged entirely with a war of spirits; all power structures of the old society will have been exploded—​all of them are based on lies: there will be wars the like of which have never yet been seen on earth. It is only beginning with me that the earth knows great politics.18 Nietzsche sees himself as someone who contradicts, without being a “No-​saying spirit,” and as we have seen, he has a particular dispute with the Christian moral outlook, and with its two-​world metaphysics. He brings “glad tidings” in the wake of the collapse of these earlier systems, and his bombastic, grandiose language reflects a sincere belief that, with the refutation of idealism, an agonizing but hopeful new period of human history had arrived.

Cultural Interventions Having considered some of the core features of Nietzsche’s disruptive political project, we can better understand his later writings that bear most directly on death. As we have seen, few philosophers anticipated the turmoil of the twentieth century as clearly as Nietzsche did, and few wrote with as much zeal as he about the future of the human psyche. Nietzsche’s late writings constitute the beginnings of what he hoped would be a “revaluation of values” —​a dramatic shift in how people (or at least Europeans) understand what is good and worthy in this world.19 Nietzsche hoped to effect movement away from traditional Christian and other-​worldly values (including compassion, self-​sacrifice, and the afterlife) and towards something more like traditionally aristocratic ones (including generosity, self-​sufficiency, and strength). In the course of this shift, he also worked to inspire new ways of thinking about life, death, and the afterlife, with bold Nietzschean concepts such as the eternal return and amor fati. Thus Spoke Zarathustra was Nietzsche’s most daring venture into what we might today call popular philosophy, and it is here that we get his most sustained engagement with questions of human finitude. Thus Spoke Zarathustra is written in four parts, reminiscent of an ancient Greek tetralogy,20 and tracks the psychological development of Zarathustra (a character based on the founder of Zoroastrianism) as he grapples with the idea of the eternal return and his own earthly finitude. Zarathustra is a prophet-​like figure, and Thus Spoke Zarathustra is written in language that mimics the Hebrew bible. The work is poetical and dramatic, full of esoteric imagery, strange parables, and moral exhortation. In Part 1, Zarathustra confronts the question

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Friedrich Nietzsche  379 of mortality most directly, in chapters with titles such as “On the Afterworldly,” “On the Despisers of the Body,” “On the Preachers of Death,” and “Of Free Death.” In these passages, Zarathustra preaches stoical reconciliation with this life, this world, and this body. Here is a selection that captures something of the tenor of the work: At one time Zarathustra too cast his delusion beyond man, like all the afterworldly … Believe me, my brothers: it was the body that despaired of the body and touched the ultimate walls with the fingers of a deluded spirit. Believe me, my brothers, it was the body that despaired of the earth and heard the belly of being speak to it. It wanted to crash through these ultimate walls with its head, and not with its head—​over there to “that world.” But “that world” is well concealed from humans—​that dehumanized inhuman world which is a heavenly nothing; and the belly of being does not speak to humans at all, except as a human …   A new pride my ego taught me, and this I teach men: no longer to bury one’s head in the sand of heavenly things, but to bear it freely, an earthly head, which creates a meaning for the earth.21 Zarathustra expresses in poetic language ideas that Nietzsche examines analytically in his other texts—​here the idea being that people should learn to appreciate their lives as they are, embodied and finite, confined to this world and no other. Zarathustra’s hope is that humans might learn to be satisfied with this reality, and so resist building spiritual “afterworlds.” He encourages us to pay attention to our embodied selves (“Listen rather, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body: that is a more honest and purer voice … it speaks of the meaning of the earth.” “Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, there stands a mighty ruler, an unknown sage—​whose name is self. In your body he dwells; he is your body”22). And he has nothing but the harshest words for those who think of life exclusively in terms of suffering. Individuals with “consumption of the soul,” who “long for doctrines of weariness and renunciation,” who are full of self-​pity, or for whom “life is furious work and unrest”: to all these, Zarathustra says “let them preach renunciation of life and pass away themselves!”23 But Zarathustra hopes that the healthier, life-​affirming souls will come to terms with life and death too, and that they might learn to die without fear and dread. He goes so far as to suggest that people learn to think of death as a kind of celebratory festival, in a chapter entitled “Of Free Death.” This is a beautiful and strange passage that opens with an exhortation to “Die at the right time—​thus teaches Zarathustra!” As the chapter unfolds, Zarathustra preaches that the best way to die is as “a spur and a promise to the survivors” or a “hallow to the oaths of the living”; he then says, in an echo perhaps of Silenus, that the next best thing is “to die fighting and to squander a great soul.” Zarathustra goes on to suggest that one should choose the timing of one’s death, and consider its after-​effects on the world. He digresses on the death of Jesus, arguing that he died too soon—​in heavy and melancholy youth, rather than at a ripe old age (“Perhaps he would have learned to live and to love the earth—​and laughter too”). Zarathustra concludes the chapter with a plea that death should not be seen as a condemnation of life, but rather as life’s consummation: That your dying be no blasphemy against man and earth, my friends, that I ask of the honey of your soul. In your dying, your spirit and virtue should still glow like a sunset around the earth: else your dying has turned out badly.   Thus I want to die myself that you, my friends, may love the earth more for my sake; and to earth I want to return that I may find rest in her who gave birth to me.24

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380  Laura K. Field The idea of loving life and celebrating the earth is a major theme throughout the entirety of Thus Spoke Zarathustra (“Your love of life shall be love of your highest hope; and your highest hope shall be the highest thought of life”).25 From the perspective of Christianity, the text’s contempt for the idea of an afterlife and disregard of faith and suffering make it a deeply sacrilegious work. Nietzsche knows that embracing his new, neo-​pagan way of thinking will not come naturally to contemporary readers, and even Zarathustra struggles to reconcile himself to the tragedy of a life lived without the old gods and idols. Much of the dramatic tension of the work comes from Zarathustra’s efforts to digest the Nietzschean idea of “eternal recurrence.” The meaning of the eternal return is contested among scholars, but it involves the proposition that time moves in a repetitive circle, and that we are destined to live our lives again and again, in exactly the same way, forever.26 In The Gay Science it is described as a heavy and burdensome idea (“the greatest weight”) and in Zarathustra, the notion serves as a test of Zarathustra’s spiritual strength. Throughout we see Zarathustra struggle with the eternal return, his “most abysmal thought.” The idea of the eternal return poses such a challenge to Zarathustra (and, presumably, to Nietzsche’s reader) because it requires a person to accept everything that has ever been and ever will be, and to affirm its re-​occurrence into perpetuity. To embrace such a doctrine involves one in a total affirmation of everything we have ever gone through, and of the world as it is. Given everything that actually happens and exists, this is a rather tall order—​perhaps even an impossible task (as well as, perhaps, unnecessary: if a moment only happens once, rather than being repeated through eternity, does that make it less valuable, or much more so?). That Nietzsche makes the embrace of the eternal return Zarathustra’s central struggle reflects his hope that human beings might gradually learn to affirm this world, even in its ugliness, rather than fleeing into ideals and imaginaries. And at times it seems as though Zarathustra succeeds. He struggles to affirm the idea of the eternal return, but he also finds moments of peace, and beauty, and solace where he seems liberated of this great weight.

Philosophy and Nietzsche’s Life and Legacy This leaves us to consider the character of Nietzsche’s own experience and thoughts about death. Does Nietzsche believe in the eternal return? And if so, isn’t that just another delusional flight from reality? One of the reasons I do not think he held onto the doctrine too tightly is the fact that, in many of his writings—​and especially Ecce Homo—​he goes out of his way to project pagan love and joy, as a kind of counterpoint to Zarathustra’s anxious struggle. Whereas Jesus embodied God’s humility and self-​sacrifice, and Zarathustra represents tragic struggle and angst, Nietzsche takes pains to project pride, satisfaction, and self-​love. The autobiography Ecce Homo contains very little about Nietzsche’s personal life or struggles in the world. Instead, it relates Nietzsche’s deep love of thinking and writing, and conveys his confidence and joy in the power that a thinking person might exert in the course of the world. The overall message of the work—​again, in some contrast to Zarathustra—​is one of real earthly satisfactions. If there is a single idea that stands out in Ecce Homo, it is the idea of amor fati, or the love of destiny/​fate (Nietzsche uses the original Latin, from Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius). The phrase signifies the capstone of Nietzsche’s affirmative outlook. In Part II of Ecce Homo, entitled “Why I Am So Clever,” Nietzsche elaborates in the following way: My formula for human greatness is amor fati: not wanting anything to be different, not forwards, not backwards, not for all eternity. Not just enduring what is necessary, still less concealing it—​all idealism is hypocrisy in the face of what is necessary—​but loving it.27

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Friedrich Nietzsche  381 In The Gay Science, Nietzsche similarly associates amor fati with affirmation and yes-​ saying.28 Ultimately, amor fati is similar to the eternal return insofar as it involves love and affirmation, but it is less idealistic than the doctrine of the eternal return because it does not express such longing in an eternalizing form. The eternal return remains a hypothetical in Nietzsche’s corpus—​one aimed, I believe, at helping modern people wean themselves from idealism—​whereas amor fati, or the love of one’s own self-​shaped destiny, is something Nietzsche embraces as truly his own. Amor fati may be a quintessentially Nietzschean idea, but of course his actual fate was complex and far from ideal. As it happened, Nietzsche’s personal history and reputation were shaped in part by circumstances beyond his control: his failed health, and the ugly creeds and deeds of others, including his own sister. Hitler attended Elisabeth Förster-​ Nietzsche’s funeral, and the association with German nationalism and Nazism shaped Nietzsche’s legacy for much of the twentieth century. Just as any person seeking to affirm this life and this world must contend with history’s atrocities, any honest reader of Nietzsche must grapple with this past. Nietzsche’s writings provide a way into understanding the worst atrocities of the twentieth century insofar as he saw the challenges posed by a disenchanted world so clearly. Whether those same works—​considered by new scholars and a new public, and in the changing light of history—​will carry readers beyond mere understanding, and towards something like genuine affirmation of this world, is a question for the coming centuries. In that sense, Nietzsche’s destiny is still our own, and still unfolding.

Notes 1 See Herodotus, 1.32 and 1.86; and Aristotle, I.10 (1100a10). I would like to thank my good friend Erin for encouraging me to write this essay even when it was inconvenient and my mind was elsewhere. It turns out that thinking about Nietzsche and death offered a gentle and welcome reprieve from parenting, presidential politics, and a pandemic. Many thanks to Austin too, as always. 2 Nietzsche’s first mention of this idea comes in The Gay Science (1882), in aphorisms 108, 125, and 343. It is a central theme of Thus Spoke Zarathustra (published in four parts between 1883 and 1885). 3 Prideaux (112) suggests that, among other things, the work might be read as “the suicide note of a philologist.” 4 Nietzsche, Birth of Tragedy, “Attempt at Self-​Criticism,” section 3. 5 Nietzsche, Birth of Tragedy, “Attempt at Self-​Criticism,” section 3. Nietzsche is quoting Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus. 6 Homer, 294–​5. 7 Nietzsche, Birth of Tragedy, section 3. 8 For an overview of how this Emersonian and existentialist dynamic in Nietzsche was taken up in the United States, see Ratner-​Rosenhagen, 263–​305. 9 Nietzsche’s works are traditionally divided up into three periods, with Thus Spoke Zarathustra marking the beginning of the mature late-​period writings. 10 Ecce Homo is Latin for “behold the man,” and is a reference to Pontius Pilate’s presentation of Jesus to a hostile crowd prior to the crucifixion (John 19:5). 11 Nietzsche’s status as a political thinker is controversial, since he did not do much formal writing about laws and government. See Drochon and Siemens. 12 In the Genealogy, Nietzsche appears to be using the language of master and slave metaphorically, as a way to convey his contempt for contemporary morality. For a fuller account of Nietzsche’s views on slavery see Drochon. 13 See Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morality, section 6, 467–​9, and Antichrist, sections 41–​2. 14 Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, “The Four Great Errors,” section 7.

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382  Laura K. Field 15 Nietzsche’s skepticism about free will is expressed powerfully in Beyond Good and Evil (see, for example, aphorisms 13, 19, 21, 36, 37, 259, and 260). 16 See Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, aphorism 37. 17 Scholars have long questioned the status of Ecce Homo, because of its bombast and the fact that it was written just before Nietzsche’s collapse. Duncan Large provides an excellent overview of the controversy in the introduction to his translation (see Ecce Homo, xi–xxviii). 18 Nietzsche, Ecce Homo, 86–​7. 19 On Nietzsche’s “revaluation” project, see Drochon, 176–​84. 20 See Loeb, 91, fn13. 21 Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, “On the Afterworldly,” 142–​3. 22 Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, “On the Despisers of the Body,” 146. 23 Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, “On the Preachers of Death,” 157–​8. 24 Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, “On Free Death,” 185–​6. 25 Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, “On War and Warriors.” 26 The meaning of the eternal return has been debated by scholars for generations. For a good overview of the challenges posed by the concept, see Reginster, 201–​27. My (somewhat idiosyncratic) view is that amor fati is quite distinct from the eternal return. 27 Nietzsche, Ecce Homo, II, section 10, 34. 28 See Nietzsche, Gay Science, aphorism 276.

References Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Joe Sachs. Newburyport, MA: Focus Philosophical Library, 2008. Drochon, Hugo. Nietzsche’s Great Politics. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016. Herodotus. The Histories. Translated by Robert Strassler. New York: Random House, 2009. Homer. Odyssey. Translated by Emily Wilson. New York: W. W. Norton, 2018. Loeb, Paul S. The Death of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. Edited and translated by R. J. Hollingdale. Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1975. —​—​—​ Ecce Homo. Edited and translated by Duncan Large. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. —​—​—​ The Birth of Tragedy. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Edited and translated by W. Kaufmann. New York: Modern Library, 1992. —​—​—​ The Gay Science. Edited and translated by W. Kaufmann. New York: Random House, 1974. —​—​—​ The Genealogy of Morals. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Edited and translated by W. Kaufmann. New York: Modern Library, 1992. —​—​—​ The Will to Power. Edited and translated by R. J. Hollingdale and W. Kaufmann. New York: Random House, 1967. —​—​—​ Thus Spoke Zarathustra. In The Portable Nietzsche. Edited and translated by W. Kaufmann. York: Penguin Books, 1954. —​—​—​ Twilight of the Idols and the Antichrist. Edited and translated by R. J. Hollingdale. New York: Penguin Books, 1968. Prideaux, Sue. I Am Dynamite: A Life of Nietzsche. New York: Tim Duggan Books, 2018. Ratner-​Rosenhagen, Jennifer. American Nietzsche. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. Reginster, Bernard. The Affirmation of Life: Nietzsche’s Overcoming of Nihilism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006. Siemens, Herman W. and Vasti Roodt (eds.). Nietzsche, Power, and Politics: Rethinking Nietzsche’s Legacy for Political Thought. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008.

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38  Facing Death Fearlessly, So Others Can Live Without Fear Gandhi’s Philosophy as Art of Dying Veena R. Howard

Just as one must learn the art of killing in the training of killing for violence, so one must learn the art of dying in the training for nonviolence. —​Gandhi, “Nonviolence of the Brave”

Mohandas K. Gandhi (1869–​1948), a political leader and spiritual figure, placed the practice of death in the center of his method of satyagraha (truth-​force; love-​force), which relied on nonviolent direct action, mandating self-​sacrifice. Using this method Gandhi organized campaigns to confront the British colonial regime and oppressive social practices, including untouchability and gender inequity, within India. His moral philosophy and methods of nonviolent action have been used throughout the world to challenge authoritarian regimes and laws. Although not a philosopher in terms of Western academic conventions, through his deep reasoning, comparative analyses, and experimenting, Gandhi contributed to moral, economic, social, and political thought. More specifically, Gandhi wrote extensively about the subject of death and actually practiced the art of dying publicly as a part of his method of nonviolent resistance. His philosophical ruminations and practical guidance for dealing with physical aging and suffering and the psychological fear of death, as well as his spiritual understanding of death as a friend, offer valuable contributions to philosophy and the practice of death.1 A 1920 declaration from Gandhi, stating “Whether death comes today or tomorrow, true human effort consists in adhering to our dharma and doing our duty without fearing death,” typifies his philosophy of death.2 Gandhi is a singular exemplar from the recent past who practiced fearlessness of death in performing the dharma of nonviolence and provided philosophical commentary behind this practice. He proclaimed that he wished to live 125 years, but in his daily life he did not recoil from death and even daringly played with it: he subjected himself to brutal beatings, accepted the death of loved ones with equanimity, confronted death through fasting, entered unarmed into violence-​stricken regions, refused personal security protection, and finally, encountered the bullets of assassins. Gandhi’s epic life of saving numerous marginalized and oppressed masses from all forms of death rested on his philosophy of aging and dying. Although a number of writings examine the historical events surrounding Gandhi’s assassination in 1948, no study has focused on Gandhi’s philosophical thought and practical advice on death and dying.3 Through a close analysis of Gandhi’s writings, select influential texts, and historical examples, this chapter uniquely concentrates on Gandhi’s approach to death in order to draw broader lessons for the contemporary debates on dying and death. First, I explore how Gandhi’s method of satyagraha—​based on the principles of nonviolence and love-​force—​mandated fearlessness in death as the core principle; second, I survey select philosophical texts that influenced Gandhi’s attitude of fearlessness toward DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-39

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384  Veena R. Howard death; and, third, I provide a brief survey of the historical examples he used to support his views on cultivating amity with death. Finally, I examine Gandhi’s thought and practice in the “art of dying,” which included committing himself to serving the diseased, maintaining equipoise at the deaths of his loved ones, and, in effect, curating his own death, thereby helping quell a tide of violence among various religious factions. This analysis reveals that Gandhi’s philosophy of death and dying can advance our current arguments on the morality of prolonging life, how we evaluate the quality of life in societies, and when we should risk our own death while saving the lives of others.

Gandhi’s Satyagraha: Save Other Lives Without Fearing One’s Own Death India’s philosophical and literary texts, which Gandhi both read and referenced, deliberate on the question of death. For example, in the Mahābhārata, the righteous king Yudhiṣṭira notes: “Day after day countless beings go to the abode of death. Yet those remaining behind (who are still alive) desire immortality. What else can be more surprising than this phenomenon?”4 Drawing on and uniquely contributing to this tradition, Gandhi scrupulously advocated against any form of killing while staying engaged with the reality of death. He often quoted stories and passages from various religious and philosophical texts to prepare himself and other nonviolent resisters to face death fearlessly and practice equanimity when losing loved ones. Gandhi acknowledged the primal desire to preserve life, but also consciously prepared himself and never failed to remind his followers of the inescapability of death. In his writings and conversations, he addressed both human sentiments: denial and fear of death. He recognized that “it is easy to say that one should shed the fear of death, but I know that it is not easy to shed it.”5 In a 1910 letter Gandhi writes that “It is our duty to remain undaunted even while sleeping in a cremation ground; it is, however, likely that a person would die of fear when he tries to sleep there.”6 In his personal life and political method of satyagraha, Gandhi confronted both of these psychological impulses of denial and fear. He based his method of satyagraha on two principles: (1) a willingness to sacrifice one’s life for the sake of the cause; (2) practicing fearlessness in loss of one’s own life and loved ones. Gandhi’s writings are thus strewn with hundreds of references about bodily mortality and the immortality of the soul, drawing on Indian philosophical thoughts to prepare nonviolent resisters for confronting the terror of death.

Gandhi’s Guide to Transcending Fear of Death Historically, the emergence of medical science in the eighteenth to nineteenth centuries displaced the traditional acceptance of life and death as two inseparable truths with efforts to control death, casting it as “taboo, dirty, hidden.”7 But Gandhi, living in the same era, demonstrated a friendly attitude toward death. Intriguingly, he expressed a zest for life, desiring to live over a century through self-​discipline and traditional healing arts, while simultaneously preparing himself to die any moment. While a pragmatist, Gandhi built his arguments on philosophical sources that emphasized the impermanence of the body and immortality of ātman (Self). According to various Indian philosophical texts, ātman is the ground of being, which provides “the condition for the embodied life of an individual (human or other)”—​it is not an individual identity or personality.8 Gandhi considered the celebrated Hindu philosophy text, the Bhagavad-​Gītā, his guide. The Gītā centers on a dialogue between the divine figure Kṛṣṇa and the warrior Arjuna who has lost his resolve to fight in a battle, fearing the imminent deaths of his own family members. Their conversation concentrates on the nature of the eternal self, death,

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Mohandas Gandhi  385 reincarnation, the divine reality, and afterlife among other topics. Gandhi drew inspiration from this treatise as he wrestled with his decisions to engage in nonviolent confrontations, potentially rendering him and his followers susceptible to death. For Gandhi, the conviction that Self continues to exist despite the death of the body demarcates his approach to mortality, which implicates only the physical body, not the eternal self.9 He often employed the Gītā’s philosophy that explained death as the natural process of the eternal soul’s existence, with the worn-​out body discarded like clothes. With this approach he sought to console grieving survivors as well as incite courage to embrace death in the fight for truth and justice. Despite numerous philosophical nuances of thought, various schools in Hindu philosophy cohere in the belief in the immortality of ātman, karma, and reincarnation (punar-​ janam). Jainism, an ancient Indic philosophical system, which also influenced Gandhi’s views on nonviolence (ahiṃsā), grounds the principle of non-​harming in the philosophy of consciousness (jīva, eternal soul) journeying through numerous life forms—​from minuscule organisms to humans. Even though Buddhist thought does not subscribe to the notion of an eternal soul, it formulates the causal relationships among the cycle of death, reincarnation, and suffering, which is inextricably tied to the reality of being alive.10 According to India’s many religious and philosophical traditions, the goal of human life is to attain the state of freedom from the cycle of death and rebirth, variously described as mokṣa, nirvāṇa, or kevala.11 Kenneth Kramer calls such states “spiritual death,” saying, “in each instance spiritual death is a rebirth in which fear of physical dying is overcome, in which internalized anxieties and doubts are de-​repressed, and in which deathless spirit is realized.”12 Gandhi integrated the goal of political home-​rule (swarāj) with his aspiration for spiritual liberation (mokṣa) and sought to transcend the fear of death through the philosophical understanding of the indestructibility of the Self. In a 1921 article, “The Fear of Death,” Gandhi coalesces the notions of spiritual and political freedom to prepare nonviolent resisters for sacrifice: “Swaraj is the abandonment of the fear of death … The brave meet with a smile on their lips, but they are circumspect all the time.”13 The fearlessness of death constitutes the fundamental principle for the Gandhian idea of self-​rule: heroism in saving lives, even those of aggressors, not through bravery in martial combat. In philosopher Shaj Mohan’s view, It is fear, especially the fear of our own lives and that of our loved ones, which commits us to actions which are meant to save our lives and save our futures. Once this fear ceases, the social order can experience the simplicity of non-​violence. The simple life of non-​violence contains the seeds for the future of humanity for Gandhi.14 The very structure of a nonviolent society requires fearless individuals who are willing to self-​sacrifice to confront violence. Thus, Gandhi found inspiration in the Indian philosophical concept of the immortality of the soul for methods of nonviolent resistance, which required the willingness of the resisters to embrace death.

“Death, a Friend”: Gandhi’s Exemplars While Gandhi substantiated his ideal of fearlessness in the face of death through the concept of the immortal Self (ātman), he also supported this notion through examples of diverse historical figures, belonging to quite different schools of thought, who each faced death fearlessly. Gandhi considered three such exemplars: Socrates, Jesus, and the medieval princess-​saint Mirabai. In his early formulation of nonviolent methods, Gandhi often presented Socrates as an ideal satyagrahi who was willing to sacrifice his life defending justice nonviolently. In a 1932

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386  Veena R. Howard article, “Death, a Friend,” Gandhi called Socrates “a wise man,” who was sentenced to death for his “love for truth and goodness.” Even though most of Gandhi’s followers in South Africa were unfamiliar with the Greek philosopher’s life and his philosophy, Gandhi presented Socrates as an exemplary agitator who chose death to resist the unjust Athenian authorities. Impressed by Socrates’ arguments, he translated the Apology into his native Gujarati in 1908, drawing attention to Socrates’ defiance and death.15 Gandhi quoted Socrates’ defense as it captured his own approach to death: I don’t look upon the sentence of death as a punishment. The time has come for me to die and be delivered from the sufferings of this life. That is why you have condemned me to die by drinking poison. I am sure that my good lies in that. I, therefore, bear no anger against my prosecutors.16 Here, Socrates’ words highlight Gandhi’s own conviction that embracing death while defending the truth signifies the noblest of all forms of deaths. Many of Gandhi’s own statements resonate with those of Socrates in the Apology, such as his 1947 insistence that I shall die only when my time is up … But if I start worrying about it right from now imagining myself on the point of death, it is dying without actual death. If we give up the fear of death our problems will also leave us, and we will be free of our troubles.17 Gandhi warns against the psychological fear of death that paralyzes humans against taking the right action. Thus, the Apology served as defense for Gandhi’s methods, especially to his intellectual Western audience, situating them in the global philosophical tradition. While Socrates’ defiance and determination intrigued Gandhi, he found in Jesus a “divine teacher” who accepted death on the Cross fearlessly and begged that his tormentors be forgiven. In 1920, Gandhi responded to a critic: “Christ died on the Cross with a crown of thorns on his head defying the might of a whole Empire.”18 Jesus’ message of “turning the other cheek” in the Sermon on the Mount inspired Gandhi to develop nonviolent resistance strategies, but Jesus’ narrative of crucifixion became one of the models of satyagraha’s principle of courage in death. Gandhi declared that if he raised “resistances of a nonviolent character,” he was “simply and humbly” following in the “footsteps” of the great teachers like Jesus.19 Gandhi mobilized the love-​force against the colonial regime, using the same methods of pacifism used by the beloved figure at the center of the colonizers’ faith. Gandhi’s subjecting himself to torture invoked Jesus’ image on the Cross in those who witnessed the brutal beatings of police. Gandhi’s Christian friends, including Romain Rolland and Joseph Doke, the first biographer of Gandhi, witnessed Gandhi’s suffering and spoke of him as a Christ-​like figure. Another exemplary figure, Mirabai, a sixteenth-​century princess and poet-​saint, captured Gandhi’s heart for her defiance and autonomy. He often presented her as model satyagrahi, who “takes the cup of poison to her lips with cheerful equanimity.”20 Mirabai defied normative gender conventions by rejecting her marriage and was castigated and tortured by her family for defying the patriarchal structures. Many attempts were made on her life by her close relatives. The legends proclaim that poison was not able to kill Mirabai, and that she remained poised when surrounded by mortal dangers, verifying Gandhi’s belief that women are equally capable of courage and fearlessness. During his South Africa campaigns, Gandhi became “aware of the potentialities of women as satyagrahis,”21 and presented Mirabai as a model of inner strength to women: “We badly need thousands of women who can compare with Mirabai,” he wrote in 1907, right

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Mohandas Gandhi  387 around the commencement of his satyagraha campaigns.22 Mirabai effected agency over her death by overcoming the fear of both physical and psychological death. Through her example, Gandhi inspired many women to join the non-​cooperation struggle. Not surprisingly, Gandhi renamed one of his close female associates, Madeleine Slade, an aristocratic and British-​born activist for India’s freedom struggle and other causes, Mirabehn (Sister Mira). She witnessed many of Gandhi’s brushes with and his final succumbing to death. Intriguingly, during these years Gandhi finds strength from not only Mirabai’s courage to face death, but from her poetic life-​force by including her songs in his daily regimen. For Gandhi, these three models from different backgrounds—​an agitator Greek philosopher, a religious teacher, a female poet from a royal family—​coalesce in their approach to death. The semiotics of drinking poison and mounting the Cross communicated the need for intense fearlessness when confronting asymmetric structures of power.

Art of Dying: Save Lives, Not Spiritual Counseling As we have seen, Gandhi scaffolded his philosophy of fearlessness in death with well-​known philosophical texts and historical examples. But Gandhi also stands as a political figure who publicly practiced a distinctive “art of dying” and connected it with the art of living, setting him apart from even his own inspirations. Unlike Socrates, Jesus, and Mirabai, Gandhi developed a relationship with death to save the lives of others. Even though he relied on the Bhagavad-​Gītā’s didactic lessons on the mortality of the body, he struggled to save every body from death. Gandhi’s art of dying also differs from the Stoic philosophers, with whom he has been compared, who consider death a natural event. His concepts are also distinct from those found in the treatise from the Middle Ages, Ars Moriendi (The Art of Dying)—​a spiritual manual that showed Christians how to die the good death through repentance and forgiveness. While Gandhi had read some Stoic writings, it is not clear whether he was familiar with the medieval text, although he used the same phrase, “art of dying,” not common in his native traditions. In any event, Gandhi perfected his “art of dying” publicly and connected it with a readiness to die in serving others. Similar to his views regarding the caste system and gender equality, his understanding of death also evolved throughout his writings. Gandhi refined his ideas through personal interfaces with disease, death, grief, and violence. In his writings, he considers varying degrees of quality and kinds of death: a natural death was neutral, death while serving others was good, but the death for saving other lives was superior still. Gandhi sought to achieve a good death but worked for the superior. In the end, instead of relying on the philosophy of the immortal self or the natural reality of death, Gandhi sought to curate his own death to stop countless imminent deaths from violence.

Dealing with Disease, Grief, and Death Gandhi’s confrontations with death, whether caused by natural calamities or human-​made afflictions like plagues, poverty, and violence, were infused with practical advice as well as his personal philosophizing. In 1904 when plague ravaged through South Africa, Gandhi assumed leadership to fight the disease. In his autobiography, he recounts his own deployment, along with his coworkers, to the “danger zone” to nurse the afflicted: It was a terrible night—​that night of vigil and nursing. I had nursed a number of patients before, but never any attacked by the black plague … To give them their doses of medicine, to attend to their wants, to keep them and their beds clean and tidy, and to cheer them up was all that we had to do.23

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388  Veena R. Howard Notably, when Gandhi nursed the victims of a contagious plague, he himself was the father of four young children. However, he showed no concern about the potential physical, emotional, and financial impact on him and his family, nor did he express fear of succumbing to death. During this epidemic, Gandhi expended a great deal of time and energy to educate people on the importance of hygiene, controlling overcrowding, observing a healthy diet, and isolating patients. He offered cautionary advice when the 1904 plague threatened the Natal area of South Africa: The slightest sickness, especially fever or pneumonia, should be attended to without any delay and, if necessary, reported to the authorities. There is, perhaps, too much laxity in dealing with such sicknesses … We would also ask them to completely isolate all such cases, so that the risk of infection may be minimised.24 Gandhi advised people to take precautions, but avoid succumbing to fear. He propagated fearlessness in death, but to suffering men and women, he preached not the philosophical teaching of the immortal soul, nor the promise of the soul’s ascent to higher heavens. Instead, in a 1908 Indian Opinion article, he emphasizes “the duty of each on due occasion to die for the people … During a plague epidemic, the physician must not run away [from his task] but instead attend to the patients even at the risk of infection.”25 Gandhi insisted that healthy individuals be ready to sacrifice to help and protect plague victims. The art of dying that Gandhi practiced in confronting sudden bouts of plagues, wars, and diseases diverged from the one articulated in the medieval Ars Moriendi—​which outlined steps for dying well and offered the promise of religious salvation to plague-​afflicted patients. In contrast, Gandhi’s practices focused on nursing the bodies of victims, instead of nurturing their souls with promises of salvation or reincarnation. Furthermore, rather than acquiescing to death as a “natural process,” as described by the Stoics, and adhering irrationally to the Indian beliefs of karma and reincarnation—​at times wrongly justifying suffering and pain—​Gandhi risked his life in nursing the sick and dying. As he put it: “If there is any real happiness in this transient world, it lies in suffering at the suffering of others, in dying while protecting others. He who lives in this way ever lives in bliss.”26 Here, too, Gandhi’s willingness to aid the dying and suffering was inflected with his unflinching awareness of his own mortality. A 1918 letter reflects these sentiments about the dangers of serving the sick and suffering: Navalram told me that some others of your co-​workers also died while nursing victims of the plague. If such was the manner of their death, there is no reason for grief, only for rejoicing. We should welcome such a death for any of us.27 Gandhi showed no sense of loss in the demise of those who dedicate their lives to the service of others because these individuals met a good death. Throughout his life, he chose to nurse his father, wife, children, friends, lepers, as well as plague victims. Paradoxically, a deep commitment to saving those facing death from violence and disease also made Gandhi seemingly unemotional at the deaths of his friends and loved ones. At the death of his wife of sixty years and close confidant, Kasturba, whom he personally nursed through various illnesses, Gandhi remained in equipoise, as he had been teaching throughout his life. His son Devdas’s words express the way he dealt with grief: He was obviously looking fagged. He grieves over this tragic gap that has come into his life … But he maintains a philosophic calm … when my brothers and I parted company … he cracked his customary jokes as a substitute for tears.28

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Mohandas Gandhi  389 In 1932, Gandhi wrote an article, “Lessons of Death,” cataloguing the names of his ashram residents who died from natural causes. He gave the background of each person, their age, gender, and religion, and expressed his desire that the dates of their deaths be recorded. However, he offered no words of consolation nor condolence, but offered Stoic-​like didactic lessons about the reality of death: Death means nothing but the soul leaving that body. Why should we fear it, then? Why all this desperate struggle to delay its coming? Let us all, grown-​up and young, ponder over this constantly and give up the fear of death, and, while the body lasts, spend it in the service of others.29 Gandhi appears emotionless (nirveda), bereft of any emotion (bhava or vedanā) of grief. Following the Bhagavad-​Gītā’s philosophy of “rising above the emotions of pleasure and pain,” Gandhi practiced an emotionally charged rejection of the emotions that by definition “agitate” or “stir up.”30

Designing Death: “Living by Dying” Gandhi believed that “The art of dying follows as a corollary from the art of living.”31 This premise is not surprising given that he sought to curate every aspect of life, through peculiar bodily disciplines, a set of practices which also included anticipating and planning for his own death. In 1922, Gandhi proclaimed in a speech: “There is no salvation in death when dying, there is salvation in death when dying willingly, when dying gladly.”32 Unlike those who define the art of dying well in terms of accepting mortality when faced with terminal illness, Gandhi offered another paradigm: Death must come to all. A man may die of a lightning [strike] or as a result of a heart failure or failure of respiration. But that is not the death that a satyagrahi can wish for or pray for himself. The art of dying for a satyagrahi consists in facing death cheerfully in the performance of one’s duty.33 For Gandhi, the art of living while dying is encompassed, not by natural causes, but the willingness to die in saving other lives. As he wrote: Living to that age [125] must never mean a mere life unto death, like that of an animated corpse, a burden on one’s relations and society. In such circumstance one’s supreme duty would be to pray to God for early release, not for prolongation of life anyhow. The human body is meant solely for service, never for indulgence.34 Gandhi’s warnings about living without a higher purpose like an “animated corpse” and becoming a “burden” to loved ones reveal his aversion to choosing death passively. The body was an instrument best used in the service of others. Although Gandhi believed in caring for elders as a sacred duty—​as he had nursed his own dying father—​he turned the familiar notion that the elderly can expect aid from the social order on its head; instead, for the activist and leader, prolonged life carried with it expectations of serving society. The fact that Gandhi scrupulously cared for his body through natural healing methods, but simultaneously offered his body to save potential victims of massacres and violence, beckons us to examine the days and moments leading to Gandhi’s assassination. Historically, India’s independence, its division in two countries, Pakistan and India, and ensuing mass exodus of people unleashed a tide of religious violence among displaced Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs. Gandhi pleaded to curb the massacre but to no avail. He used

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390  Veena R. Howard his ultimate weapon of fasting unto death to restore peace; however, his actions to protect a religious minority were considered a betrayal of sorts by Hindus and Sikhs. Many attempts on Gandhi’s life were made, and finally he was shot by a Hindu extremist, Nathuram Godse, who blamed Gandhi, the practitioner of equal love for all, for failing in his paternal duties toward Hindus and India. Gandhi’s death became the defining moment for a free India as it ushered in an era of relative communal peace for a decade. Gandhi’s writings reveal that he “anticipated the manner of his death—​and what purpose it might serve.”35 Indeed, a snapshot of his last days helps us understand Gandhi’s overall approach to death. Some scholars term Gandhi’s refusal of any police protection as his “courting death” to curb the tide of violence. For example, Makarand Paranjape writes, “Gandhi, no doubt, was courting death. He was convinced that if his offering himself to the forces of hatred and violence might save thousands of lives, then it was well worth making.”36 To be sure, Gandhi played with death as a friend and a fearless warrior during his sustained fasting and in many situations of life-​threatening dangers. However, I argue that instead of courting death Gandhi curated his own death in a way that was consistent with the metaphor of art and his philosophy of death for satyagraha. As Gandhi elaborated: “He alone can be a true satyagrahi who knows the art of living as well as of dying.”37 The last days of Gandhi’s life and his facing the assassin’s bullets demonstrate his mastery in the art of dying and commitment to achieving an active, “superior” form of death in the service of others. A close associate and confidant reports that just before Gandhi’s death he stated: If I were to die of a lingering disease, or even from a pimple, then you must shout from the housetops to the whole world that I was a false Mahatma … If I die of illness, you should declare me a false or hypocritical Mahatma.38 Gandhi deliberated all aspects of his life, and he put similar care into planning his death by exposing himself to risks and finally embracing it to make the ultimate sacrifice, which disrupted the tide of communal violence. As eminent Gandhi scholar Tridip Suhrud explains: “What he feared was a purposeless death. Would we have liked him to die of flu and malaria and typhoid?”39 Historians note that the tensions between India and the nascent Pakistan, the surge of Hindu nationalism, and the resulting mad force of violence that pulverized Gandhi’s vision of communal harmony in India came to a sudden halt as the news of his death circulated at lightning speed. In Ramchandra Guha’s words, “The passions unleashed during Partition were quickly tamed, from without and from within.”40 Gandhi’s death has been hailed as what sociologists call “martyrdom” because he chose to die for a cause. “The martyr’s death must attract public attention, and the martyr must choose to die … for a belief structure, adding legitimacy to his or her cause.”41 However, Gandhi would have laughed at this designation, because he sought to embrace death each day of his life—​exposing himself through serving the wounded, the diseased, taking up fasts to fight injustices, and refusing any police protection. He would see himself as living with death each day and living through his death for the cause of serving others throughout his life. Again, he believed that the most joyful way of dying was “dying while protecting others,”42 and he fulfilled his promise by protecting the lives of numerous warring people by choosing to die. The “art of dying with courage” was the essence of Gandhi’s philosophy of life. “His whole life had been one long preparation for this moment, which would be of his own choosing, not that of his assassin’s. “Gandhi, the supreme life-​artist, was still in charge, even in the manner in which he scripted his own death,” writes Paranjape.43 While his model

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Mohandas Gandhi  391 protagonists, Socrates, Mirabai, and Jesus, sacrificed their lives for their truths, Gandhi embraced death to protect many lives from the jaws of death. Muslim political leader Asaf Ali offered a moving tribute at Gandhi’s death: “Like Jesus Christ the prince of peace, Mahatma Gandhi has died on the flaming Cross.”44 Here, a Muslim favorably comparing Gandhi, a Hindu, with Jesus on the Cross offers a powerful image of the intersection of all faiths in Gandhi’s life and death, and a testament to the transcendent power of Gandhi’s unique philosophy of death. He combined Indian philosophical wisdom with historical examples from diverse backgrounds to develop a novel model in the art of dying. Gandhi’s philosophy and practice of the “art of dying,” although somewhat diffuse and curious, offer important contributions to the current conversations on confronting the reality of mortality, anxiety about aging, and conditions of dying. More importantly, as a political thinker Gandhi offers revolutionary possibilities through his philosophy of death which focuses on caring for the marginalized, minorities, wounded, and less privileged. As the Covid-​19 pandemic has revealed the dangers to doctors, nurses, and the vulnerable, Gandhi’s “art of dying” puts the onus on the healthy members of the society. Gandhi’s theoretical arguments and actions challenge the modern ways of dealing with death and Western methods of prolonging the life of the body without considering the quality of individual life and dignity of all lives. His philosophy, which combined idealism with pragmatism, invites our current leaders and agents of reform to focus on the sanctity of each life, and demands the courage to sacrifice so the dignity of all lives can be restored.

Notes

1 Kenneth Kramer categorizes three types of death: physical, psychological, and spiritual. 2 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 2, 305. 3 E.g. Payne; Paranjape; Khan. 4 Dutt, 874 (author’s translation). 5 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 25, 439. 6 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 10, 412. 7 Wood and Williamson (21) provide a helpful survey of the historical evolution in the meaning of death in the Western tradition. 8 Ram-​Prasad, 82. 9 Gandhi, Bhagavad-​Gita, 40–​1. 10 Historians such as Sylvia and Joseph Head document the pervasive belief in reincarnation throughout the world’s population. 11 Although Indic philosophical traditions share the concept of karma and rebirth, they hold unique views about them. For example, Chapple delineates the Jain notion of “death and rebirth in Jainism,” and he explores two forms of death in Jainism, “timely or untimely” (195). 12 Kramer analyzes the notion of “spiritual death,” as “dying while still alive” (23). 13 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 24, 85–​7. 14 Mohan and Dwivedi, 204. 15 Gandhi published his translation, which was a paraphrase, of Plato’s Apology in a pamphlet, “Story of a Soldier of Truth,” which was printed in the Indian Opinion in six separate articles. 16 From Gandhi’s 1932 article, “Death, a Friend,” Collected Works, vol., 55, 91. 17 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 97, 65. 18 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 20, 306. 19 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 20, 306. 20 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 34, 245. 21 Basu, 128. 22 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 7, 12. 23 Gandhi, Autobiography, 292. 24 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 3, 490.

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392  Veena R. Howard 25 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 8, 360. 26 Written in a 1921 Navjivan article. Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 25, 135. 27 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 16, 260. 28 Guha, 691–​2. 29 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 55, 437. 30 The English term “emotion” is derived from “the Latin emovere or exmovere,” meaning “move out,” “stir up,” “agitate,” etc. See Billimoria and Wenta, 2. 31 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 90, 81. 32 In The Hindu, February 2, 1922. See Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 26, 29. 33 At a 1946 speech at a prayer meeting. Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 90, 82. 34 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 89, 385. 35 Guha, 866. 36 Paranjape, 257. 37 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 90, 245. 38 Paranjape, 110. 39 Suhrud, “Did Gandhi Fear a Violent Death?” 40 Guha, 865. 41 DeSoucey et al., 101. 42 Gandhi, Collected Works, vol. 25, 135. 43 Paranjape, 112. 44 Payne, 601.

References Basu, Aparna. “Women in Gandhian Mass Movements.” Indian Journal of Gender Studies 25 (2018): 127–​33. Billimoria, Purushottama and Aleksander Wenta. Emotions in Indian Thought-​ Systems: An Introduction. New Delhi: Routledge India, 2015. Butler, Judith. The Force of Non-​Violence: An Ethico-​Political Bind. New York: Verso, 2020. Butler, Katy. The Art of Dying Well: A Practical Guide to a Good End of Life. New York: Scribner, 2019. Chapple, Christopher. “Eternal Life, Death, and Dying in Jainism.” In Religion, Death, and Dying, 115–​34. Edited by Lucy Bregman. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2009. DeSoucey, Michaela, Jo-​Ellen Pozner, Corey Fields, Kerry Dobransky, and Gary Alan Fine. “Memory and Sacrifice: An Embodied Theory of Martyrdom.” Cultural Sociology 2 (2008): 99–​121. Dutt, M. N. The Mahābhārata: Sanskrit Text with Translation. Vol. II. Delhi: Primal Publications, 2008. Florian, Victor and Mikulincer, Mario. “A Multifaceted Perspective on the Existential Meanings, Manifestations, and Consequences of the Fear of Personal Death.” In Handbook of Experiment Existential Psychology, 54–​ 70. Edited by J. Greenberg, S. L. Koole, and T. Pyszczynski. New York: Guildford, 2004. Gandhi, Mohandas. An Autobiography: My Experiments with Truth. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993. —​—​—​ The Bhagavad-​Gita, According to Gandhi. Berkeley, CA: Berkeley Hills Books, 2001. —​—​—​ The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi. CD-​ROM, 98 vols. Delhi: Publication Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, 1958–​94. Guha, Ramchandra. Gandhi: The Years that Changed the World. New York: Vintage Books, 2018. Head, Sylvia and Joseph Head. Reincarnation: An East–​West Anthology: Including Quotations from the World’s Religions and Over 400 Western Thinkers. London: Aeon Books, 1999. Khan, Yasmin. “Performing Peace: Gandhi’s Assassination as a Critical Moment in the Consolidation of the Nehruvian State.” Modern Asian Studies 45 (2011): 57–​80. Kramer, Kenneth. The Sacred Art of Dying: How World Religions Understand Death. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1988. Mohan, Shaj and Divya Dwivedi. Gandhi and Philosophy: On Theological Anti-​Politics. New York: Bloomsbury, 2018.

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Mohandas Gandhi  393 Moore, Calvin Conzelus and John B. Williamson. “The Universal Fear of Death and the Cultural Response.” In The Handbook of Death and Dying, vol. 1, 3–​13. Edited by Clifton D. Bryant. New Dehli: Sage Publications, 2003. Paranjape, Makarand. Death and Afterlife of Mahatma Gandhi. India: Random House, 2014. Payne, Robert. The Life and Death of Mahatma Gandhi. New Delhi: Tower Press, 2014. Ram-​Prasad, Chakravarthi. Divine Self, Human Self. London: Bloomsbury, 2013. Suhrud, Tridip. “Did Gandhi Fear a Violent Death? No. He Feared a Purposeless Death.” Open Magazine, https://​openthemagazine.com/​columns/​open-​conversation/​tridip-​suhrud-​did-​gandhi-​ fear-​a-​violent-​death-​no-​he-​feared-​a-​purposeless-​death, accessed June 10, 2020. —​—​—​“Reading Gandhi in two tongues.” In Decentering Translation Studies: India and Beyond, 107–​ 18. Edited by Judy Wakabyashi and Rita Kothari. Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2009. Wood, William R. and Jon B. Williamson, “Historical Changes in the Meaning of Death.” In The Handbook of Death and Dying, vol. 1, 14–​23. Edited by Clifton D. Bryant. New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2003.

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39  “An Earthly Immortality” Arendt on Mortality, Politics, and Political Death Michael Christopher Sardo

Given her celebration of natality—​“the new beginning inherent in birth [...and] the capacity of beginning something anew”1—​reading the thought of Hannah Arendt (1906–​75) through the lens of aging, death, and mortality may initially appear misguided. “An element of action, and therefore of natality is inherent in all human activities,” she writes in The Human Condition; “natality, and not mortality, may be the central category of political, as distinguished from metaphysical, thought.”2 Just as Arendt distinguishes humans from non-​human animals through the faculty of natality, the secondary literature similarly understands natality as, in the words of feminist philosopher Adriana Cavarero, “perhaps the most original category of thought that Arendt bestowed to the twentieth century.”3 Natality provides “a long-​needed balance to the tradition’s apparent prejudice” towards mortality,4 with the insistence that “every child born is also potentially the initiator of freedom, of new and unprecedented deeds and words.”5 The shift in emphasis is crucial, as the philosopher Karin Fry contends, because “focusing on life and natality, as opposed to death and mortality, raises the political life into a hopeful activity.”6 In this chapter, I argue that Arendt’s account of natality and its political-​theoretical significance can only be understood in relation to mortality. Death and our awareness of it are constitutive of natality; the distinctively human capacity to initiate something new through words and deeds is only meaningful because of human finitude. Arendt understands politics, I argue, as a distinct response to human mortality and finitude, in contrast to both religious and existential contemplation. The creation and maintenance of a world where human beings can speak and act, makes it possible for individuals to achieve what Arendt calls “an earthly immortality,” not by transcending this world, but through the presence and memory of institutions and other individuals.7 I develop this reading of Arendt’s thought in three main sections. The first reconstructs Arendt’s accounts of natality and politics as performing what Arendt calls a “turning operation” on human mortality—​a playful inversion or reversal of a concept or value to reveal new opportunities for thought.8 While these turning operations provide new avenues for a political theory centered on action, speech, and the common world, they—​as Arendt herself admits of all reversals—​do not eliminate the inverted term.9 As such, natality cannot be understood without mortality. The second section develops an account of “political death” in Arendt’s thought. Most horrendously displayed in totalitarianism, political death is distinct from biological death and refers to the elimination of the conditions that make earthly immortality and thus human freedom and plurality possible.10 The third section turns to a challenge that Arendt’s thought poses to contemporary politics. For Arendt, politics should be concerned with preserving the space for natality rather than the lives and welfare of a particular people. In contrast to contemporary political debates over economic and healthcare policy, she goes so far as to argue that this focus on life and welfare threatens politics. Rather DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-40

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Hannah Arendt  395 than seeing this conflict as a sign of either the limitation of Arendt’s thought or own political concerns, I treat it as an invitation to seriously consider what is lost and what is gained when care of life becomes an overriding political priority.

Overcoming “The Law of Mortality”—​Natality as a Response to Human Finitude The Western philosophical tradition from the Greeks to existentialism confirms Socrates’ assertion in the Phaedo that philosophy, practiced “in the proper manner,” is preparation for “dying and death.”11 Death, mortality, and finitude more broadly are viewed as constitutive of the human condition; the task of philosophy is to reckon with and develop an appropriate relationship to this existential reality. Arendt, who was a student of Martin Heidegger and Karl Jaspers—​both key figures in existentialism—​was not immune to the sway of this tradition.12 Arendt’s approach, however, is to perform a “turning operation” on the idea of mortality, an approach to the tradition of philosophy that she identifies in the thought of Søren Kierkegaard, Karl Marx, and Friedrich Nietzsche. These thinkers challenge the tradition of philosophy “through a mental operation best described in the images and similes of leaps, inversion, and turning concepts upside down.”13 Rather than attempting “to build systems,” this approach seeks to “question the traditional hierarchy of human capabilities” and ask “what the specifically human quality of man is.”14 Such reversals, Arendt admits, do not eliminate the inverted value or change the structure of values, but show “that both have meaning and significance only in this opposition.”15 Reversing a conceptual pair—​ life vs. death, theory vs. practice, universal vs. particular—​leaves the binary opposition in place. Yet, the idea of a “turning operation” provides a critical attitude that empowers political theorists to creatively approach interpreting the philosophical tradition.16 Arendt approaches the question of mortality in this creative, yet critical, spirit. The importance of mortality to her thought can be seen as early as in her doctoral dissertation on the concept of love in the theology of Augustine of Hippo. She finds in Augustine’s thought an inextricable link between human mortality and humanity’s appetitive nature: “The decisive fact determining man as a desiring being was death or mortality, the fact that we shall leave the world in death. Fear of death and inadequacy of life are the springs of desire.”17 Humans desire worldly objects and personal affection that will secure them against the sting of death; mortality is, in Arendt’s reading, the root of cupiditas, the form of love that desires its object as a possession. However, mortality renders all such attempts to secure the object of desire in vain. This experience of finitude—​that the very conditions of one’s own life and happiness are beyond one’s control—​is inherent in humanity’s awareness of mortality. As Arendt writes, “Death destroys not only all possession of the world, but all possible loving desire for any future thing we may expect from the world. Death is the destruction of our natural relation to the world.”18 Human mortality, which removes us from the world and all objects of desire, makes our own existence a question, and spurs us to question and seek the source of our own existence.19 Thus, one’s awareness of one’s own individual mortality and finitude distinguishes the human condition from other biological creatures. This idea of finitude is further developed in The Human Condition. In contrast to the ceaseless, eternal repetition of nature, “mortality became the hallmark of human existence.”20 While the human species survives the death of any single individual, an “individual life is distinguished from all other things by the rectilinear course of its movement.”21 Humans experience time as linear because of our own experience of mortality, in which our lives constitute a straight line from birth to death. Just as in her reading of Augustine, death,

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396  Michael Christopher Sardo in The Human Condition, represents a threat to an individual’s belonging to the world. She describes death as an existential condition permeating human life: “If left to themselves, human affairs can only follow the law of mortality, which is the most certain and the only reliable law of a life spent between birth and death.”22 Arendt’s response to the pervasive condition of mortality is best illuminated in contrast to those of Augustine and Heidegger. For Augustine, mortality points towards a proper form of love, caritas, whose object is the eternity of God, which Arendt views as an irresponsible flight from the world and other individuals. In such a flight, “the individual is left in isolation.”23 In contrast, Heidegger argues that humans must face rather than escape from their mortality: “authentic being-​toward-​death cannot evade its ownmost non-​relational possibility or cover it over in this flight and reinterpret it for the common sense of the they.”24 In other words, because death is something that that can only be experienced and faced individually, the acknowledgment of one’s own finitude draws individuals out of the homogeneity of mass culture and public opinion—​what Heidegger calls “the they.” This resolute anticipation of one’s own death reveals both human freedom and the possibility of being an authentic self. While Heidegger rejects Augustinian transcendence of the world, his account fares little better from Arendt’s perspective. As she discusses in an early essay, Heidegger embraces a radical individualism, in which the anticipation of one’s own death serves “to free myself once and for all from the world that entangles me.” It embraces mortality, but does so to free the individual from other people.25 Whereas Augustine’s theological response and Heidegger’s existentialist response to mortality isolate the individual from the world and their fellow humans, Arendt turns to natality as mortality’s antinomy in the human condition, but one grounded in every individual’s connection to and dependence upon others. The interplay between natality and mortality—​ birth and death—​shape the three activities that make up the vita activa: labor, work, and action.26 While repetitive labor staves off death by providing for the biological necessities of life—​food, shelter, clothing—​and work creates lasting physical objects that will outlive their artisans, action interrupts both the straight line towards death and the ceaseless repetition of nature by “beginning something new,” breaking mortality’s tendency to reduce “everything human to ruin and destruction.”27 Action—​whether word or deed—​is the “miracle that saves the world” by beginning a new course of events and bringing novelty into the world.28 Without the novelty introduced by human action, nothing would truly happen; the meaning of life would be reduced to an individual’s anticipation of their own death or the mere reproduction of the species. More specifically, through the faculty of action, individuals separate themselves from their biological nature, by freely initiating something new, and in so doing reveal themselves as distinct. “Speech and action reveal this unique distinctness,” because action, unlike the necessity of labor, is a revelation of human freedom and plurality.29 No action is strictly necessary and no two individuals will speak or act in identical ways. Thus, “In acting and speaking, men show who they are, reveal actively their unique personal identities and thus make their appearance in the human world.”30 However, because action constitutes a miraculous break in time, introducing something novel into the world, its effects are inherently unpredictable. Even seemingly minor actions can spiral through the world creating unanticipated and unintended consequences.31 While Arendt’s account of action has heroic and individualistic undertones, it is dependent upon a community of spectators, for two crucial reasons. First, for the individual to appear as distinctive, there must be somewhere for that person to appear. This space of appearance—​the world—​is not a pre-​existing place, but is constituted through community; this literal in-​between is only possible when a group of individuals comes together. Action, Arendt insists, “is never possible in isolation; to be isolated is to be

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Hannah Arendt  397 deprived of the capacity to act. Action and speech need the surrounding presence of others.”32 The reality of the world is guaranteed by the “plurality of individuals or peoples and a plurality of standpoints” that can judge the same object, deed, or speech from different perspectives.33 Second, while action reveals who the actor is, this who-​ness—​one’s distinctive biography and perspective as distinguished from one’s physical body—​is hidden from the actor.34 When individuals act or speak, they cannot control how the plurality of other members of the community will interpret and judge them. Furthermore, because action is boundless and unpredictable, its meaning cannot be determined in advance but always comes afterwards. Thus, “Action reveals itself fully only to the storyteller, that is, to the backward glance of the historian, who indeed always knows better what it was all about than the participants.”35 Actors, therefore, overcome their own finitude because the community of spectators remembers, interprets, and discusses the actors’ distinctive words and deeds. Individuals do not transcend death to attain eternity, but gain immortality as their actions outlast their own biological lives and continue to shape the world.36 However, natality’s distinctive unpredictability also renders the world inherently fragile. Because the unpredictable effects of any one action reverberate throughout the web of human relationships, action, while necessary to preserve meaning in the world, is inherently risky. The very novelty that Arendt praises can produce unintended consequences that are destructive to the human community. Thus, Arendt argues that politics necessarily imposes limits and order on the space of appearance. Law “limits actions and prevents them from dissipating into an unforeseeable, constantly expanding system of relationships,” Arendt writes, “and by doing so gives actions their enduring form, turning each action into a deed that in its greatness [...] can be remembered and preserved.”37 In addition to laws, a political community requires a “concrete place” that can outlast and memorialize individual actions.38 Politics, therefore, should be understood as the care of the world; it maintains the space where human beings can appear in their distinctiveness to act and speak with others as equals and without force.39 Immortality, for Arendt—​and in contrast to eternal life—​is what the political philosopher Anne O’Byrne calls “an inescapably political immortality” that requires “an enduring, public world, where remembering and commemoration happens.”40 In contrast to Augustine and Heidegger, for whom mortality requires transcending or withdrawing from the political world, Arendt contends that politics is the only route towards immortality. This political immortality is fundamentally of this world: it is secured through politics that maintains space for individuals to freely speak and act and is dependent upon others to see, hear, remember, and judge one’s actions. Individuals indirectly survive their own biological death if others tell the story of their words and deeds and keep their unique identity and life story alive for generations to come. Thus, while Arendt grounds her political theory on the concept of natality, her theoretical contribution cannot be understood outside of the context of human mortality.

The Fragility of the World and Political Death The conditions of political immortality, however, are inherently fragile. Natality is, for Arendt, the guarantor of human distinctiveness and freedom, but, as noted, it depends on others to be realized. Because of this dependency, Arendt’s account of agency should be understood as what the political theorist Sharon R. Krause calls “non-​sovereign.” “The exercise of agency regularly comes apart from intentional choice and consistently eludes individual control,” she writes, “which makes other people integral to the agency of the individual.”41 Political immortality cannot be achieved through sheer force of will, but relies

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398  Michael Christopher Sardo on conditions—​the presence of others, the existence of a political community, institutions of remembrance—​that are beyond an individual’s control and can all be destroyed. Thus, in addition to showing how politics offers the best salve for mortality’s sting, Arendt’s political theory provides a framework for understanding a form of death distinct from biological death. This political death is the destruction of the public world and the space of appearance, where individuals act and speak, reducing them to mere biological organisms. As Arendt writes, human beings in the true sense of the term can exist only where there is a world, and there can be a world in the true sense of the term only where the plurality of the human race is more than a simple multiplication of a single species.42 A world requires distinct individuals with unique perspectives, not merely a large number of identical beings. While political death is most evident in totalitarianism, it remains an ever-​ present possibility of modernity. Where political institutions preserve “a common world, the reality of some continuity which transcends the individual life span of each generation,” totalitarianism threatens this world. Totalitarianism, Arendt continues, surrounds individuals with a band of iron which holds them so tightly together that it is as though their plurality had disappeared into One Man of gigantic dimensions … It destroys the one essential prerequisite of all freedom which is simply the capacity of motion which cannot exist without space.43 While Arendt maintains that violence is always a threat to politics,44 totalitarianism is distinctive for definitively foreclosing natality. If action promises a form of deathless life, totalitarianism—​and political death more generally—​creates living death. The processes of political death can be seen in Arendt’s account of the genesis of totalitarianism from submerged elements within the Western tradition, especially antisemitism and imperialism. In her analysis of the latter, she shows how European political communities ultimately undermined the equality and freedom proclaimed as the foundation of their political institutions. Through race-​thinking,45 bureaucratic administration,46 and nationalism,47 the Enlightenment ideas of universal human rights were eroded. This culminated in the crisis of stateless persons in the inter-​war years, in which large groups of people found themselves stripped of political membership in the inter-​war political reorganization of Europe. Stateless persons revealed a possibility that totalitarianism would make its goal: the reduction of individual humans to biological processes. An individual without a political community “is left with those qualities which usually can become articulate only in the sphere of private life and must remain unqualified, mere existence in all matters of public concern.” Without the possibility of overcoming death by appearing in public where others can judge and remember them, all are reduced to “the dark background of mere givenness,” a biological equality premised on mortality, rather than a political equality premised on natality.48 Totalitarianism incorporates these lessons to produce political death with startling efficiency. Its constant movement denies the political world the stability necessary for action.49 Secret police create a sense of “mutual suspicion” that “permeates all social relationships” and prevents individuals from appearing in public.50 As both criminals and innocents are rounded up, the police are entrusted with eliminating “the only trace” left behind: “the memory of those who knew and loved them.”51 These efforts seek to undermine action’s

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Hannah Arendt  399 conditions of possibility—​a public space of appearance and a community of memory—​ without which humans are mere animals. The logic of totalitarianism reaches its ultimate expression in the total domination of the concentration and extermination camps, which strive “to organize the infinite plurality and differentiation of human beings as if all humanity were just one individual.”52 The physical and psychological torture of the concentration and death camps is to reduce the free and spontaneous capacity of human action to an unconscious reaction to a stimulus. This dehumanization starts, however, by first killing the juridical person, by erasing their legal rights and equality,53 and then the moral person, by “making death itself anonymous,” precluding grief or remembrance.54 Only then is “the differentiation of the individual, his unique identity” destroyed through the torture and abuse of the concentration camp.55 But the violence and murder of the camps is not what makes their horror distinctive for Arendt. Instead, it is that those interred within the camps are already politically dead, denied the opportunity to overcome their biological death. “The experience of the concentration camps,” Arendt concludes, “does show that human beings can be transformed into specimens of the human animal, and that man’s ‘nature’ is only ‘human’ insofar as it opens up to man the possibility of becoming something highly unnatural, that is, a man.”56 Arendt’s analysis of totalitarianism provides analytic payoff for her account of political immortality. Without the possibility of political immortality, individuals can be reduced to a bundle of anonymous biological processes. As Seyla Benhabib summarizes, “The destruction of the individual in concentration camps … shows that a humanity that has become worldless, homeless, and superfluous is also wholly eliminable.”57 Totalitarianism not only produces mass death, but eliminates the possibility of speaking, acting, and creating something new, which both provide the foundations for human dignity and enable individuals to survive their own death. While totalitarianism provides the starkest example of political death, Arendt warns that modernity—​characterized by the development of the natural sciences, market economies, liberal individualism, and the bureaucratization of politics—​reduces politics to “a means for protecting both society’s life-​sustaining resources and the productivity of its open and free development.”58 In the last section of The Human Condition, Arendt argues that modernity also forecloses the possibilities of action, though in processes that are more subtle than those of totalitarianism. Crucial to her argument is the development of the natural sciences, in which the direct perception is replaced by abstract mathematical models, whose certainty depends on the fact that they are produced by the mind itself.59 That production or fabrication, and not action, becomes the source of certainty and reality is mirrored in political and economic life where anonymous behavior, processes, and development replace the work and action of distinct persons.60 This historical trajectory culminates in what Arendt calls the victory of animal laborans, in which human natality is denied and life consists of repetitive processes. A community of individuals is replaced by a “society of jobholders” in which “individual life” is “submerged in the over-​all life process of the species” and becomes a “dazed, ‘tranquilized,’ functional type of behavior.”61 Any job-​holder is replaceable by anyone else, leaving no room for the distinctive action through which humans can overcome their mortality. In modernity, O’Byrne writes, “Mortality and immortality collapse, and the temporality of modern life is nothing more than the cyclical time of animal life.”62 While most dramatically and horrifically displayed in the experience of totalitarianism, the conditions of political immortality are never guaranteed. Political death remains a permanent possibility demanding a sense of responsibility to and for the political world to maintain a space of equality and plurality necessary for distinctly human action.

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400  Michael Christopher Sardo

From Care of the World to Healthcare—​The Challenge of Arendtian Politics That Arendt sees the political world as threatened by modernity points to a broader challenge that her thought poses for the politics of healthcare, aging, and life management. Arendt closes The Human Condition with the warning that “the modern age continued to operate under the assumption that life, and not the world, is the highest good of man.”63 Arendt draws a sharp distinction between these two concerns in an attempt to distinguish human beings, with their potential for earthly immortality, from the rest of organic life. Crucially, she distinguishes an individual’s “biological life which man shares with other living things and which forever retains the cyclical movement of nature” and what makes their life human, which “is that it is itself always full of events which ultimately can be told as a story, establish a biography.”64 Arendt worries about reducing humans to “a ‘natural force,’ the force of the life process itself, to which all men and all human activities were equally submitted and whose only aim, if it had an aim at all, was the survival of the animal species man.”65 This concern animates Arendt’s division between the private household realm, which concerns the necessities of life, and the political realm, or “sphere of freedom.”66 To subject the political world to the concerns of life, health, and well-​being would be to transform a sphere of freedom, where individuals can distinguish themselves and achieve immortality, to the demands of necessity. Destroying this division threatens both spheres. What should be private decisions and concerns are transformed into matters of public debate and administration, and the public sphere no longer can offer its promise of overcoming human mortality. Individuals cannot emerge in public if they cannot retreat from the harsh light of the public back to the private home. Similarly, intimacy and family life cannot flourish in the home if they are constantly subjected to public scrutiny. For Arendt, “mastering the necessities of life in the household” is necessary for politics—​the public life of the Greek polis was made possible by the household labor of women and slaves—​but “politics is never for the sake of life” but “for the sake of the ‘good life.’ ”67 That primacy of healthcare in contemporary political debate provides evidence for what Arendt calls “the rise of the social,” in which both the distinctions between private and public are blurred and both spheres are transformed.68 The rise of the social is one of the defining components of modernity’s threat to the political realm. It reduces politics to administration and management and individuals to entries in a statistical table. The private realm of intimacy, care-​giving, birth, and death is in turn exposed to the harsh light of publicity and transformed beyond recognition. Arendt does not doubt that the politicization of life, healthcare, and aging is driven by good intentions, but she outlines two dangers. First, while, in the private realm, life is cared for by intimate relations of family and friends, she raises the concern that public management of the sick, aging, and dying will not treat them as unique individuals but according to statistical predictions and actuarial tables. Second, in attempting to prolong life and ease the pain of death, the public realm will paradoxically lose its real capacity to overcome death through political immortality. Arendt writes, “If it is true that politics is nothing more than a necessary evil for sustaining the life of humanity, then politics has indeed begun to banish itself from the world and to transform its meaning into meaninglessness.”69 This line of argument is likely to yield one of two reactions. On the one hand, Arendt may be recruited into a broader libertarian-​inspired critique of the over-​extension of government and public administration. Arendt’s concern over the bureaucratization of public life has its echoes in critiques of “socialized medicine” with its “rationing of healthcare” and “death panels.” Arendt could be read as offering a trenchant critique of making healthcare, aging, and dying public matters. On the other hand, Arendt’s critique may be dismissed as a manifestation of what the intellectual historian Richard Wolin calls her “polis-​envy”

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Hannah Arendt  401 and proof of her irrelevance for contemporary political challenges.70 Arendt’s dismissal of such concerns from the public realm risks evacuating the public realm of any substantive content; the quest for political immortality begins to resemble, in the political theorist Hannah Fenichel Pitkin’s words, “posturing little boys clamoring for attention.”71 This not only dismisses the concerns of healthcare justice or the right to die with dignity from political debate and discussion, but risks undermining Arendt’s own foundations. As Pitkin continues, public life becomes meaningless unless political debates have real interests and stakes; instead, “the appeal to heroism for its own sake becomes trivial vanity, just as greed and need untransformed by considerations of justice and community become debilitating and dangerous.”72 Both responses are unnecessarily reductive. Against the former, Arendt’s criticism of capitalism—​implicit in her account of animal laborans—​and emphasis on the social conditions of individual freedom preclude easily assimilating her thought into a libertarian project. Against the latter response, Arendt’s turn to the polis should be read not as nostalgic yearning, but as a means to diagnose the ways that modernity transforms political life, in ways both liberating and dehumanizing. Therefore, rather than simply embracing or rejecting Arendt’s critique, it is more productive to take her theory as a provocation to, in her words, “think what we are doing.”73 Arendt’s critique of the politicization of life, health, and death should encourage us to pause and think through the implications of current political trajectories rather than hastily respond to Arendt herself. What is gained—​but also what is lost—​when questions of healthcare and life-​management become overriding political concerns? What happens to human freedom when politics is reconceived as life-​management? What is the proper role for the state, government officials, and the public in matters of life and death? Can limited healthcare resources be equitably allocated without reducing distinct individuals to likely health outcomes and mortality rates? Arendt’s answers may be unsatisfying, especially when considered in our own political context, but these questions both defy easy answers and demand a response. Perhaps a more robust public sphere, one that allows for individuals to gain earthly immortality through their words and deeds, can be grounded on public debate and deliberation over such concerns.

From Personal to Political Mortality Arendt’s distinctive theory of natality stems from her “turning operation” on mortality. Rather than overcoming death through religious transcendence, philosophical contemplation, or existential anticipation, Arendt argues that humans only overcome their mortality by speaking and acting with and among others. In her account of natality, Arendt redeems and exalts both human life and politics. In our quest for political immortality, humans reveal that we are irreducible to biological processes, and are instead free, distinct, and capable of beginning something new. Because such immortality depends, as a condition of possibility, on a political world constituted by a diverse and spectating public who see, hear, judge, remember, and retell their stories, politics is rescued from becoming reduced to administration or disparaged as a necessary evil and reclaimed as a quintessential human activity that gives life meaning. However, because the conditions of political immortality cannot be guaranteed, the potential for political death and the reduction of human beings to biological existence can never be removed. Thus, Arendt’s political theory is also a demanding call for political responsibility—​amor mundi, love for the world—​that requires constant effort to safeguard the existence and vitality of the political world. In addition, the unique account of politics generated by Arendt’s account of natality and immortality conflicts with many of the

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402  Michael Christopher Sardo interests and priorities of contemporary debates in politics and public policy. It encourages us to confront and think deeply and critically about the present state of politics rather than simply accepting current political trajectories. Such debates are unlikely to abate anytime soon, confirming Arendt’s insight: through her distinctive thinking and writing, made public for debate, contestation, and judgment, Arendt outlives her death, borne forward by the community that continues to engage, and thereby memorialize her.

Notes

1 Arendt, Human Condition, 9. 2 Arendt, Human Condition, 9. 3 Cavarero, 17. 4 Bowen-​Moore, 5. 5 Benhabib, xiv. 6 Fry, 23. 7 Arendt, Human Condition, 21. Arendt distinguishes immortality—​a “deathless life on this earth” that is achieved through distinctive action and speech and is remembered by others after the actor’s own physical death—​from eternity—​an escape from “human affairs” and “the plurality of men” through either philosophical contemplation of unchanging ideas or a religious afterlife (18–​20). 8 Arendt, Between Past and Future, 35. 9 Arendt, Human Condition, 292. 10 Political death should be understood as similar to, yet distinct from, Orlando Patterson’s account of slavery’s “social death.” While the social death involves “natal alienation” in which slaves are violently removed from their kinship ties, political death refers to the erasure of political institutions that guarantee freedom, plurality, and therefore, political immortality. See Patterson. 11 Plato, 64a. 12 On Arendt’s debt to existentialism generally, see Allen. Political theorists Dana R. Villa and Seyla Benhabib both argue that Arendt’s thought must be interpreted as a response to Heidegger, but whereas Villa emphasizes the performative aspects of Arendtian natality, Benhabib foregrounds the communicative aspects of natality through speech. See Villa; Benhabib. 13 Arendt, Between Past and Future, 3. 14 Arendt, Between Past and Future, 39. 15 Arendt, Between Past and Future, 35–​6. 16 See Dietz. 17 Arendt, Love and Saint Augustine, 51–​2. 18 Arendt, Love and Saint Augustine, 78. 19 Arendt, Love and Saint Augustine, 57. 20 Arendt, Human Condition, 18 21 Arendt, Human Condition, 19. 22 Arendt, Human Condition, 246. 23 Arendt, Love and Saint Augustine, 91. 24 Heidegger, 240. 25 Arendt, “What Is Existential Philosophy?” 181. 26 Arendt, Human Condition, 8–​9. 27 Arendt, Human Condition, 246. 28 Arendt, Human Condition, 247. 29 Arendt, Human Condition, 176, 30 Arendt, Human Condition, 179. 31 Arendt, Human Condition, 190. 32 Arendt, Human Condition, 188. 33 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 175. 34 Arendt, Human Condition, 178–​80. 35 Arendt, Human Condition, 192.

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Hannah Arendt  403 36 Because the meaning of action and the “who-​ness” of the actor are both dependent upon a community of spectators whose members themselves change, political immortality does not preserve a single version of the actor for all time. Instead, as the story is told and retold, “the specific content as well as the general meaning of action and speech may take various forms of reification” through acts of interpretation, remembrance, and representation. Arendt, Human Condition, 187. 37 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 187. 38 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 123. 39 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 117. 40 O’Byrne, 82. 41 Krause, 21. 42 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 176. 43 Arendt, Origins, 465–​6. 44 Arendt, Human Condition, 203. 45 Arendt, Origins, 183–​97. 46 Arendt, Origins, 197–​207. 47 Arendt, Origins, 223–​35. 48 Arendt, Origins, 301. 49 Arendt, Origins, 425, 465. 50 Arendt, Origins, 430. 51 Arendt, Origins, 433. 52 Arendt, Origins, 438. 53 Arendt, Origins, 447. 54 Arendt, Origins, 452. 55 Arendt, Origins, 453. 56 Arendt, Origins, 455. 57 Benhabib, 67. 58 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 110. 59 Arendt, Human Condition, 282–​3. 60 Arendt, Human Condition, 296–​7. 61 Arendt, Human Condition, 322. 62 O’Byrne, 88. 63 Arendt, Human Condition, 318. 64 Arendt, Human Condition, 97. 65 Arendt, Human Condition, 321. 66 Arendt, Human Condition, 30–​1. 67 Arendt, Human Condition, 37. Therefore, if one rightly rejects slavery as a solution to biological necessities, private demands of life-​sustenance temper the endless quest for glory in public. As will be discussed later in this chapter, Arendt has been criticized for separating such concerns from the realm of political debate. 68 Arendt, Human Condition, 38. 69 Arendt, “Introduction into Politics,” 110. 70 Wolin, 69. 71 Pitkin, 338. 72 Pitkin, 346 73 Arendt, Human Condition, 5.

References Allen, Wayne F. “Hannah Arendt: Existential Phenomenology and Political Freedom.” Philosophy and Social Criticism 9, no. 2 (1982): 170–​90. Arendt, Hannah. Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought. New York: Viking Press, 1968. —​—​—​“Introduction into Politics.” In The Promise of Politics, 93–​200. Edited by Jerome Kohn. New York: Schocken Books, 2005.

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404  Michael Christopher Sardo —​—​—​ Love and Saint Augustine. Edited by Joanna Vecchiarelli Scott and Judith Chelius Stark. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. —​—​—​ The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998 [1958]. —​—​—​ The Origins of Totalitarianism. New York: Harcourt, 1976 [1951]. —​—​—​“What is Existential Philosophy?” In Essays in Understanding: 1930–​1954, 163–​87. Edited by Jerome Kohn. New York: Shocken Books, 1994 [1946]. Benhabib, Seyla. The Reluctant Modernism of Hannah Arendt. 2nd edn. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2003. Bowen-​Moore, Patricia. Hannah Arendt’s Philosophy of Natality. London: Macmillan, 1989. Cavarero, Adriana. “‘A Child Has Been Born Unto Us’: Arendt on Birth.” philoSOPHIA 4, no. 1 (2014): 12–​30. Dietz, Mary G. Turning Operations; Feminism, Arendt, and Politics. New York: Routledge, 2002. Fry, Karin. “Natality.” In Hannah Arendt: Key Concepts, 23–​35. Edited by Patrick Hayden. Durham: Acumen, 2014. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time: A Translation of Sein und Zeit. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996 [1927]. Krause, Sharon R. Freedom Beyond Sovereignty: Reconstructing Liberal Individualism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015. O’Byrne, Anne. Natality and Finitude. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010. Patterson, Orlando. Slavery and Social Death. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982. Pitkin, Hanna Fenichel. “Justice: On Relating Private and Public.” Political Theory 9, no. 3 (1981): 327–​52. Plato. Phaedo. In Plato: Complete Works. Edited by John M. Cooper. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997. Villa, Dana R. Arendt and Heidegger: The Fate of the Political. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996. Wolin, Richard. Heidegger’s Children: Hannah Arendt, Karl Löwith, Hans Jonas, and Herbert Marcuse. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001.

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40  Death in Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time Mark A. Menaldo

Martin Heidegger (1889–​1976), who was born in Germany, is the twentieth century’s most influential philosopher.1 He is also a dedicated and unrepentant Nazi.2 He joined the Nazi party in 1933, the same year he assumed his position of Rector at Freiburg University. Although he gave up the rectorship in 1934 and began to distance himself from Nazism, he remained a member of the party until 1945. As the precursor to all postmodern thought, his ideas changed the way people approach philosophy, history, literature, and art. In our time, one cannot open a book on literary criticism, aesthetics, linguistics, or philosophy without reading echoes of Heidegger’s teaching. Heidegger’s thought is complicated, detailed, and often confusing. His writing is not only obscure, but he invents terminology that has no precedent in the history of Western philosophy. The challenges of reading Heidegger’s work are worsened when translated from the original German. There is much dispute among academics whether Heidegger’s philosophy centers on “a turn,” or a shift, from phenomenology to ontology, from human existence to Being.3 Heidegger’s later works are steeped in discussions of language, technology, art, and the dawn of a new spirituality. This chapter concerns Heidegger’s philosophy of death in Being and Time (1927), his magnum opus. In Being and Time, Heidegger advances the idea that authentic being toward death enables the person to experience genuine freedom and resolve. In other words, if human beings want to understand what an authentic human life is, each individual must grapple with their finitude. Making meaning out of death is how one understands life. Yet, Heidegger never offers concrete prescriptions. Thus, I will show in this chapter how Heidegger’s philosophy of death is the catalyst for his idea of an authentic decision, which carries a great historical-​political weight and implies responsibility, in the broadest sense of the word. In the introduction to Being and Time, Heidegger sets his sights on the “destruction” of the history of Western metaphysics, which is the branch of philosophy that deals with the nature of being. According to Heidegger, Western metaphysics has forgotten how to ask the question of Being. The problem with metaphysics, Heidegger suggests, is that it leads philosophers astray. Western metaphysicians look at beings conceptually, and the subject and object relationship takes precedence in philosophical analysis. Yet, these metaphysical philosophers, Heidegger argues, err by prioritizing the notion of substance or essences instead of asking fundamental questions. Consequently, they lead philosophy to a vague comprehension of Being.4 Heidegger intends to reboot the question of Being. In order to do this, he first proposes a radically new phenomenology of the human being which is, simultaneously, a unique starting point for thinking about Being. Second, Heidegger radically shifts the understanding of the relationship between Being, time, and the existential reality of the human being. While Heidegger’s actual discussion is complex and nuanced, there is a simple way of thinking about his core idea: Being is contingent on time, and human beings mark their existence in DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-41

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406  Mark A. Menaldo time, which is shot through with the absolute certainty that they will die. How each person understands death makes all the difference in how they can experience life. But, first, we must ask, for Heidegger, what is the person and how is death central to his investigation?

The Person as Being-​in-​the-​World In Being and Time, Heidegger deliberately avoids terms like self, subject, consciousness, and even human being. Heidegger wants to dissolve the Cartesian-​Kantian starting point of the human being, which views the subject as the source of what is rational and logical. In an effort to redefine human beings, Heidegger adopts the word Dasein. Dasein is unique among beings because it is aware of Being and also cares about its own being. Heidegger says that what makes Dasein distinctive is that it “always understands itself in terms of its own existence.”5 Dasein either can be or not be. For Heidegger, it is a term that is a “pure expression of being.”6 The person (Dasein) experiences life with the inevitable awareness that time is bound to mortality.7 Death is the individuating fact of her life, and she can understand death authentically via what Heidegger calls the mood of anxiety (Angst). However, she is not clear-​eyed about her reality, and, in fact, experiences the world paradoxically: for the most part, she flees her reality. As a consequence, she lives inauthentically. But, for Heidegger, this is to be expected, because the person is immersed in her everydayness, which we colloquially call ordinary or common experience. For Heidegger, in everydayness, the person is absorbed in her various identities, roles, and relationships with other people. She is thrust into a world of pre-​existing rules (language), roles, and moral beliefs. She may be a daughter, sister, wife, student, nun, an American, or from a tribal culture. It makes no difference, according to Heidegger, she, like all Dasein/​people, is caught in a nexus of guiding roles and rules. Her experience is not genuinely individuating.8 The only way for the person to understand herself authentically is by understanding her life through an appropriate view of death, which points to the radical aloneness of her existence. However, authenticity and death is only one mode of a person’s existing. To understand the centrality of death in the person’s interpretation of her existence, Heidegger first takes us through a dense explanation of the elements of her existential makeup. In the second part of Being and Time, with the existential analytic prepared, he shows how the person can experience wholeness through an authentic understanding of death. The first part (first division), for the sake of simplicity, is a discussion of being-​in-​the-​world and the person’s inauthentic mode. And without at least a summary of the prelude, Heidegger’s analysis of death is nearly impossible to follow. Here, I offer a summary of key points in the first part of Being and Time. Human life is existentially experienced. It does not emanate from subjectivity or conscious awareness. The Dasein/​person is not essentially a rational animal. Nor is human experience reducible to the sense perception of matter in motion. Human existence emanates from being-​in-​the-​world. We can think of being-​in-​the-​world, one of many Heideggerian neologisms, as the complete immersion of the person in a world of meaning and relationships that let her just get along with the day-​to-​day. For example, she uses tools, hammers, pencils, glasses, books. How does she know how to pick up this equipment and use it? Heidegger does not see this knowledge as something developed through cognition, the dualism of the subject–​object relationship. Instead, he believes that she already knows how to use these tools because she cares. The person’s experience is effortless, so to speak, because the caring for things always comes first. All the things that surround her are meaningful, so her world is lit up with significance. Experience in the world of beings is not a series of isolated events, powered by her cognitive discovery of finite objects. For example, she can take the broadfork

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Martin Heidegger  407 from the shed, because it is a gardening tool. She uses it to aerate the soil. But this tool does not mean anything to her in isolation. Instead, the broadfork exists in the larger context of gardening. She picks out the tool in the spring because she is going to plant vegetables for her summer garden. She gardens, because her mother and grandfather did as well, and she is trying to pass the green thumb down to her children. In gardening, as well as all her other choices and doings, she makes use of circumspect intelligibility. Her choices and getting along in the world are tied to a pre-​existing web of meaning and ends (for the sake of) that she is continuously advancing toward. Everydayness is the state of being-​in-​the-​world; it is pre-​philosophical and does not involve reasoning. In contrast, René Descartes’s famous thought experiment in his Meditations on First Philosophy divides the mind from objects.9 Descartes creates a dualism between the immaterial mind and extended bodies or objects that the mind encounters (the subject–​object distinction). Heidegger’s being-​in-​the-​world jettisons this dualism. In this condition the person and her familiarity with the world are simultaneous. Heidegger’s being-​in-​the-​world dissolves subjectivity. The person is not a thinking substance. Instead, she can move through relational space because the world is a construct of meaningful associations that enable her to act, think, feel, choose, take on different roles, live with others, and simply belong to a world. As Heidegger would say, the person, generally, dwells in a totality of involvements that are always branching out to numerous possibilities. In other words, human existence (Dasein) as being-​in-​the-​world, is like turning the ignition on a car. The driver, car, road, and preoccupations about where she is going, how long it will take, whether she will hit traffic, be on time or late, are meaningful relationships that happen at once. Being-​in-​the-​world involves the person in pre-​existing meaningful relationships with other beings.10 The person is also temporally finite. And time, so to speak, is folded into her experience of being-​in-​the-​world. The basic way to think about temporality is that every present moment is marked by the past and future. The person is thrown into the world and is already marked by context and tradition. Her whole life is built upon all the past moments (having-​ beens), which she carries into the present moment. The present is also futural, since she is at every moment simultaneously moving forward in her life (ahead-​of-​itself). Heidegger’s structure of time works the way it does, because the person is projecting themselves into a finite horizon defined by death. The person is a being-​toward-​death. Non-​human animals are not temporal, as far as we know, because they do not anticipate their own deaths. Although being-​in-​the world illuminates a context of significance for the person, who is temporal and therefore always ahead of herself, this does not mean she understands herself authentically. It is quite the opposite. She leans on the penetration of everydayness in her understanding of who she is. This makes her a factical being. Facticity is the person’s reflexive character; she understands herself as being-​in, which signifies all the overlapping contexts and situations that define “the-​Being-​present-​at-​hand-​as-​things-​within-​the-​world.” We can call facticity reflexivity or her practical attitude. Her practical attitude absorbs her in everydayness through curiosity. She cannot help but see her everyday world as a busy garden that needs tending, but this does not allow her to truly individuate herself. This problem is compounded by what Heidegger calls falling prey, which is the tendency to fall back on the conventional meanings of the world. The person falls prey by interpreting herself through her public, they-​self11 which denies the person her proper individuation. As a being-​in-​the-​ world, the person is saturated by the investment of meaning that everydayness offers, from tradition, others, and beings. Individuation is only possible by properly understanding her being-​ toward-​ death. In the second part of Being and Time, Heidegger works slowly to explain how such an understanding is possible. I will follow his path and also refer to his discussion of moods, or thrownness, which is absolutely necessary for understanding authentic being-​toward-​death.

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From Inauthentic Everydayness to Authentic Being-​toward-​Death Near the end of the first part of Being and Time, Heidegger says it remains to see the person (Dasein) in its totality or as a whole. A problem arises: if the person is a being always ahead of itself, how does the person’s totality come into view? As a temporal being that is running ahead of itself, it is a challenge to see the person as a whole, since wholeness implies a finished quality. Heidegger examines three phenomena related to human existence: what is outstanding, what is an end, and what is totality. Heidegger ultimately eliminates these three ideas as explanations of the idea of totality but his negative demonstration is the bridge to understanding the person’s wholeness through death. As long as the person is, she is a being that is ahead-​of-​itself, which always leaves something outstanding. By outstanding, Heidegger means that which is continually in a state of what it will be. The person persists in this state of “fragmentariness,” which can only end in death.12 If death marks the point where fragmentariness ends, Heidegger asks if the person can experience this end? He rejects the idea. The person is not adequately equipped to experience death as an end because death is the loss of the being that the person is (Dasein, understood as literally being-​there). Heidegger then wonders if a person is able to experience death vicariously through the death of others. Perhaps, Heidegger speculates, in the death of someone else, the person gets close to the experience of death, by dealing with the death of others as suffering and loss. Yet Heidegger is quick to point out that the person can never experience the death of others in a genuine sense.13 Since no one can die for another in their place, ultimately, “every Dasein must itself actually take dying upon itself.”14 Death is the relational possibility unlike any other. It is an extreme “not yet”; so, as something that can never be actualized it is exceedingly nonrelational. Death is also the possibility that cannot be bypassed, while all the possibilities of a/​the person can be otherwise: including but not limited to the time and place of her birth, her name, sex, occupation, and moral code. All these characteristics can be otherwise, but we all must die. Last, death makes the person stand before its ownmost potentiality of being.15 In plain terms, she may gain an understanding of the source of her meaning, solely for herself. She will sense the source of her facticity, grasp her temporality, become aware of her being-​in-​the-​world as the ground of her experience. Such awareness depends upon her true individuation. She must be able to release herself from inauthentic mode to authentic being-​toward-​death. Death is the nonrelational possibility that is most hers, but she finds it hard to face. It is easier to evade this truth because she is busied by things in the world and is invested in her identity (Dasein’s public self). This state of inauthenticity is neither lamentable nor blameworthy; it is just how the person finds herself. Thus, the change to authentic understanding is neither a conscious nor moral choice. The person does not wake up one morning with newfound resolve and say, “today, I start being more authentic.” Nor is authentic being-​ toward-​death some eureka moment, a fact or method that she discovers by way of contemplation. Instead, she becomes aware of this extreme possibility through attunement. The person must tap into revelatory moods.

Moods and Death Moods, according to Heidegger, are not simply emotions or feelings in one’s head, but are the person’s antennae, which attune her and dispose her toward beings and others. Moods are akin to alternating sound frequencies. The person is constantly tuning into one mood and out of another. Moods act as filters that are phenomenologically prior to sense perception and

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Martin Heidegger  409 cognition, they also reveal essential truths to the person. For example, Heidegger thinks of boredom as an especially helpful mood. It is not boredom for this one thing or activity, but a profound and fundamental boredom, in which the relational nexus seems to melt away. This mood is vital in experiencing time and the world differently as it awakens the person from her inauthentic slumbering through the world.16 Whereas cognition is both partial and short-​ lived, Heidegger’s great insight regarding moods is that the person is perennially in and out of moods. If attuned appropriately to mood, she gets nearer to a primordial and authentic understanding. Heidegger thinks anxiety (Angst) is the most revelatory mood because anxiety is triggered in the face of death.17 Like boredom, anxiety is a fundamental mood, and is not anxiety about any single worldly thing, but a mood concerning being-​in-​the-​world as such.18 One might say that anxiety makes the person reflexively aware of the core truth of her being-​in-​ the-​world, which is that it both reveals and conceals her being. She senses the ground of her inauthentic mode. As being-​in-​the-​world, she is always choosing and moving through possibilities, which reveals beings and a public in their everydayness. Simultaneously, by moving through these possibilities she covers over the truth of her being as she flees from and evades the ultimate meaning of being-​in-​the-​world. This covered truth, which is the basis of her existence, is that Dasein is her thrown disclosure. Disclosure reveals the person as thrownness, which means that she is merely cast into the world that is going to be familiar and significant to her, and also be the reason for her absorption in everydayness. She is always concerned with the nearest thing, and, as a result, does not take notice of her thrownness. In her everyday inauthentic mode, her site of thrown disclosure does not register. But anxiety looms. Anxiety, according to Heidegger, is not the dread associated with an outcome, such as becoming ill; it is not an affliction, and there is no cure. When properly attuned to anxiety, the person’s involvement with things and others is interrupted, which breaks the seamless chain of everyday possibilities and relationships. Thus, anxiety interrupts her very being, demonstrates her facticity to her self, and may attune her to the truth that she is a being-​toward-​the-​end. Anxiety clears a path for her authentic understanding.

Misunderstandings of Death: Inauthentic Mode Before Heidegger explains authentic being toward death, he walks us through three inauthentic misunderstandings of the person’s experience of death. These misunder­ standings originate from the public interpretation of death. These public meanings are essential because they are the standard ways the person interprets herself. Yet, each misunderstanding eventually points back to authentic being-​toward-​death. Death is not a distant and abstract possibility. Death is not static, or an event that happens. Finally, death is evaded and viewed as demise. As an abstraction, the person understands that one dies or people die. Yet, this understanding is always distant and peripheral because it happens to someone else, “to a stranger or a neighbor.”19 Death counts, fatality rates, and lifespans distort the phenomenon and encourage the notion that death belongs to no one. In truth, death is the person’s ownmost potentiality of being.20 Next, the person misinterprets death as an end, particularly as an event. When she worries out loud that “I am going to die,” she is interpreting death as something that will happen to her. However, death never occurs to the person because she cannot participate in such an event. Death itself is closed off to the person who dies, so she cannot be present (or represented) in her own death.21 Since the person is separated from the experience of her own death, as long as the person exists, there appears to be something outstanding in her being. Heidegger observes that

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410  Mark A. Menaldo death marks a change to no-​longer-​being-​there, and what is outstanding is liquidated, while the representable character of the person is dissolved.22 This liquidation presents a paradox, because Heidegger began his analysis with a view to wholeness; death, however, does not provide wholeness. It just ends what is outstanding. Death, therefore, must mean something within the person’s outstanding character. Heidegger articulates this added significance as a question: is human existence (Dasein), “always already its not-​yet?”23 To clarify the meaning of outstandingness, Heidegger offers an analogy to ripening fruit. When a fruit is ripening it possesses two simultaneous characteristics. At each stage of ripening, the fruit is both its ripeness and unripeness. In Heideggerian form, we would say that the un-​ripe fruit contains its not-​yet. The potential for what the fruit is and can be is contained solely in the fruit. The fruit achieves its fullness in peak ripeness, and, so to speak, it fulfills itself. Like the fruit, the person also contains her not-​yet in her being. She moves through a steady stream of lived possibilities, but she always contains the seed of her ownmost possibility. She is in life and toward death. Unlike the fruit, the person never reaches fulfillment or a finished state in death.24 Death is not the person’s telos (final end) because it is neither a state the person can enter into or something that becomes present to her.25 Since there is no direct experience of death, death cannot mean something for the person apart from her existential structure. The not-​yet (death) is an extreme. This simple truth about the person is indisputable, but she stubbornly clings to the notion that death is a separate thing. She misinterprets death as the demise of a living being lurching toward its end. The sciences support this misunderstanding. Our common views of human demise have their basis in biology and psychology. Our notions about demise give meaning to those who are dying. But Heidegger argues that dying and death are not the same. These distinctions are significant for the living. And this form of misunderstanding gives rise, according to Heidegger, to the anthropology of death, which is the variety of ways that societies handle death and dying as a social event; but, the experience of dying is another modality of living and does not reveal the character or nature of death itself.26 These three misunderstandings—​death as a distant or abstract possibility, death as static, and death as an event—​point to the power of the inauthentic mode of death. The public evades and veils death by comforting the dying about the prospect of everything returning to normal, as if dying was a social nuisance. This approach to dying does not permit the person “to have the courage to have Angst about death.”27 However, the inauthentic misunderstanding of death is not totally incorrect. There is a public certainty about death. The public tells the person, “you are going to die.” Yet this public proclamation is also an evasive maneuver because it enables the person to understand death as an “event in the surrounding world, the certainty related to this does not get at being-​toward-​the-​end.”28 Once he has addressed the misunderstandings and fleeings from death, Heidegger begins his movement to an authentic understanding of death.

Anticipations of Death: Authentic Mode Death is always close to home because it is possible at any moment for the person. But there is no clarity concerning when it will happen, and this uncertainty marks death with indefiniteness.29 She may die in childhood or old age, slowly in the suffering of a disease or all of a sudden. It is the indefiniteness of death that makes it utterly strange. This is a strangeness that the person is usually not attuned to, because she keeps busy taking care of everyday “urgencies and nearby matters.”30 The person must traverse a long arc of attunement to awareness. In the mood of anxiety, and in attunement to her being, which I will describe below, she is pulled away from her inauthentic state toward an authentic one. In authenticity,

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Martin Heidegger  411 the person has the possibility of understanding herself as a being toward death, which is, according to Heidegger, her “ownmost non-​relational possibility not-​to-​be-​bypassed.”31 All roads lead to the person’s death, and it is her’s alone. Authentic being-​toward-​death is not one of the person’s lived possibilities, which means that it cannot be “actualized.”32 For example, the person does not become authentic by teetering close to the edge of death through morbid brooding or “thinking about death.”33 For Heidegger, death is a pure possibility, and if the person is authentically disposed to death, she does so only by anticipating death. Anticipation is unlike any other of her possible relations in the world. In everdayness, different beings become available to the person as something to take care of; thanks to the influence of the public they-​self, the person can be just about anyone except for her ownmost self, which is an authentic being toward death. In contrast to her inauthentic mode of being, anticipation of death brings the person near to an understanding of “the possibility of the measureless possibility of existence.”34 How does the person experience a measureless possibility? Anticipation permeates her atmosphere; it affects her and changes her disposition. Instead of neglecting anticipation, she chooses to listen. In anticipation of death, she stands in an openness to her primordial disclosure as a being-​toward-​death. In other words, she lays herself open to this fact of existence, during her whole life she is with death. Once she anticipates death, she is now free and capable of grasping death as death, and no longer does she try to outrun or evade death. Difficult as it may be to form an image of what Heidegger means by authenticity, the person’s inauthenticity serves as a helpful contrast. In everydayness, the person is ensnared in a worldliness that spins with endless possibilities. The person presses into these possibilities. As if gravity were working on her, inauthentic understanding pulls her into a spatial and temporal movement that misinterprets things presently at-​hand, including her sense of self. In contrast, authentic being-​toward-​death jolts the person out from her movement in everydayness. This rupturing attunement makes a startling announcement: that her existence is founded on nothing at all. The measureless possibility of existence is groundlessness. There is no other possible way to be for the person. Being-​toward-​death is both a measureless possibility and an absolute necessity. As an authentic being-​toward-​death, the person becomes free. She does not liberate herself from the world and others, as David Thoreau sought at Walden Pond. Instead, she becomes free to release herself to her authentic movement, which is “project.”35 Authenticity is not a monkish disengagement, according to Heidegger, as the person never ceases being-​ in-​the-​world and moving through her lived possibilities. It is a modified engagement, as she is “torn away from the they,” which is the first time the person feels a sense of lostness, confusion, and insecurity about her identity. She realizes that her ownmost self and public they-​self are misfit.36 Lostness is the precondition for the person’s becoming free; since death is unavoidable, freedom from the fear of death enables a vivid grasp of existence. At the same time, she has no familiarity with her own non-​existence, since non-​existence is a non-​ relational possibility. Death is the one thing that holds the person existentially together, since she shares her own death with no one else. Yet, nothing in her experience can aid her understanding of no longer being here. Therefore, according to Heidegger there can be no philosophizing about death nor a learning to die. Death radically individualizes the person, and it opens up the person for possibilities that are not in everydayness, fallen-​prey, or ossified roles of the public they-​self.37 As an authentic being-​toward-​death, the person inhabits the whole potentiality of her being. Wholeness is not a moral condition in which the person reaches greater human fulfillment. Indefiniteness characterizes her full existential understanding. Through anxiety,

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412  Mark A. Menaldo the person is particularly attuned to this indefinite certainty, and she is free to stand in the face of its thrownness. That is, the person has one foot in the existential movement of things that matter to her in the world, and the other in an “absolute threat to itself arising from the ownmost individualized being of Dasein.”38 As an authentic being-​toward-​death, Dasein is attracted to the core of what it means to be. Yet, to be in this attuned authentic state depends upon some sort of existential suspension. The person is an absolute threat to itself. As an authentic person, she is now ready to live resolutely, in her strange and ungraspable freedom. She can own her being-​toward-​death, and choose her possibilities in light of their alterity. That is, her ways of being are irreducible to the objectifiable, conventional, or take-​ for-​granted. Not only can she project herself authentically, but can also live with others in this way.

Authentic Death and the Political In what way can the person in an authentic mode return to community and live with others? Heidegger never speaks of politics proper, but he intimates his views in other works. Namely, in the Introduction to Metaphysics he speaks of an “authentic happening in the history of a people.”39 This book, which he produced from a series of lectures delivered in 1935, is especially troublesome in Heidegger’s corpus, since it is here that he speaks of “the inner truth and greatness of National Socialism.”40 In Introduction to Metaphysics, Heidegger casts the German people as the torch bearers of authentic history. It seems that the radical individuation of authentic being toward death can be experienced as a collectivity. While Heidegger does not outline a political order, it does not come as a great shock that Heidegger flirted with National Socialism, especially at the beginning of the movement, manifesting itself as it did as a supreme totality. As Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi minister of propaganda, claimed in a 1935 lecture, National Socialism “did not strive for a totalitarian state but for the totality of an idea.”41 Such a totality seems to defy the inauthentic mode and the metaphysical principles of, say, the liberal order. In contrast, with its insistence on the communal over the individual, it is not a surprise how many Germans were swept up by the totality of Nazism, losing their self-​identity, and merging themselves with the organic wholeness of the Volksgemeinschaft (people’s community).42 By losing her individual identity, the authentic person might feel she could merge in the movement of the historical greatness of a people. Living resolutely as a people, and freely for death, I venture to say, could justify immoderate forms of violence and death. For example, it is not far-​fetched, I think, to see how Heidegger’s ideas could translate into notions of heroic death for Germans in war and the violence against other, inauthentic, collectivities. In each case, such actions are grounded in the release and movement of an authentic being toward death that sheds all factical or practical conventions, including moral codes, conscience, and law. Martin Heidegger argues that the person is not really alive until she understands what death is. But everything in her life militates this understanding. If the person ever truly wants to be free, she will stop worrying about and living for others. As Heidegger counsels, she will rally her energies, shake things up, and make ready death in her actions. It is hard to envision what an authentic life looks like that is not damaged by Heidegger’s political baggage. But in a 1961 lecture, Heidegger was asked how we might recover authenticity, to which he replied, “we should simply aim to spend more time in graveyards.”43 Perhaps, at the end of all of the neologism and philosophizing, the mystery of death and Being for Heidegger is quite simple, after all.

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Notes 1 His influence among French philosophers is well documented: See Kleinberg; Rockmore. I would like to thank the editors for their time and valuable remarks, and especially Erin Dolgoy who worked extensively with me on getting this chapter ready for publication. I would also like to thank all my teachers who helped me advance in my study of Martin Heidegger’s philosophy in undergraduate and graduate school, including Jonathan Lee, Harvey Rabin, John Riker, and Jerry Weinberger. 2 See Farias; Sluga; Safranski. 3 See Sheehan. 4 Heidegger, Being and Time, 3/​5. Throughout this chapter when referring to Heidegger’s works, I will use the standard practice of providing the page number of the English translation followed by the original German edition. Italics in quotations are Heidegger’s. 5 Heidegger, Being and Time, 10/​12. 6 Heidegger, Being and Time, 10/​12. 7 In German, Dasein is commonly understood to mean existence. But Heidegger emphasizes its literal meaning, there-​being. English translators of Being and Time leave the term untranslated. Dasein is the term of choice in commentaries as well, but I will not apply that convention here. Instead, for the sake of making this chapter as readable as possible, I will render Dasein as the person. 8 Cusher and Menaldo, 3. 9 Descartes. 10 Heidegger calls this spatial and temporal relational nexus the care structure. 11 Public Dasein interprets itself in the modes of idle talk, curiosity, and ambiguity. 12 Heidegger, Being and Time, 225/​242. 13 Heidegger, Being and Time, 222/​239. 14 Heidegger, Being and Time, 223/​240. 15 Heidegger, Being and Time, 232/​251. 16 See Heidegger, Fundamental Concepts, 28/​29. 17 Heidegger, Being and Time, 232/​251. 18 Heidegger, Being and Time, 174/​186. 19 Heidegger, Being and Time, 234/​253. 20 Heidegger, Being and Time, 234/​253. 21 Heidegger, Being and Time, 223/​240. 22 Heidegger, Being and Time, 225/​242. 23 Heidegger, Being and Time, 227/​245. 24 Heidegger, Being and Time, 227/​245. 25 Heidegger, Being and Time, 228/​246. 26 Heidegger, Being and Time, 230/​247. 27 Heidegger, Being and Time, 235/​254. 28 Heidegger, Being and Time, 237/​257. 29 Heidegger, Being and Time, 238/​258. 30 Heidegger, Being and Time, 239/​258. 31 Heidegger, Being and Time, 240/​260. 32 Heidegger, Being and Time, 241/​261. 33 Heidegger, Being and Time, 241/​261. 34 Heidegger, Being and Time, 242/​262. 35 Project is a form of Dasein’s understanding, which means that it moves toward its lived possibilities in a vivid way, either becoming or not becoming its possibilities. 36 Heidegger, Being and Time, 243/​262. 37 Heidegger, Being and Time, 244/​264. 38 Heidegger, Being and Time, 245/​266. 39 Heidegger, Introduction to Metaphysics, 9/​7. 40 Heidegger, Introduction to Metaphysics, 213/​152.

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414  Mark A. Menaldo 41 Murphy, 175. 42 Turino, 208. 43 Wilson.

References Cusher, Brent Edwin, and Mark Menaldo. Leadership and the Unmasking of Authenticity: The Philosophy of Self-​knowledge and Deception. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing, 2018. Descartes, René. René Descartes: Meditations on First Philosophy: With Selections from the Objections and Replies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Farias, Victor. Heidegger and Nazism. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996. —​—​—​ Introduction to Metaphysics. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000. —​—​—​ The Fundamental Concepts of Metaphysics: World, Finitude, Solitude. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995. Kleinberg, Ethan. Generation Existential: Heidegger’s Philosophy in France, 1927–​ 1961. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005. Murphy, Raymond Edward, Francis Bowden Stevens, Howard Trivers, and Joseph Morgan Roland. National Socialism: Basic Principles, Their Application by the Nazi Party’s Foreign Organization, and Use of Germans Abroad for Nazi Aims. Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office, 1943. Rockmore, Tom. Heidegger and French Philosophy: Humanism, Antihumanism, and Being. London: Psychology Press, 1995. Safranski, Rüdiger. Martin Heidegger: Between Good and Evil. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999. Sheehan, Thomas. Making Sense of Heidegger: A Paradigm Shift. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2014. Sluga, Hans D. Heidegger’s Crisis: Philosophy and Politics in Nazi Germany. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993. Turino, Thomas. Music as Social Life: The Politics of Participation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008. Wilson, Hope. “An Inquiry Into How To Live a Good Life.” What Philosophy Can Tell Us about Everyday Life, September 18, 2015, https://​sites.psu.edu/​philosophyandeverydaylife/​2015/​09/​18/​ post-​2-​how-​can-​we-​live-​authentic-​lives-​heidegger.

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41  Make Live and Let Die Michel Foucault, Biopower, and the Art of Dying Well Tom Roach

Upon first glance, the wide-​ranging scholarly interests of philosopher Michel Foucault (1926–​84) seem to lack any organizing principle.1 Discourse theory, psychiatry, surveillance, prisons, power, knowledge, power-​knowledge, epistemology, sexuality, neoliberalism, ancient ethics and aesthetics, even an essay on the painter René Magritte … it is indeed difficult to discern any conceptual or thematic coherence in Foucault’s oeuvre. And yet, late in his relatively brief life Foucault claimed that his career objective from the outset was “to create a history of the different modes by which, in our culture, human beings are made subjects.”2 Viewed through this lens, Foucault’s disparate projects start to cohere: each study more or less attempts to answer questions concerning subjectivity, power, and truth. How are we shaped into subjects by language, social institutions, and various authoritative discourses? How do we then come to recognize ourselves as subjects? How, finally, might we resist or transform the subject we have been obliged to become? If we take Foucault at his word—​that his career goal was to write a history of subject formation and transformation in Western culture—​then we must pay close attention to his writings on biopower to better comprehend his life project. Arguably Foucault’s most influential concept,3 biopower refers to a form of governmental management that encourages life-​affirming practices to help a population thrive. In contrast to repressive forms of power based in prohibition or “Thou shalt not” directives, biopower and its manifest practices, biopolitics, are productive: a biopolitical State produces health and wellness norms that citizens are urged—​sometimes by threat of legal penalty—​to embrace. “Seatbelts Save Lives.” “Quitting Smoking Greatly Reduces Serious Risks to Your Health.” The subject addressed in these public service announcements is understood as a rational agent that will calculate risk through a cost-​benefit analysis. Citizens are free to follow or ignore public health advice, but, either way, how they live and die is their individual choice—​a choice akin to and intersecting with consumer choice. A biopolitical administration provides “best practices” data to promote public well-​being and offers normative advice for living a good life: what we citizens do with this information is up to us. Importantly, because biopower concerns life-​management, death does not fall under its purview. From the vantage point of a biopolitical administration, death is a private matter, perhaps even a personal failure precipitated by a refusal to heed normative biopolitical encouragements. In this chapter I analyze the political function of death in Foucault’s elaboration of biopower and explore alternative, non-​biopolitical formulations of death that Foucault highlights in his late work. I begin by unpacking the biopolitics of death in Foucault’s 1975–​6 lecture course at the Collège de France, Society Must Be Defended (2003), and the biopolitics of life in his groundbreaking book, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1 ([1976] 1990). I then jump forward chronologically to Foucault’s 1981–​2 Collège de France course, The Hermeneutics of the Self (2005), to examine his lectures on ancient philosophical practices of self-​care and death preparation. Finally, I close with an analysis of a relatively glib short essay on DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-42

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416  Tom Roach suicide, “The Simplest of Pleasures” ([1979] 1996), that Foucault wrote for a queer Parisian periodical, Le Gay Pied. Although the philosopher approaches this typically somber topic with tongue firmly planted in cheek, I discern a quite serious take on the art of dying well reverberating through his impish laughter.

Sovereign Power, Racism, and Death in the Biopolitical State If biopower were a product in need of branding, the advertisement-​ready title of this chapter, “Make Live and Let Die,” could be its slogan. The clearest articulations of biopower appear in the final seminar of Foucault’s lecture course, Society Must Be Defended, and in Part Five of The History of Sexuality, Volume I. In the lectures Foucault emphasizes the role of race and racism in biopolitics; in the The History of Sexuality, published after the lecture course, Foucault mentions race only tangentially, instead declaring sexuality the central mechanism through which biopower operates. Why did Foucault shift emphasis from race to sexuality in his articulation of biopower? Why did he ultimately deem sexuality more important to biopolitics per se? As I explain below, racism justifies the State’s right to take life away, to neglect and kill, whereas sexuality provides a means of access to the “soul” of the citizen and the biology of the citizenry as a whole. Race thus serves the death function for a biopolitical administration invested in life; sexuality, conceived positively as an innate life force motivating behavior and determining moral character, gives the populace something worth dying for. Although in a biopolitical rationality race and sexuality can be similarly construed as sites of potential “degeneracy” that threaten the viability of a population, sexuality is the primary conduit through which the biopolitical State manages life directly. Foucault attempts his first definition of biopower in the final seminar of his 1975–​6 course: “one of the basic phenomena of the nineteenth century was what might be called power’s hold over life … [wherein] the biological came under State control.”4 He fleshes out this new concept by contrasting it with sovereign power. Sovereign power’s effect on life is exercised only when the sovereign can kill. The very essence of the right of life and death is actually the right to kill: it is at the moment when the sovereign can kill that he exercises his right over life.5 To take a subject’s life or to allow a subject to live: this is the sovereign prerogative. Sovereign power is made manifest in what Foucault later calls a “thanatopolitics,”6 wherein power makes itself visible in political spectacles of death: public executions, bombing campaigns, massacres, or, in the extreme, genocide. Biopower, by contrast, traffics not in the termination of life, but in its cultivation. Biopower invests in a citizenry’s well-​being by creating normative health standards, actuarial calculations, and regulatory mechanisms to help a population flourish. Biopower is a “caretaking” form of power that ultimately benefits the State and the economy. “Smoking Kills!” “Buckle Up!” “Just Say No!”: all quite sensible sloganeering to promote public well-​being. Not coincidentally, however, such public service encouragements, if heeded, can save the State billions in healthcare costs and optimize a nation’s workforce. If the sovereign conceives of a subject’s death as the site at which he can exercise his political power, the biopolitical administrate recognizes a citizen’s death as power’s limit. The biopolitical State’s primary purpose, then, is to institute regulatory measures that aid in a life’s productivity and profitability. Death, in this governmental logic, is the subject’s proprietary burden, even its private failure. Moreover, unlike the sovereign who conceives of death as an end to a subject’s life, a biopolitical administration warns that an abstracted “deathliness” seethes within a population. Discussing the shift from sovereign to biopolitical conceptions of death in the late

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Michel Foucault  417 eighteenth century, Foucault notes: “Death was no longer something that suddenly swooped down on life—​as in an epidemic. Death was now something permanent, something that slips into life, perpetually gnaws at it, diminishes it and weakens it.”7 Death thus continues to play a crucial role in biopolitics, but because it is out of power’s reach it is abstracted into mortality statistics that are useful for modifying the behavior of the living. Since biopower intervenes in life to reduce the occurrence of potentially fatal accidents, practices, and deficiencies, physical death itself becomes taboo, shameful, something best kept hidden. Per Foucault: Death is beyond the reach of [bio]power, and power has a grip on it only in general, overall, or statistical terms. Power has no control over death, but it can control mortality. And to that extent, it is only natural that death should now be privatized and should become the most private thing of all … Power no longer recognizes death. Power literally ignores death.8 The death of some demographic groups, however, is more actively ignored, even more deliberately pursued, than others. Even though death is a private affair for all in a biopolitical context, and even though a fearful morbidity surges through the population as a whole, the social groups deemed the most dangerous carriers of this endemic deathliness are not just left to die privately; they’re murdered or left for dead. But how can this be justified or explained, given the state’s purported commitment to promoting public health and protecting life? For Foucault, the answer can be traced to racism, which, in a biopolitical rationality, includes not only targeting ethnic groups but also other types of “degenerates” deemed a threat to life’s flourishing. Segmenting and ranking social groups gives the biopolitical State permission to kill. As Foucault explains in Society Must Be Defended: How can a power such as this kill, if it is true that its basic function is to improve life, to prolong its duration, to improve its chances, to avoid accidents, and to compensate for failings? … It is at this moment that racism is inscribed as the basic mechanism of power, as it is exercised in modern States. As a result, the modern State can scarcely function without becoming involved with racism at some point, within certain limits and subject to certain conditions.9 Racism thus introduces a break in biopolitical social management: it provides a metric for determining which groups must be made to live and which should be left to die. The biopolitical State divides its citizenry into various subspecies and ranks them hierarchically. From a biopolitical standpoint, killing off an inferior subspecies either through deliberate campaigns or passive neglect is deemed good for the population as a whole: it purifies and strengthens the “general population,” which is, unsurprisingly, a raced, classed, gendered, and sexually identified demographic. For example, President Richard Nixon’s War on Drugs was implemented in the name of public health, yet expressly targeted, criminalized, and incarcerated Black Americans, further decimating Black communities.10 The administration of President Ronald Reagan justified its murderously lackadaisical response to AIDS in 1985 by claiming that HIV hadn’t yet affected the “heterosexual population … our general population.”11 The gay men, sex workers, and IV drug users dying of AIDS in droves at the time clearly were not considered part of this select “general” group. On the one hand, then, the biopolitical State implements normative, regulatory mechanisms to ensure prosperity for the “fittest” sectors of a population. On the other hand, it aggressively targets or divests in “degenerate” demographics that purportedly threaten the viability of the total population. As long as the biological menace is eliminated, the State is doing its job. An

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418  Tom Roach anti-​degeneracy logic, couched in a biopolitical rationality, thus justifies the State’s exercise of sovereign power, its right to “play God” and take life away. “If the power of normalization [i.e., biopower] wished to exercise the old sovereign right to kill,” Foucault notes, “it must become racist.”12 It’s not difficult to see how a jumbled “evolutionism” (“not so much Darwin’s theory itself as a set, a bundle, of notions”13) fits into the biopolitical picture: eugenics, Social Darwinism, and anti-​immigrant public policy are biopolitical through and through. Race wars of yore morph into biopolitical public health measures, normative living standards, regulatory mechanisms, and actuarial insurance calculations that ensure the “survival of the fittest” and the elimination of “unhealthy” populations and practices. In this shift, social groups eugenically classified as an impediment to the thriving of Homo sapiens or as a drag on political-​economic growth (i.e., those who fail to heed biopolitical encouragements to optimize themselves) are willfully killed off or left to fend for themselves. In this way, State policies and practices cast a shadow of mortality and “unfitness” onto targeted groups. Deathliness is thus deemed an inherent trait of a specific demographic or practice. It can be a morbid characteristic endemic to a social group that saps the strength of a “fitter” one, or a pathological behavior that purportedly menaces the health and safety of the “general population.” Even war itself, in this mindset, is understood not as a death march but as a way to regenerate a population; war purifies the ranks and strengthens a citizenry’s viability. Hence, for Foucault, Nazism is not the exception to the biopolitical rule but its logical conclusion.14 He writes: “Exposing the entire population to universal death was the only way it [the Nazi state] could truly constitute itself as the superior race and bring about its definitive regeneration once other races had been either exterminated or enslaved forever.”15 Nazism thus takes the two primary mechanisms of the modern State—​a biopolitical imperative of “making live” and a sovereign “letting die”—​to their “paroxysmal point.”16 Foucault concludes: We have, then, in Nazi society something that is really quite extraordinary: this is a society which has generalized biopower in an absolute sense, but which has also generalized the sovereign right to kill. The two mechanisms—​the classic, archaic mechanism that gave the State the right of life and death over its citizens, and the new mechanism organized around discipline and regulation, or, in other words, the new mechanism of biopower—​ coincide exactly.17 To recap, Foucault asserts that racism, broadly understood, is inscribed in the modern biopolitical State because it justifies the sovereign right to kill. Although biopower generally works to ensure the security and viability of a “general population,” typically understood in the West as white, heterosexual, family-​oriented, and consumerist, racism allows the State to pinpoint social groups that supposedly threaten the health of this select “general” social sector. In short, racism serves the death function for a biopolitical State invested in life. But what about sexuality? If Foucault was so invested in tracing a genealogy of social power and subjectivity, why did he set out to write a five-​volume history of sexuality instead of an extended study on the biopolitics of race? If one were exposed only to the Foucault of Society Must Be Defended, it would seem that racism—​not sexuality—​is the sine qua non of biopower.

Biopower, Sexuality, and Life in the Biopolitical State If racism serves the death function of biopower, sexuality provides the biopolitical State a means of access to the “soul” of the citizen and the biology of the citizenry. Familial, medical, psychiatric, educational, and legal institutions invest heavily in sexuality’s significance

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Michel Foucault  419 and cooperate with State apparatuses to produce regulatory standards and docile subjects. On the therapist’s couch, in the doctor’s office, and at the local police precinct, biopolitical subjects are encouraged to speak their sexual desires and behaviors, to confess their sexual selves, for seemingly different but ultimately interconnected reasons. Various professionals across the caregiving and legal spectrum interpret sexual data as a window into the psyche, the soul, the conscience, the morality, and the overall character of the confessing subject. In the sexual confession the individual becomes legible, identifiable, and categorizable. Sexuality is mobilized as a hermeneutic to reveal the truth of a subject and to fasten it to a social identity—​a psychological, sometimes criminal, type. Not coincidentally, this marker of individuality becomes useful in administering a population. Techniques of the biopolitical State such as censuses, fertility rates, marriage rates, morbidity indexes, and actuarial tables appeal to the sexual hermeneutic in order to organize individual subjects into a manageable whole. Sexuality, understood as the enmeshment of sexual desire and social character, is thus invented and implemented as a tool for individual and social control. As individuals, we conform to biopolitical sexual norms for fear of being called out or cast out by family and friends; we anxiously monitor and police all forms of personal expression knowing full well they reveal the sexual self, the seat of moral character. As citizens, we scrutinize one another’s social behavior for traces of sexual abnormality, reserving the harshest of punishments for those who cross the ever shifting, always blurry line between respectable and unacceptable. In doing so, we relieve the biopolitical State of difficult, managerial work; in the name of sexual normalcy we manage ourselves. In the end, per Foucault, our faith in biopolitical sexual concepts and norms, derived primarily from sexology, medicine, and ego-​psychology, ultimately serves the State by “repressing and controlling movements of revolt and liberation.”18 The State reins in nonnormative relational forms and sexual communities—​via sex offender registries, via the marriage institution—​so that it can maintain control over any potentially rebellious social connectivity or collectivity that might exceed the scope of biopolitical management. A biopolitical administration might very well spend its valuable time and resources rallying the citizenry around a bloodlusty racism to justify the vanquishing of a purported threat. President Trump’s campaign to erect a border wall between the US and Mexico to keep out, in his words, the “drug dealers, criminals, rapists [and] animals” on the other side is a contemporary example of this strategy.19 However, unlike racism, which is so mired in negativity and death, sexuality offers the populace a powerful, positive, and purportedly joyful reason to live. Whereas racism remains useful in authorizing a biopolitical State to unleash sovereign power, sexuality provides a more efficient and user-​friendly managerial metric that the population giddily gloms onto. Indeed, beyond merely accepting biopolitical sexual concepts and norms, many, including sexual liberationists, commit their lives to it. “The Faustian pact,” Foucault writes, “whose temptation has been instilled in us by the deployment of sexuality, is now as follows: to exchange life in its entirety for sex itself, for the truth and sovereignty of sex. Sex is worth dying for.”20 With a cheeky swipe at both Freud’s concept of a sexually motivated death drive and psychoanalytically informed sexual liberationists (e.g., Herbert Marcuse, Wilhelm Reich), Foucault concludes: “It is in this (strictly historical) sense that sex is indeed imbued with a death instinct.”21 Ironically, then, our navel-​gazing fascination with sex —​“the desire to have it, to have access to it, to discover it, to liberate it, to articulate it in discourse, to formulate it in truth”22 —​fastens us ever more tightly to biopower. We devote our lives, and sometimes our deaths, to a ruse invented to make us more compliant. We commit to a biopolitics of life because we are persuaded that sex is a desirable, positive, and liberating life force. And yet, we toe the biopolitical line by shackling this “liberating” force to a social identity, demanding that all citizens declare their allegiance to one or another sexual orientation

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420  Tom Roach replete with behavioral norms and social expectations. Gay? Here’s the right way to do it; Straight? Here’s how not to be pegged as gay. With the citizenry’s attention so firmly fixed on sexual normality, morality, and respectability, the biopolitical State can surreptitiously exercise its sovereign right to rid the body politic of undesirables: racialized others, as we have seen, but also those “degenerates” who fit the ever-​expanding profile of “sex offender” or sexual “bio-​terrorist.”23 Fortunately, the control over life in biopower, however formidable, is not total: “It is not that life has been totally integrated into techniques that govern and administer it; it constantly escapes them.”24 After the publication of The History of Sexuality, Volume I, Foucault searches for escape routes from modern biopolitical administration in, of all places, ancient Greece. He discovers in classical self-​care regimens (sexual practices and death preparation rituals) and ethical principles (regarding pleasure, the cultivation of an aesthetic self, and the stylization of death) tools that might help us moderns outwit biopower. In antiquity, Foucault finds an ethics and aesthetics divergent from those attending biopolitical conceptions of “the good life,” and this inspires in him a contemporary challenge: without returning to the deplorable social conditions of the past, including slavery and the subjugation of women, can we learn from the ancients how to live, love, and die in a different form of freedom? To answer this question, Foucault must reformulate his understandings of subjectivity and death.

Ancient Ascetics, Modern Activists: From Death Preparation Rituals to Die-​ins The Hellenistic model of subjectivity that most interested Foucault privileges self-​ transformation over self-​knowledge. It takes as its objective neither the recovery of a lost “whole” identity (Platonism) nor self-​exegesis/​renunciation (Christianity), but rather the self-​to-​self relation. In this tradition, according to Foucault, the self is purely relational: it emerges between and through subjection (socio-​historical determinants that produce a self) and subjectivation (various exercises designed to modulate forces of subjection to produce an autonomous self, a subject of truth). Self-​knowledge is of value only when it can produce an ethos, a change in the subject’s being; self-​knowledge is useful only insofar as it liberates the subject from the self that has been molded by social forces of subjection. If both the Platonic and Christian models of subjectivity require an external moment of transcendence—​a recollection of divine totality and a preparation for an afterlife, respectively—​Foucault discovers in the Hellenists a self-​contained, immanentist conception of subjectivity: “The self with which one has the relationship is nothing other than the relationship itself... it is, in short, the immanence, or better, the ontological adequacy of the self to the relationship.”25 Foucault thus finds an antidote to transcendent conceptions of subjectivity, including modern sexological, psychological, and religious conceptions, in antiquity. The immobilizing effects of subjection Foucault explored in Discipline and Punish find a self-​transformative counterpart in his late concept of subjectivation. Frédéric Gros, commentator on Foucault’s lectures in Hermeneutics, explains the course of action: “It is the fold of processes of subjectivation over procedures of subjection, according to more or less overlapping linings subject to history.”26 The self thus exists only as a relation between subjection and subjectivation: identities are formed in the immanence of history and through history they can be de-​and re-​formed. Although an emphasis on self-​transformation might seem a solipsistic, even New Age form of philosophical navel-​gazing, Foucault emphasizes the importance of the self-​to-​self relation in the political arena: if we take the question of power, of political power, situating it in the more general question of governmentality understood as the strategic field of power relations in the broadest and not merely political sense of the term, if we understand by governmentality

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Michel Foucault  421 a strategic field of power relations in their mobility, transformability, and reversibility, then I do not think that reflection on this notion of governmentality can avoid passing through, theoretically and practically, the element of a subject defined by the relationship of self to self. Although the theory of political power as an institution usually refers to a juridical conception of the subject of right, it seems to me that the analysis of governmentality—​that is to say, of power as a set of reversible relationships—​must refer to an ethics of the subject defined by a relationship of self to self.27 By emphasizing the reversibility of power relationships in connection with the political formation of subjectivity, Foucault implies in this passage that modern biopolitical subjects have potentially insurgent “selves” lying in wait. But how to activate such potentiality? Ancient ascetic practices of self-​care and death preparation here become illuminative. In his comparative analysis of the Christian, Hellenist, and early Roman eras, Foucault notes a turning point in the history of Western subjectivity: speaking about one’s truth (Christian confession) displaces the practice of becoming a subject of truth (philosophical subjectivation). In this displacement self-​knowledge is detached from, and privileged over, self-​transformative practices. Philosophy is ultimately severed from spirituality, and immanent salvation in old age gives way to transcendent salvation in an afterlife. What’s lost in this severance is precisely the foil to biopolitical deployments of death. If you recall, biopower operates through the absolute separation of life and death: death is life’s end and hence biopower’s limit. By contrast, ancient understandings of immanent salvation insist upon a hospitable orientation toward death: a welcoming, even a befriending, of finitude. The death meditation, a “privileged exercise … accorded great importance”28 in the Hellenistic and Roman eras, begins with an acknowledgement of death’s immanence to life. Such an acknowledgment, according to Foucault, affords a number of opportunities. First, however cliché it might sound to us moderns, the death meditation behooves the subject to “seize the day” and live each moment as if it were one’s last. It likewise affords an external view of the self: only from death’s perspective can the philosopher evaluate the moral worthiness of his present activity. As Foucault argues: Through this kind of gaze of death which you focus on your activity, you will be able to evaluate it, and if you happen to think that there is a finer and morally more worthy activity in which you could be engaged in when you die, then this is the activity that you should choose, and consequently [you should] place yourself in the best situation for dying at each moment.29 Simultaneously, the death meditation affords a retrospective view of one’s whole life: its habits, its truth, its value. Whether or not one wasted one’s time, whether or not one was virtuous in word, heart, and deed, whether or not one is prepared to exist no longer … the death meditation reveals it all. “Judgment on the present and evaluation of the past are carried out in this thought of death,” Foucault writes, “which precisely must not be a thought of the future but rather a thought of myself in the process of dying.”30 If death is biopower’s limit, if the modern State uses this limit to establish the normative standards by which a life should be lived, then inviting death into life disintegrates the boundary between the two realms and potentially charts an exodus from the dominion of biopower. Put another way, when sovereign authority can no longer be derived from death, a radical politics of life can commence. What Foucault gleans from ancient ascetics, and what he is at pains to suggest in terms of modern biopolitical resistance, is that a clear separation between life and death is a fantasy no longer tolerable. If, on an individual level, the befriending of finitude foils the biopolitical imperative to preserve an absolute separation

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422  Tom Roach between life and death, then writ large, in the form of collective resistance, it holds the capacity to disrupt “life as usual” and consequently to undermine biopolitical life-​management. A collective “friendship” with death, however, need not be a death wish or a celebration of martyrdom. Sacrificing life for a cause—​even the cause of sexual liberation—​only confirms the terms of sovereign power. Martyrdom teaches us that one must die in order to become inaccessible to power, leaving politics mired in death and the sovereign reigning supreme. By contrast, in befriending finitude so as to loosen biopower’s grip on life, modern ascetic-​activists become neither saints nor martyrs. They instead transform life’s morbidity into a politics of constituent potentiality. For a politics founded in an understanding of death’s immanence to life ushers in what Spinoza calls an “absolute freedom”: a freedom of boundless becomings and limitless energies emergent in conquering the fear of death.31 Transcendent fantasies of an afterlife imagined to console mortal anxieties ironically make death something to fear—​heaven or hell? will I make it, will I not?—​and prevent a frank reconciliation between life and death. In a radical befriending of finitude, however, there is no choice but to live deliberately or die trying. In overcoming the fear of death, we become most dangerous, most creative, or both. By way of example, the inventive political actions of AIDS activist organization ACT UP speak to the boundless artistic spirit unleashed in a state of absolute freedom. Specifically, the die-​in, one of ACT UP’s trademark protests, signals a hospitable and artistic orientation toward death. The most controversial of ACT UP’s die-​ins is arguably “Stop the Church,” which took place at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City on December 10, 1989.32 Because during the AIDS crisis the Catholic church actively discouraged HIV-​ prevention measures (while hypocritically proclaiming their allegiance to “life”), ACT UP responded by collectively “playing dead” during a Sunday service: literally lying down en masse, during mass, in the cathedral’s nave. Beyond speaking truth to power, beyond a courageous refusal to die quietly in an unjust world, and beyond an embodied reminder of the “unfit” populations so murderously neglected in biopower, this protest form is also a ritual of death preparation. Indeed, the die-​in is an aesthetic stylization of both a singular death and the common Death, a practice that brings death “out of the closet,” to which biopower relegates it, and into the public sphere. Through the die-​in, activists familiarize themselves with the deathliness they’ve been told to fear while simultaneously publicizing the event that is to remain most private in a biopolitical context. Die-​ins, then, disrupt biopolitical “life as usual” by refusing to accept the terms of the biopolitical contract. They exemplify a constituent power “from below” that refuses both to transcend death and to privatize it. Die-​ins are a potent form of activism in the age of biopower in that they reveal what is at stake in biopolitical life-​management: living artistically—​or, in Spinozian terms, absolute freedom. In ancient ascetic practice, philosophers stylized their death by crafting individualized “friendships” with finitude through meditation and ritual. In a modern context, beyond the activist die-​in, how might we do the same? For Foucault, the ultimate stylization of death available to us is none other than the suicidal meditation: a procedure requiring “a great deal of attention and competence” on the part of its most skilled practitioners.33 Although no one has a say in being born, Foucault reminds us, we can certainly have a say in how we die—​and we should embrace the event of our extinction as the ancients embraced immanent salvation: as an opportunity for artistic invention. Echoing ascetic advice for transforming a life into a work of art, Foucault urges: One has to prepare it [i.e., the event of death] bit by bit, decorate it, arrange the details, find the ingredients, imagine it, choose it, get advice on it, shave it into a work without spectators, one which exists only for oneself, just for that shortest little moment of life.34

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Michel Foucault  423 Indeed, the suicidal meditation, both the imaginative exercise and the aesthetic arrangements, can be a “fathomless pleasure whose patient and relentless preparation will enlighten all of your life.”35 Whether or not one follows the preparations to their endpoint, the anticipatory pleasure is “enlightening” precisely because it wrests a life from the clutches of biopolitical control. When death is no longer construed, unimaginatively, as a barrier between being and nothingness; when it is no longer visualized as an ominous black cloud looming over our days; when the typically happenstance event of death becomes a willed, artistic, meditative practice, life becomes a genuinely singular, autonomous, aesthetic creation. It becomes, in a word, free.

Notes 1 This chapter contains revised versions of passages from Roach, Friendship as a Way of Life, 25–​7, 48–​50; 77–​9, 142–​7. 2 Foucault, “Subject and Power,” 326. 3 Ubiquitous in late twentieth-​and early twenty-​first-​century leftist scholarship on the post-​Fordist/​ neoliberal political-​economic landscape, biopower and its kin concept, biopolitics, hold center stage in the seminal work of Agamben, Hardt and Negri, Esposito, and Mbembe. 4 Foucault, Society, 239. 5 Foucault, Society, 239. 6 In a lecture given in English at the University of Vermont in 1982, Foucault states: “Since the population is nothing more than what the state takes care of for its own sake, of course, the state is entitled to slaughter it, if necessary. So the reverse of biopolitics is thanatopolitics” (“Political Technology,” 416). Although in this context Foucault is discussing the function of the police in a biopolitical state (the ones who carry out the “slaughter”), it is important in that it reveals the coincidence of sovereign and biopower in the modern State. In other words, biopower does not simply replace sovereign power; various forms of power, including bio-​, thanato-​, and disciplinary power, are exercised coincidentally in the modern State. 7 Foucault, Society, 244. 8 Foucault, Society, 248. 9 Foucault, Society, 254. 10 See Alexander, 41–​8. 11 Margaret Heckler, Director of the Department of Health and Human Services in the Reagan administration, spoke the following sentence at the International Conference on Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS) in 1985: “We must conquer it [AIDS] as well before it affects the heterosexual population and threatens the health of our general population.” See Goldsmith, 3377. 12 Foucault, Society, 256. 13 Foucault, Society, 256. 14 We need not look abroad to discover a biopolitical rationality inscribed in a murderous desire to destroy “degenerates.” A 1913 letter written by former President Theodore Roosevelt to Charles Davenport, a renowned American eugenicist, offers ample evidence of the biopolitical desire for racial cleansing here in the US. Roosevelt concludes: “Some day we will realize that the prime duty, the inescapable duty, of the good citizen of the right type is to leave his or her blood behind him in the world; and that we have no business to permit the perpetuation of citizens of the wrong type.” 15 Foucault, Society, 260. 16 Foucault, Society, 260. 17 Foucault, Society, 260. 18 Foucault, “End of Monarchy,” 217. 19 See Korte and Gomez. 20 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 156. 21 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 156. 22 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 156.

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424  Tom Roach 23 For more on the ever-​expanding definition of “sex offender” and the ballooning American sex offender registry, see Halperin, 13–​22. For more on the classification of sexually active HIV-​ positive persons as “bio-​terrorists” and their increasing criminalization and incarceration, see Tomso. 24 Foucault, History of Sexuality, 143. 25 Foucault, Hermeneutics, 533. 26 Gros, 526. 27 Foucault, Hermeneutics, 252. 28 Foucault, Hermeneutics, 477–​8. 29 Foucault, Hermeneutics, 479. 30 Foucault, Hermeneutics, 480. 31 Spinoza, 290–​8. 32 Roach, 117, 146. 33 Foucault, “Simplest,” 295. 34 Foucault, “Simplest,” 296. 35 Foucault, “Simplest,” 296.

References Agamben, Giorgio. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Translated by Daniel Heller-​Roazen. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998. Alexander, Michelle. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: New Press, 2010. Esposito, Roberto. Bíos: Biopolitics and Philosophy. Translated by Timothy C Campbell. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan Sheridan. New York: Vintage, 1975. —​—​—​“The End of the Monarchy of Sex.” In Foucault Live: Interviews 1966–​84. Edited by Sylvère Lotringer. New York: Semiotext(e), 1977. —​—​—​ The Hermeneutics of the Subject: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1981–​1982. Edited by Frédéric Gros. Translated by Graham Burchell. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. —​—​—​ The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. Translated by Robert Hurley. New York: Vintage, 1976. —​—​—​“The Political Technology of Individuals.” In The Essential Works of Michel Foucault, Volume Three: Power. Edited by James D. Faubion. New York: New Press, 1982. —​—​—​“The Simplest of Pleasures.” In Foucault Live: Interviews 1966–​84. Edited by Sylvère Lotringer. New York: Semiotext(e), 1979. —​—​—​“The Subject and Power.” In The Essential Works of Michel Foucault, Volume Three: Power. Edited by James D. Faubion. New York: New Press, 1982. —​—​—​ “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–​1976. Translated by David Macey. New York: Picador, 2003. Goldsmith, Marsha F. “More Heterosexual Spread of HTLV-​III Virus Seen.” JAMA: The Journal of the American Medical Association 253, no. 23 (1985): 3377–​9 accessed July 7, 2020, https://​doi.org/​ 10.1001/​jama.1985.03350470025004. Gros, Frédéric. “Course Context.” In Michel Foucault, The Hermeneutics of the Subject: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1981–​1982. Edited by Frédéric Gros. Translated by Graham Burchell. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Halperin, David M. “Introduction: The War on Sex.” In The War on Sex, 1–​64. Edited by David M. Halperin and Trevor Hoppe. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017. Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000. Korte, Gregory and Alan Gomez. “Trump Ramps up Rhetoric on Undocumented Immigrants: ‘These aren’t people. These are animals.’ ” USA Today, May 16, 2018, www.usatoday.com/​story/​news/​ politics/​2018/​05/​16/​trump-​immigrants-​animals-​mexico-​democrats-​sanctuary-​cities/​617252002, accessed July 21, 2020.

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Michel Foucault  425 Mbembe, Achille. Necropolitics. Translated by Steve Corcoran. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2019. Roach, Tom. Friendship as a Way of Life: Foucault, AIDS, and the Politics of Shared Estrangement. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2012. Roosevelt, Theodore. “Letter by Theodore Roosevelt to Charles Davenport.” The Outlook, January 3, 1913, http://​eugenics.us/​letter-​by-​theodore-​roosevelt-​to-​charles-​davenport-​society-​should-​not-​ permit-​degenerates-​to-​reproduce-​their-​kind/​176.htm, accessed April 10, 2020. Spinoza. Ethics. Translated and edited by G. H. R. Parkinson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Tomso, Gregory. “HIV Monsters: Gay Men, Criminal Law, and the New Political Economy of HIV.” In The War on Sex, 353–​77. Edited by David M. Halperin and Trevor Hoppe. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017.

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42  Beauvoir’s Philosophy of Death and Aging Kiki Berk

Simone de Beauvoir’s (1908–​86) views on death and aging have received relatively little attention in the literature despite the fact that these two topics feature prominently in many of her writings.1 Death is a central theme in at least eight of her published works, and old age is the primary subject of her massive tome The Coming of Age.2 Unfortunately, her contributions to these two topics have been overshadowed by her highly influential work on sex and gender in The Second Sex, and, for better or for worse, by her personal and professional relationship with Jean-​Paul Sartre (1905–​80). Nonetheless, Beauvoir’s thoughts on death and aging are interesting in their own right and worthy of far more serious consideration than they have received. My aim in this chapter is to provide a straightforward and systematic introduction to Beauvoir’s philosophy of death and aging. I begin with a brief overview of Beauvoir’s life in which I highlight her personal encounters with death and old age. I then give a systematic account of her views on death, focusing on her answers to five questions that are central to the philosophy of death. Next, I identify the philosophical aspects of her views on aging, focusing on five reasons she gives for thinking that old age is bad. Finally, I finish the chapter with a brief epilogue.

Beauvoir’s Life and Death Born in 1908, Beauvoir was raised in a bourgeois Catholic household in Paris, where she spent most of her life. She studied philosophy and literature at the Sorbonne and in 1929 became the first woman, and the youngest person ever, to pass its philosophy aggregation exam. It was while preparing for this exam that she met Jean-​Paul Sartre, with whom she formed a lifelong personal and professional relationship. After her studies, Beauvoir taught literature and philosophy in Marseille and Rouen before moving back to Paris, where she became a central member of the city’s intellectual community. When she wasn’t teaching, Beauvoir spent much of her time in cafés writing books. In addition to philosophy, she wrote novels, memoirs, political commentary, and autobiographies, which made her better known during her lifetime as a writer than as a philosopher. Beauvoir was one of the founding members of Existentialism and of the international women’s movement. In addition to her prolific intellectual life, Beauvoir enjoyed many divertissements: she lectured around the world, took extended summer vacations with Sartre, and enjoyed a number of romantic relationships with men and women. Despite her good life and success as a writer, Beauvoir struggled with depression. She cared deeply about certain social and political causes, many of which did not succeed in her lifetime; and she was also passionately concerned about various forms of oppression, many of which still exist. Adding to these frustrations were her struggle to accept her own DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-43

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Simone de Beauvoir  427 aging and her lifelong preoccupation with death. The latter was inspired, at least in part, by her many encounters with death: she lost her best friend Zaza in elementary school, she lost her father in her 30s, she sat at the deathbed of her mother in her 50s, she lived through both World Wars, she nearly died in accidents on two separate occasions, and she witnessed Sartre’s dramatic decline and death and suffered greatly from this loss. Beauvoir outlived Sartre by six years and died of pneumonia in 1986. She is buried next to Sartre at the Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris.

Beauvoir on Death Perhaps unsurprisingly, given her life experiences, Simone de Beauvoir’s writings are replete with reflections on death. Some of her works focus on it explicitly while others touch on it as a recurring theme. Her two books with the greatest focus on death are A Very Easy Death (1966), a highly personal memoir about her mother’s death; and Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre (1981), a first-​hand account of Sartre’s final years. Beauvoir’s novel All Men Are Mortal (1946) is also about death but addresses it by telling a story about its opposite: the possibility of immortality. Death and aging are also recurring themes in several installments of Beauvoir’s autobiography, particularly in The Prime of Life (1960, covering 1930–​44) and Force of Circumstance (1963, covering 1945–​63), as well as in some of her novels, including The Blood of Others (1945) and Who Shall Die (1945).3 Finally, although it appears only minimally in her short book Pyrrhus and Cineas (1944), death plays a key role in this book’s central argument. Indeed, these many writings on death seem to suggest an “obsession with mortality,” as several Beauvoir scholars have put it. Guilleme De Lacoste speaks of death as a “leitmotiv” in Beauvoir’s works,4 and Elaine Marks writes that “all Simone de Beauvoir’s writings may be seen as a desperate effort to ‘exorcise death with words.’ ”5 Despite the fact that death is a thread that runs throughout much of her work, Beauvoir does not anywhere present her views on death in a systematic way. This is primarily due to the nature of her writings on this topic, which are memoirs, autobiographies, and novels. Although her reflections on death are philosophical, Beauvoir does not devote any single work of philosophy to this topic. This section pieces together Beauvoir’s philosophy of death as it emerges from her various writings. A complete philosophy of death should contain answers to at least the following five questions: Do we survive death? Is death bad? Should we fear death? Does death make life meaningless? Is dying bad? The following sub-​sections explore Beauvoir’s answers to these questions. As Beauvoir’s treatment of death is currently understudied and underappreciated, this systematic account not only fills a lacuna in Beauvoir scholarship and opens up her work to contemporary philosophers of death but also introduces Beauvoir’s philosophy of death to a broader audience. Do We Survive Death? One of the central questions in philosophy of death is whether or not we survive death. As a child, Beauvoir believed in God and the afterlife. De Lacoste writes: “Beauvoir really believed as a child that her beliefs guaranteed her eternity.”6 As a teenager, Beauvoir lost her faith and was suddenly confronted with her own mortality: Up to that point God had given meaning to her world and she did not take his absence from it lightly. Not only did the void of heaven make her life dismal, but one day she discovered with great anguish that from now on she was condemned to death.7

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428  Kiki Berk In her own words: From the time I knew I was mortal I found the idea of death terrifying. Even when the world was at peace and my happiness seemed secure, my fifteen-​year-​old self would often turn giddy at the thought of that utter non-​being—​my utter non-​being—​that would descend on its appointed day, for ever and ever.8 Beauvoir remained an atheist for the rest of her life, and she never regained her belief in life after death. According to Beauvoir, death is simply the annihilation of consciousness. One apparent implication of this view is that death (not to be confused with the process of dying) cannot be experienced, a point she makes repeatedly. “Death will never lie within my grasp,”9 she says; and: “I shall never apprehend death; all I will ever know is this illusive foretaste, mingled with the flavor of my living days.”10 Relatedly, Beauvoir says that she doesn’t believe that she and Sartre will be reunited after death, for “between nothing and nothing there can be no bond.”11 In short, according to Beauvoir, death is the end of human existence and, as such, it is the end of human experience, too. Is Death Bad? Another central question in philosophy of death is whether death is bad—​more specifically, whether the state of being dead (as opposed to the process of dying) is bad for the one who dies (as opposed to for those who are left behind). Beauvoir clearly holds a negative view of death. She calls it “an unjustifiable violation”12 and writes that death is a “shocking and unacceptable fact.”13 At first glance, this is surprising given the fact that Beauvoir holds that death is the annihilation of consciousness and so cannot be experienced. The ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus famously seized upon this point to argue that death is not bad at all. In his words: “death … is nothing to us, since so long as we exist, death is not with us; but when death comes, then we do not exist.”14 Beauvoir’s repeated claims, quoted in the last section, that death cannot be experienced are reminiscent of Epicurus’s view; so, why doesn’t she think, along with Epicurus, that death is not bad? Beauvoir apparently holds a version of what is now called the “Deprivation View.” According to this view, death is bad not because of any positive qualities it has (for example, pain or boredom), but rather because it deprives us of the potential goods that life has to offer. In Beauvoir’s case, however, the concern is not so much with the deprivation of any particular goods, such as friendship or pleasure, but rather with the deprivation of consciousness itself. In her words: “What I rejected, with all my heart and soul, was the horror of that endless night, which, since it did not exist, would never be horrible, but held infinite horror for me, who did exist.”15 The fact that each of us must die and our experiences must come to an end is, for Beauvoir, truly horrible. So, in answer to the question of whether death is bad, Beauvoir seems to hold a version of the Deprivation View, according to which death is bad because it is a deprivation of consciousness itself. Should We Fear Death? The question of whether death is bad is closely related to another question—​whether we should fear death. The word “fear” should be understood broadly so as to encompass more than just intense emotional horror (such as the kind involved in watching a scary movie) but also more mundane negative emotional states, such as anxiety, worry, obsession, and preoccupation. The question, then, is whether we should have a negative emotional attitude toward death. Should we be anxious about death? Should we worry about it? Should

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Simone de Beauvoir  429 we dwell on it? This question is distinct from the question of whether death is bad, for a thing can be bad without being the appropriate object of a negative emotional attitude. For example, one might argue that things we cannot control shouldn’t be objects of fear, even if they are bad. Why worry about things we cannot change? We have seen that Beauvoir holds the position that death is bad. What does she think about death as an appropriate object of fear? Should we worry about death or not? One thing is certain: Beauvoir herself was clearly afraid of death. In The Prime of Life, she tells us: “This annihilation filled me with such horror that I could not conceive the possibility of facing it coolly,”16 and she characterizes her own life as “cheerful” apart from her “mental crises induced by my horror of death.”17 Beauvoir’s profound anxiety over death has not been lost on her commentators. Shannon Mussett writes that Beauvoir “was always profoundly influenced by the anxiety caused by the possibility of our own nonexistence,”18 and De Lacoste argues that “The rest of her life [after she lost her religious faith] would be overshadowed by the presence of death, sometimes merely nagging, often times violent, but forever sapping her worldly joys.”19 De Lacoste further argues that her anxiety over death only intensified after she witnessed Sartre’s final days: “Henceforth, death became an intimate presence. It closed its grip irrevocably around her. It possessed her.”20 As Beauvoir herself explains in Force of Circumstance: “For when there is no pride left in life, death becomes even more unacceptable. I never stopped thinking about it now: about mine, about Sartre’s. Opening my eyes each morning I would say ‘we’re going to die.’ ”21 Beauvoir herself was clearly afraid of death. It doesn’t follow, however, that she should have been. Our emotional attitudes, after all, are not always rational. What does Beauvoir think about this normative question? Regardless of her own emotional attitude toward death, does she think that fear of death is rationally justified? Unfortunately, there is no easy answer to this question. As far as I know, Beauvoir nowhere talks about whether we ought to fear death. Nor can we infer an answer to this question from the fact that she thinks that death is bad, since, as I explained above, a thing’s being bad does not automatically make it an appropriate object of fear. Nor can we infer, following Epicurus, that death shouldn’t be feared because we will never experience being dead. Beauvoir rejects Epicurus’s related line of reasoning for the conclusion that death is not bad, so she might reject this inference as well. All we can say with certainty is that Beauvoir was deeply and profoundly afraid of death. Whether or not she should have been, in her own eyes, is an open question. Does Death Make Life Meaningless? In The Prime of Life, Beauvoir suggests that her own life was meaningless in the face of death: I could not bear to think of myself as finite and ephemeral, a drop of water in the ocean; at times all my endeavors seemed vanity, happiness became a false lure, and the world wore the mocking illusory mask of Nothingness.22 De Lacoste embraces this interpretation: Most of all, in those years, [Beauvoir] was stricken by a sense of the meaninglessness of her whole life, for at her death, all the knowledge she had amassed, all the paintings and the music she had appreciated, all the places she had seen in her travels, would amount to nothing, not having enriched the earth itself in any way.23

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430  Kiki Berk However, although she does sometimes feel this way (namely, that death deprives her life of meaning), I do not think that it is Beauvoir’s considered view. To start, there are a number of places where Beauvoir says just the opposite—​namely, that death gives meaning to life and that without death life would be meaningless. For example, she says about her book Pyrrhus and Cineas that in it she “wanted to demonstrate that without [death] there could be neither projects or values”24 And in The Prime of Life, she writes: “If our lives were infinite, they would merge into universal indifference. Though death challenges our existence, it also gives meaning to our lives,”25 and also: “I learned that … it was possible to accept death in order that life might keep its meaning.”26 Finally, in The Blood of Others, she writes: “It is sometimes necessary to risk death for life to remain meaningful.”27 Another source of evidence that Beauvoir rejects the view that death deprives life of meaning is her novel All Men Are Mortal, which chronicles the life of an immortal man named Fosca. Far from being desirable, this man’s immortality causes him to lose—​or simply to lack—​many of the values that make our lives meaningful, including engagement, identity, virtue, and love. In this story, Beauvoir describes immortality as “a terrible curse”;28 and elsewhere she says, “whether you think of it as heavenly or as earthly, if you love life immortality is no consolation for death.”29 If death is necessary for a meaningful life, as Beauvoir thinks, then there is a sense in which death is actually good. Doesn’t this contradict the point made earlier that, according to Beauvoir, death is bad? I don’t think so. A thing can be both good and bad without contradiction so long as it is good in one respect and bad in another. According to Beauvoir, death is bad (in one respect) because it deprives us of consciousness, but it is good (in another respect) because without it our lives would be meaningless. This view is perfectly consistent. It does, however, raise the question of whether death is, all things considered, good or bad. Which is it? As I said earlier, Beauvoir thinks that immortality is worse than death. But it doesn’t follow from this belief that death is good, for death and immortality might both be bad, with death being simply the lesser of these two evils. In fact, this seems to be precisely what Beauvoir thinks. Even though death is preferable to immortality, the former is still bad. The only truly good scenario would be one in which we don’t die and our lives have meaning, but this, according to Beauvoir, is an impossibility. An immortal and meaningful life is desirable, but it is something we can never have. Is Dying Bad? Death is different from dying. Death is the state of being dead, which (according to Beauvoir) is equivalent to non-​existence. Dying, by contrast, is the process that takes place immediately before death and ends in death. We will never experience being dead (non-​existence), but we will experience dying—​for dying people are still alive and conscious. Beauvoir addresses dying in two of her works: A Very Easy Death, in which she describes the events leading up to her mother’s death, and Adieux, in which she describes the events leading up to Sartre’s death. These are highly personal and honest works in which the pain and suffering involved at the end of these two lives are vividly described. Based on these two accounts, Beauvoir clearly thinks that dying can be horrible. About her mother’s death, she writes that “nothing on earth could possibly justify these moments of pointless torment.”30 And Sartre’s final days were also awful, if not more so. Clearly, dying can be bad. In fact, it can be so bad that it is worse than the horror of death. In Beauvoir’s words, “at least death guarantees me against an excess of suffering.”31 But is dying always bad? Not necessarily. After all, some people die peacefully in their sleep.

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Simone de Beauvoir  431 But this is not always the case, and Beauvoir is keen to point out that dying can be absolutely horrible. Of all three, if death is bad, and immortality is worse, then dying is—​at least sometimes—​the worst.

Beauvoir on Aging Whereas Beauvoir gives no systematic treatment of death, the same cannot be said about old age.32 Her massive book The Coming of Age provides a comprehensive account of the biological, historical, anthropological, and sociological aspects of aging. The book is not primarily philosophical, but it does contain a number of philosophical insights on this important topic. Beauvoir’s view of old age is perhaps even more negative than her view of death. For one thing, old age brings us closer to death and so inherits the badness of the latter. In her words: “I was afraid of growing old, too … because of the ever stronger taste of death that would poison my every living moment.”33 And: “the aged person is no more than a corpse under suspended sentence.”34 But old age is not bad for this reason alone. In The Coming of Age, Beauvoir gives five additional reasons for thinking that old age is bad: old age causes us to lose our identity; old age is typically understood in “bad faith”; old age belongs to our “being-​for-​others”; old age threatens the meaning of our lives; and old age defines a class of people whose lives are undervalued in our society. This section explores these reasons in more detail. Before we begin, however, it is important to note that these five ways in which old age is bad are contingent. None of them is a reason to think that aging is bad in itself. They all depend upon the ways in which we think about old age and how we treat the elderly in our society. Thus, The Coming of Age can be seen as an essentially political work: it raises awareness of the issues surrounding old age and calls for a radical change in our way of thinking about and treating it in our society. The following discussion should be understood with this political agenda in mind. Change in Identity Death and old age both involve negative change, but the change involved in the latter is worse than that involved in the former—​at least according to Beauvoir. Someone who dies ceases to exist, but this does not undo the kind of person they were. A brave soldier who dies on the battlefield is no longer there, but she was never forced to become something other than what she was—​a brave soldier. Thus, death is a “disappearance” in which “I retain my identity,” Beauvoir says.35 Someone who gets old, however, is transformed into a qualitatively different person. A brave soldier who grows old and feeble is literally the same individual (or “numerically identical,” as philosophers would say), but her character and personality are so qualitatively different that she no longer identifies with herself. Such a fate, Beauvoir thinks, is literally worse than death. Thus, “it is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life’s parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny.”36 Bad Faith According to Beauvoir, our attitudes toward old age are by and large instances of “bad faith,” or lies we tell ourselves in order to avoid coming to grips with an uncomfortable truth. We tacitly assume that old age is something that happens to other people, not to ourselves. Of course, none of us would openly deny that we must someday grow old, but this remains on a purely intellectual level and rarely, if ever, touches us to our core. We say we must grow

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432  Kiki Berk old without really believing it. This attitude of bad faith is aided by a tendency to perceive the elderly as not being fully human. In Beauvoir’s words, “old age is particularly difficult to assume because we have always regarded it as something alien, a foreign species.”37 By seeing the elderly as belonging to a different group, we allow ourselves to be deceived into thinking that we will not someday be one of them. Again, none of us would say as much intellectually, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t tacitly believe it on a deeper level. As an existentialist, Beauvoir values authenticity above all else (except, perhaps, freedom), which is diametrically opposed to bad faith. We shouldn’t lie to ourselves in order to avoid uncomfortable truths—​like the fact that we will someday grow old. But the bad faith involved in our attitudes toward old age has two further negative consequences. First, by denying that we ourselves will grow old we make it that much more difficult for ourselves when it happens—​as it most certainly will. Old age is not always easy, and being in denial about it until it finally happens prevents us from being emotionally—​and existentially—​ prepared for it when it does. Second, our tacit treatment of the elderly as if they belonged to a “foreign species” is harmful to them, for it allows us to ignore their interests and disregard their concerns. If we truly thought of the elderly as belonging to the same group as ourselves, then we would treat them much better than we do. But, in order for that to happen, we must change the way that we think about them—​and about ourselves. (Interestingly, Beauvoir herself seems to have had these “bad faith” attitudes toward old age, as several scholars have pointed out.38) Being-​for-​Others Beauvoir thinks that, from a first-​person perspective, we never grow old. Even though we all experience physical decline (at some point), she thinks that we don’t experience ourselves as aging subjectively—​“on the inside,” so to speak. In line with this, she thinks that it is only through other people that we find out we are old. Beauvoir tells us that she never thought of herself as old until she overheard a student saying to another: “So, Simone de Beauvoir is an old woman, then!”39 Old age is not part of our experience of ourselves; it is part of other people’s experiences of us. Unfortunately, the fact that this aspect of our being—​our “being-​ for-​others,” as Beauvoir (following Sartre) calls it—​is determined by other people does not make it any less real. The human person is, according to Beauvoir (again, following Sartre), a composite of her being-​for-​itself and her being-​for-​others. The problem with this inescapable aspect of our being is that it severely limits our freedom. Having being-​for-​others means that other people get to define, at least partly, what we are like. Our being-​for-​others includes not just our age but also our class, our gender, and our race. Such externally defined categories are then used (or, rather, abused) to stereotype and to discriminate. An old woman is not seen by others for what she freely chooses to be, let alone the way she sees herself; rather, she is seen as just an old woman, with all that that implies. And this attitude is then used to marginalize, disregard, and ultimately harm the elderly. The solution is not to jettison our being-​for-​others, which is a metaphysical impossibility, but rather to change our attitudes so that we see the elderly as more than just objects, defined by their membership of a certain category (“the old”), but also as conscious subjects who can freely engage in projects of their own—​just like everyone else. Meaning in Life According to Beauvoir, the meaning in a person’s life is generated by the projects in which that person freely engages. Two features of projects are especially important for our purposes. First, projects are forward-​looking. They aim at something in the future and make

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Simone de Beauvoir  433 sense only when they are considered in that light. As Mussett puts it: “A project is a conscious, freely-​chosen action that is not only willed in the present moment, but into the future as well.”40 This implies that the meaning generated by these projects is forward-​looking, too: “The whole meaning of our life is in a question in the future that is waiting for us.”41 Second, according to Beauvoir, projects involve doing rather than being. A project is not something that one is but rather something that one does. Projects involve activity. And since the meaning in our lives is generated by the projects we engage in, it follows that our lives are meaningful only if we are active—​doing rather than simply being. From these considerations it follows, Beauvoir thinks, that the elderly tend to have little meaning in their lives. Most of their lives are behind them and, as a result, they tend to spend their time looking backwards (for example, telling stories about the past) rather than forwards (such as making plans for the future). Furthermore, Beauvoir thinks, the lives of the elderly are defined much more by their being (what they have become) than by their doing (what they are planning). These two common features of old age—​looking backwards (as opposed to forwards) and being (rather than doing)—​are in direct opposition to the essentially forward-​looking, active nature of projects. It follows, Beauvoir thinks, that the elderly engage in fewer projects and so have less meaning in their lives. Of course, the elderly still do things and think about the future, but these are not “projects” in the most robust, meaning-​generating sense. As Mussett explains: “Although [the elderly] may engage in any number of activities, for Beauvoir, these are not projects in the sense of freely-​chosen and willed actions that transcend the current situation into an open future.”42 The lack of meaning in the lives of the elderly is compounded by the fact that the unprivileged are unable to create meaning in their old age because they were never allowed to create such meaning in the first place. Unprivileged people are exploited by the system, forced to spend their entire lives doing meaningless work in order to survive. In Beauvoir’s words, they have “not been granted the possibility of committing [themselves] to projects that might have peopled the world with goals, values and reasons for existence.”43 After their aging bodies are no longer useful, they are forced into retirement. But because they were never able to engage in meaningful projects in the first place, they now have no such projects to fall back upon. “The reason that the retired man is rendered hopeless by the want of meaning in his present life is that the meaning of his existence has been stolen from him from the very beginning.”44 And by the time unprivileged people reach old age, it is simply too late: “Even if decent houses are built for them, they cannot be provided with the culture, the interests and the responsibilities that would give their life a meaning.”45 It is important to note that this particular problem of old age—​the difficulty of creating meaning—​is contingent. Beauvoir does not think that elderly lives are inherently less meaningful than anyone else’s, let alone inherently meaningless. Only the unprivileged, who have been prevented from developing meaningful projects throughout their lives, experience the problem of having no meaningful projects in old age. In Beauvoir’s words, “it is the exploitation of the workers, the pulverization of society, and the utter poverty of a culture confined to the privileged, educated few that leads to this kind of dehumanized old age.”46 Such dehumanization can be avoided if the social and political system is changed so that the unprivileged class are no longer exploited for their labor (or, better yet, so that there is no unprivileged class in the first place). Furthermore, even the earlier issue—​that the elderly tend to look backwards (rather than forwards) and are consumed with being (rather than doing)—​can be avoided if one is intentional. There is only one solution if old age is not an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning—​devotion to individuals, to groups or to causes, social, political, intellectual or creative work.47

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434  Kiki Berk Beauvoir does not suggest that pursuing such projects in old age is always easy, but she does think that it is at least possible. Modern Society Beauvoir’s final reason for thinking that old age is bad is perhaps the most obvious—​the lives of the elderly often involve pain and suffering. As Stella Sandford writes: “Beauvoir’s research showed that … for the majority [old age] is mostly hard, miserable, lonely, poverty-​ stricken and often physically painful.”48 Some hardships of old age are unavoidable—​it simply comes with the territory. But one of Beauvoir’s most important and emphatic points is that much of the suffering of old age is due to society and the way it treats the elderly. The problems of old age, Beauvoir thinks, are largely social and political problems. “Old age exposes the failure of our entire civilization,”49 she says; “old age is a problem on which all the failures of a society converge.”50 Fortunately, the fact that the problems of old age are largely created by our society means that they can be fixed. As Sandford writes: “Beauvoir’s description of the experience of the existential aspects of old age is not proposed as inevitable. It describes how old age is lived, by all but the privileged few, under current conditions, and it does so precisely in order that current conditions should cease to prevail.”51 The Coming of Age is intended to raise awareness about the problems surrounding old age and, in so doing, help initiate social changes that will fix them. She calls old age a problem that has been “carefully passed over in silence” and passionately insists that “this silence has to be shattered.”52

Epilogue The Coming of Age opens with a reference to Prince Siddhartha’s encounter with an old man after he (the prince) escaped from the palace in which he was kept in total isolation from the rest of the world. He was horrified at the realization that people must grow old. Beauvoir tells us this story in order to draw attention to our own horror with old age. But I think that this story also draws our attention to an important aspect of Beauvoir herself. Prince Siddhartha wasn’t just horrified by old age; he was also outraged, and even more so after he encountered a sick person (suffering) and a corpse (death). He subsequently devoted his entire life to trying to solve these central problems of the human condition. Beauvoir was also outraged by these problems, especially death and old age, and she too devoted much of her life to trying to solve them, especially through her writing. Indeed, I think that much of her oeuvre can be seen as an attempt to come to terms with and provide some solutions to the problems inherent in death and aging.

Notes 1 I am grateful to the Simone de Beauvoir Society for organizing two stimulating conferences (Haifa in 2017 and Paris in 2018), at which I presented topics related to this chapter. I am also thankful to Christos and Mary Papoutsy for endowing the Papoutsy Chair in Ethics and Social Responsibility, the generous funding of which allowed me to attend these international conferences. Finally, I want to thank my husband, Joshua Tepley, for his invaluable help and support. 2 The title is an unfortunate translation of the original French title La veillesse, which literally means “old age.” 3 Beauvoir herself writes about The Blood of Others: “I had attempted to show death laying siege in vain to the fullness of life.” And about Who Shall Die Beauvoir writes: “I wanted to portray the fearful gulf that yawns between the living and the dead.” Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 606.

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Simone de Beauvoir  435 4 De Lacoste, 306. 5 Marks, 11. 6 De Lacoste, 306. 7 De Lacoste, 307. 8 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 601. 9 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 604. 10 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 604. 11 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 605. 12 Beauvoir, Very Easy Death, 123. 13 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 316. 14 Epicurus, 85. 15 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 602. 16 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 601. 17 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 258-​9. 18 Mussett, 247. 19 De Lacoste, 323. 20 De Lacoste, 324. 21 Beauvoir, Force of Circumstance, 584. 22 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 602. 23 De Lacoste, 325. 24 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 602. 25 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 606. 26 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 547. 27 Beauvoir, Blood of Others, 318, 322. 28 Beauvoir, All Men Are Mortal, 26. 29 Beauvoir, Very Easy Death, 106. 30 Beauvoir, Very Easy Death, 94. 31 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 602. 32 For the sake of simplicity, Beauvoir adopts the standard of 65+ as a criterion for old age. 33 Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 604. 34 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 217. 35 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 4–​5. 36 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 539. 37 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 283. 38 Deutscher, for example, makes the point that Beauvoir does not counter the negative societal view of the elderly but at times seems to go along with it. As Deutscher writes (286): “The reader remains unconvinced that Beauvoir resists adequately the devaluation of older women” and “On the other hand, her writing seems on occasion to abet these views.” 39 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 288. 40 Mussett, 232–​3. 41 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 5. 42 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 240. 43 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 240. 44 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 542. 45 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 542. 46 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 7. 47 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 540. 48 Sandford, 100. 49 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 543. 50 Beauvoir in interview with Sutton, in Bair, Simone de Beauvoir, 540. 51 Sandford, 106. 52 Beauvoir, Coming of Age, 7.

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References Bair, Deirdre. Simone de Beauvoir. London: Cape, 1990. Beauvoir, Simone de. A Very Easy Death. Translated by Andre Deutsch. New York: Warner Books, 1965 —​—​—​ All Men Are Mortal. New York: W. W. Norton, 1992. —​—​—​ Coming of Age. New York: G. P. Putnams’s Sons, 1972. —​—​—​ Force of Circumstance. New York: M. W. Books, 1963. —​—​—​ The Blood of Others. New York: Penguin Books, 1964. —​—​—​ The Prime of Life. New York: Penguin Books, 1962. De Lacoste, Guillemine. “Simone de Beauvoir: From the Creation of a ‘New Man’ to Obsession with Death.” Philosophy Today, 31, no. 4 (1987): 306–​35. Deutscher, Penelope. “Beauvoir’s Old Age.” In The Cambridge Companion to Simone de Beauvoir, 286–​304. Edited by Claudia Card. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Epicurus. “The Letter to Menoeceus.” In Epicurus: The Extant Remains. Translated by Cyril Bailey. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1926. Marks, Elaine. Simone de Beauvoir: Encounters with Death. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1973. Mussett, Shannon. “Ageing and Existentialism: Simone de Beauvoir and the Limits of Freedom.” In Death and Anti-​Death, Volume 4, 231–​55. Edited by Charles Tandy. Palo Alto, CA: Ria University Press, 2006. Sandford, Stella. How to Read Beauvoir. New York: W. W. Norton, 2006.

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43  Metamorphoses Gilles Deleuze on Living and Death Chas. Phillips

Gilles Deleuze was born in 1925 in Paris, France. By his death, in 1995, Deleuze had become one of the most prolific and well-​known philosophers of the twentieth century. His philosophical work emerged both from an engagement with the history of philosophy—​including books on Nietzsche, Kant, Bergson, Spinoza, and Hume, to name a few—​as well as his original work as a metaphysician. Deleuze’s work is both ‘nomadic’ and ‘rhizomatic,’ with a tendency to draw from a wide range of inspiration and transgress disciplinary and methodological boundaries; thinkers in the fields of literature, film studies, cultural studies, political theory, anthropology, sociology, and others are drawn to Deleuze’s critique of rationalist metaphysics and his elucidation of philosophy without ‘identity.’ The difficulty in reading Deleuze’s texts, Henry Somers-​Hall notes, “is not simply one of the content of their claims, but also one of penetrating their style of writing itself.”1 In addition, Deleuze “employs language in order to destabilize and obfuscate his philosophical arguments,” and “revises his basic philosophical terminology between his numerous writings.”2 Deleuze also tends to appropriate different scientific fields and philosophical traditions into his work, and is experimental in his thinking and writing. Arguments and terms emerge and are later abandoned, only to be reincarnated in similar or dissimilar uses later in his work. As Somers-​ Hall notes, one might take this reinvention as evidence of Deleuze’s “inability to formulate a definitive yet consistent philosophical outlook.”3 Indeed, Deleuze’s approach and method stand in sharp contrast with philosophers who develop a consistent system of thought, complete metaphysical framework, or taxonomical structure of ideas. Instead, Deleuze thinks through concepts, and the concepts he develops transform over time and from text to text.4 To analyze Deleuze’s work in relation to a specific theme—​in this case, living, aging, and death—​exacerbates these significant challenges. Any attempt at analyzing Deleuze’s body of work to accurately discern a set of definitive and consistent positions about a specific set of issues is bound to fail. Even if it were possible, explicating Deleuze’s concepts into simple recognizable notions runs counter to a Deleuzian approach to theory. Concepts, for Deleuze, provide ways of thinking and transforming; they ought to be deployed to deepen and enrich one’s thinking. Thinking occurs when an encounter with something unrecognizable in the world compels one to think; it cannot occur within the confines of the recognizable.5 Therefore, my goal in this chapter is not to settle ‘once and for all’ what Deleuze thought about living, dying, and death, but rather to invite and provoke further thinking about these ideas through his work. Fidelity to Deleuze’s work requires thinking with Deleuze rather than simply about Deleuze—​drawing out new meanings and ideas rather than attempting to distill his work into accessible notions. To proceed, I will first analyze Deleuze’s understanding of living as a process of actualization in which immanent potentialities are borne out in creative ways. Living involves both the specific experience of a particular individual (the life) and a specific but impersonal DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-44

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438  Chas. Phillips notion of living (a life) that an individual ultimately incarnates. Borrowing from Friedrich Nietzsche’s eternal return, living can be understood as the ongoing possibility of newness ‘returning’ from repetition. Finally, and following this parallel dualism involved in living, Deleuze argues that death is an event that is double: the unique individual form that has actualized over a lifetime concludes, while the pre-​individual elements that constitute that life are liberated from their particular form and returned to the field of immanence from which they were drawn. Thus, death is both a culminating and terminal event and nothing more than another transformation in the course of living.

Living: Emerging from Immanence The world and everything that one encounters in it derive from what Deleuze calls a transcendental field. A transcendental field is not a redoubling of the world and it is not exterior to this world. Rather, it is the genetic principle through which the world emerges. It is not a separate world that then migrates to the world we experience; rather, this world, and everything in it, emerge from a transcendental field. But the world as we encounter it is not transcendental, as such. Rather, it is the emergent result of the transcendental field. Transcendental empiricism is thus the accounting of everything that precedes every thing. The thing itself is not transcendental; it is the result of the transcendental. Similarly, life emerges from a transcendental field that cannot be grasped directly. Life is not reducible to an individual or a collection of individuals; it is not the experience of being alive. Life is not a particular. Like the transcendental field, life is a “pure stream of a-​subjective consciousness, a pre-​reflexive impersonal consciousness, a qualitative duration of consciousness without a self.”6 Life is that from which an individual’s life emerges; it is not the aggregation of all living things or all examples of what it means to be alive. For Deleuze, life is pre-​personal, pre-​subjective, and pre-​individual, and the empirical subject that emerges from this field in a recognizable form is the life of somebody. Accordingly, one can point to a living thing, but one cannot point to ‘a life,’ because a life is not empirically represented in a recognizable form. The transcendental field “is not in something, to something; it does not depend on an object or belong to a subject.”7 Instead, it is what Deleuze calls purely immanent. An object emerges from the transcendental field, but that transcendental field is not the transcendental aspect of this object or a transcendental mirroring of the object. Instead, immanence is internal to itself, and would remain obscured if it never found expression. The relation between people’s DNA and their specific biographies partially illustrates immanence and its expression: DNA may provide conditions and parameters for the self, but the self is not reducible to that DNA or even defined solely by it. But, the self emerges from DNA and would not exist without it. The specific biography of a person cannot be determined in advance based on a strand of their DNA; the life that develops from that genetic code draws from a field of immanence that involves DNA, the life’s context and setting, and a host of other variables. Once the object emerges from the transcendental field, it can be encountered as a ‘personal’ life. To add an analogy, living may be compared to the ‘lifespan’ of a stone on a shore. A system of forces and elements interacts with the stone, contributing to its transformation: water flowing over it, other stones impacting it, precipitation eroding it, a caddisfly incorporating it into its larvae case, fluctuating temperatures modifying its internal composition and durability, algae growing on it. Neither the stone nor the forces interacting with it are pursuing an intentional or predetermined trajectory, and there is no clear source of the action. Rather, the stone’s ongoing alterations are an emergent result of the forces coalescing in this open system of processes. Each stone on the shore is a completely singular

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Gilles Deleuze  439 result of its conditions—​conditions and an exact makeup that have never been created and will never be replicated. The future of the stone is already contained in this system of forces (its “field of immanence”), because everything that the stone will ‘become’ draws from and is a result of the complex system of forces with which this specific stone interacts. The creative potential for that stone derives from the interaction of the stone and this system; it is somehow interior to that interplay of material and forces. When the shore is observed as a whole, it may appear to be simply a collective of nondescript stones that cannot be immediately distinguished from one another; each stone is simply a stone. But each stone is a singular ‘self’ that has undergone a unique process of transformation that could not have been predicted in advance. By selecting one stone in this process—​the stone—​one can see the recognizable and ‘personal’ result of the field of immanence. The system of forces and conditions that shapes stones is a transcendental field; the ongoing process of shaping stones is the process of individuation; the precise conditions that shaped each stone and the process of that shaping are actualization. A stone is akin to a life; this stone is akin to the life. Each stone is a contracted event that involves all those conditions, forces, and elements that contributed to its shape and constitution over time. Subjects are thus the emergent result of a system of forces shaping us—​each individual is the actualized result of a transcendental field. Like the stone, each person constitutes the contracted ‘process’ of being shaped by a system of forces. Living is nothing more than an ‘event’ that is the creative process of becoming: the actualization of a series of virtual potentialities, each emerging from the immanent realm of life itself; the manifestation of the particular trajectory immanent to a life, moving from the impersonal to the personal, from the virtual to the actual. To live is to participate in this aleatory mode of becoming, drawing from the immanent field, and transforming the indefinite into the definite. There is a distinction, for Deleuze, between the indefinite article (a life) and the definite article (the life). The life refers to an individual’s life—​it can be identified and named. It is personal. But a life refers to the “life of pure immanence, neutral, beyond good and evil, for it was only the subject that incarnated it in the midst of things that made it good or bad.”8 A life is the non-​specific, impersonal manifestation of Life. A life is an ‘anyone.’ That is, a life cannot be identified with a name or given a personal biography. The life of a particular individual, which we can identify and describe, is a specific life that actualized from the transcendental field. A life is particular in that it is unlike every other life and therefore singular, but it is not personal, and it does not have identifiable experiences or characteristics. A life is impersonal because it has yet to emerge as a specific arc of determination. Prior to becoming the life, a life is the yet-​to-​be-​determined potential to become personal. Deleuze uses the indefinite article to indicate the “transcendental determinability”9 that marks a life—​a life will actualize its particular form, and this particular form is a “determination by immanence.”10 That is to say, a pre-​personal life is not a tabula rasa canvas yet to be inscribed by the personal life. Instead, it is the specific life that emerges from the transcendental field of immanence, where it can be sensed, identified, and personalized.11 Each unspecified person is full of particular elements that are drawn from the field of immanence and yet to be inscribed on the lived experience of the life of the person. Lived experience is the afterglow of immanence. Each person “constitutes the elements of the transcendental field” and is then locatable in the empirical world as an individual.12 The specificity of each person is not the result of an empirically discernible method of distinguishing them from others. Instead, each person is a one of one because each is constituted from a unique set of immanent elements drawn from the transcendental field that will transform over time, and this constellation will never be precisely replicated. Each self is “the index of a multiplicity: an event, a singularity, a life,”13 which means that each self emerges from a specific

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440  Chas. Phillips and ‘complete’ set of elements. As with all Deleuzian multiplicities, that set cannot be sub-​ divided without eliminating the self. A life occupies the space between immanence and the life—​“A life contains only virtuals,”14 and when those virtuals actualize into empirically sensible elements, a life will become the life. Each future exists as a non-​actualized ‘event’—​or virtuality—​that is immanent to a child’s life. When a confluence between that event and the other elements that constitute a child’s life come to be, the future that has heretofore been virtual will be actualized. The virtual nature of the life does not mean that it is not real—​the virtual is very real, for Deleuze. It is real in the sense that it is “engaged in the process of actualization following the plane that gives it its particular reality.”15 It is possible to say that one particular but impersonal person—​a life—​is in the process of living a life that will unfold in its own unique trajectory. Living is the unfolding of this trajectory: the particular but impersonal individual doing this is a life, while the personally specifiable person constitutes the life. The trajectory of one’s life is comprised of virtualities, or creative potentialities, that derive from the rich terrain of immanence and cannot be identified until after they actualize. The process of actualization is a creative one, for Deleuze, so it is impossible to anticipate how the realm of the virtual will transpose into the realm of the actual. Put differently, the indefinite life of one person becomes definite as its specific aspects come to be as actualized characteristics. In the same way a child creatively actualizes into an adult, Deleuze uses his concept of intensities to describe the way something from the unrecognizable realm of the virtual is triggered to emerge in the realm of the actual. Intensities are the differential elements that precede and invite the actualization of an event. “Every body, every thing, thinks and is a thought to the extent that, reduced to its intensive reasons, it expresses an Idea the actualization of which it determines.”16 In this way, the individual constitutes a particular idea that is composed of the tiny intensities and potentialities teeming in the self. Such a self is nothing more than the indivisible multiplicity of those elements. The unique set of elements and their emergence into actuality are what the individual is, for Deleuze, and that process of actualization from the field of immanence is what living is. The subject who experiences this living is the self, while the format for ‘holding’ these tiny elements is the individual. “Individuality,” Deleuze writes, “is not a characteristic of the Self but, on the contrary, forms and sustains the system of the dissolved self.”17 The pre-​individual intensities ultimately manifest in their actualized forms—​as identifiable traits found within a particular individual—​but in doing so, the virtual nature of those elements is ‘canceled.’ We do not and cannot ‘experience’ intensity until something has actualized, because intensity subsists just on the other side of experience. As soon as the effects of intensity are experienced, the intensive register that invited the event is gone. Thus, living is done by subjects who are both selves and Is, but neither the self nor the I is sufficient for describing the integral role that intensities play in the experience of living. The I forms a generic container for the specifics of the self. The tandem of the self and the I constitute a “psychic system” of experience.18 The Self—​which includes the specific content of the individual’s history, characteristics, milieu, and experience—​is located in the ‘actualized’ realm of the extensity rather than the ‘virtual’ realm of intensity. The self is constituted by the actualized aspects of the individual: “The self designates the properly psychic organism, with its distinctive points represented by the diverse faculties which enter into the comprehension of the I.”19 The Self is thus the result of differences and intensities, but it is the product of those differences after they have become actualized. But, because each individual has a particular self, the conceptual self is the “universal matter” of the psychic life.20 The I that correlates with the self, on the other hand, is the impersonal placeholder for the self—​ it is the “universal form of psychic life.”21 It is the form that each individual takes as one’s

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Gilles Deleuze  441 self actualizes. The form and content of the psychic system “explicate one another, and do so endlessly throughout the history of the Cogito.”22 Although the Self is encountered in the world of extensity, it is expressive of Ideas, Differences, intensities, and multiplicities that are drawn from the realm of immanence. There are plenty of immanent components that exist as potentialities, but never manifest in the realm of actuality. Each of those elements can combine and recombine or separate and dissipate. But the resultant individual is a ‘multiplicity of actualisation,’ occupying an utterly specific “condensation of distinctive points or an open collection of intensities.”23 The individual that manifests that condensation carries with it the myriad of intensities beneath the recognizable surface, and those intensities constitute the ongoing potentialities marking one’s life. Living is nothing more than the ongoing actualization of these intensive potentialities. The error, Deleuze argues, is to believe that the emerging individual is somehow incomplete at any point in time, or that it will be whole and static at some point in the future. The indeterminacy of the individual’s becoming is precisely what designates the process of living, for Deleuze, and the potentiality that stems from immanence is ineradicable.

Living as the Eternal Return of Difference Living—​as an ongoing process and experience—​is exemplified by Deleuze’s interpretation of Nietzsche’s concept of the eternal return. For Deleuze, the eternal return does not mean that history is bound to repeat itself or that the circumstances experienced at present will be experienced again in the future. Perfect recurrence is impossible, because every repetition carries with it a reverberation of its previous instantiation. A subject’s experience of repetition includes a memory of its predecessor(s), and therefore cannot be identical to it. Thus, even repeated events bring something new to bear on the experience; repetition is not bare, but complex, and becomes the basis for newness. “Eternal return cannot mean the return of the Identical,” and it “does not bring back ‘the same’.”24 Deleuze notes Nietzsche’s familiarity with the Greeks and calls attention to Zarathustra’s emphasis of the “erroneous interpretations of the eternal return” in Thus Spoke Zarathustra based on the ‘being-​similar’ and ‘being-​equal.’25 A more complicated notion of the eternal return is necessary to capture the rich complexity of the process of living and aging, and Deleuze provides one equal to the task. Like the eternal return, Living is the experience of difference or newness being drawn from the realm of intensity. Instead, that which returns is the becoming of the conditions, concepts, objects, or ideas that came before, though those emergent elements will not be identical to their previous variants. “Returning is the becoming-​identical of becoming itself.”26 What returns, for Deleuze, is the constant potentiality of the new. The eternal return is thus selective rather than (merely) repetitive, and it selects the transformative power of newness.27 The eternal return is an expression of a tendency to dynamically become in the world, and living is an experience of this process of transformation. Moving through one’s life is a process of affirming newness from the “formlessness of the eternal return,” and shedding one’s prior states of being in a process of “active forgetting.”28 Such an experience reveals Deleuze’s rejection of an identity-​based conception of the subject; even a conception of identity that allows for change over time cannot accommodate the creative potentiality that characterizes living as the eternal return. “Eternal return relates to a world of differences implicated one in the other, to a complicated, properly chaotic world without identity.”29 A world marked by eternal return is both “complete and unlimited,” and this is also the case for living. Living—​that dynamic process of becoming—​cannot be reduced to representation, being, or identity. Living must instead be grasped as an integration of the new through

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442  Chas. Phillips repetition. “Repetition is a condition of action before it is a concept of reflection. We produce something new only on condition that we repeat –​once in the mode which constitutes the past, and once more in the present of metamorphosis.”30 Living is the eternal return of difference. Deleuze traces the way Zarathustra must repeatedly broaden and deepen the notion of time to make it sufficiently rich. By relegating the experience of time to a simple circle—​in which the same returns again and again—​Zarathustra’s interlocutors make a “hurdy-​gurdy song” of his conception. Although their simplified model of time may help one grasp the lived experience of repetition(s), the order of time, pure as a pure and empty form, has precisely undone that circle. It has undone it in favor of a less simple and much more secret, much more tortuous, more nebulous circle, an eternally excentric circle, the decentered circle of difference which is re-​formed uniquely in the third time of the series.31 One cannot know in advance what will return or how it will emerge from the experience of repetition, which is why that which emerges is ‘new’. Put differently, the formlessness of the eternal return thus constitutes the undetermined nature of living. Deleuze writes: “the ground has been superseded by a groundlessness, a universal ungrounding which turns upon itself and causes only the yet-​to-​come to return.”32 Again, notions of stable identity are incompatible with this experience of the eternal return, so Deleuze does not ascribe identity to the living subject. Indeed, any identity that is tethered to the subject is “necessarily projected, or rather retrojected”33 onto the ‘series’ of experiences and encounters had by the subject. Without stable subjectivity or a permanent identity, death cannot simply be understood as the demise of the self. Instead, Deleuze conceptualizes death as double in order to attend to the nature of the life and a life.

Every Death Is Double The commonly understood register of death corresponds with Deleuze’s understanding of the life, in which a specific individual who can be identified and biographically located no longer exists. The role of the virtual in living corresponds to the role of death understood as an ‘event.’ This death—​the death of the self—​is the dénouement of an individual who can be eulogized with specific content. But there is “another face hidden among the individuating factors which dissolve the self,”34 and this is the death of the I. In contrast with the personal self, the death of the I is an impersonal death of a generalized form. The second level of death does not occur to a recognizable individual, but rather to a form of a life, or a vehicle that ‘holds’ the personal self. The I is thus a container that holds the myriad individuating elements constituting the self, and death is the releasing of these elements. Death thus contracts the two levels in a single event. Deleuze’s notion of living a particular life, as expressed above, is the ongoing condition of actualization, in which newness emerges from a field of immanence and constitutes that self and its experience. Ultimately, the culmination of this process of becoming is the death of the self, in which the accumulation of specific experiences and conditions that constitute that life, ends. Andrew Pierre Colombat’s reflection on Deleuze’s self-​inflicted death suggests that “Deleuze’s work and perhaps his suicide would provide us with a new point of view on death itself.”35 Colombat interprets Deleuze’s death “As a philosophy of the event.”36 Deleuze’s transformation from living to death, like anyone’s, constitutes an event: the inevitable cancellation of living reflects the greatest transformation of a life’s becoming and can never be experienced by the self that dies. As with any event, the virtual intensities that

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Gilles Deleuze  443 unfold in death’s occurrence emerge from the field of immanence. The lived experiences that constitute that specific structure of one’s life are cancelled in the event of death; the ongoing experiences of newness from repetition cease for that self. For the individual, this death reflects “the end of everything, of every form or ‘shape’ of life”37—​it reflects the discontinuation of a form of life called living. For Colombat, this is why selecting one’s own death is “impossible to realize since, through this extreme voluntary act, ‘I’ am asserting myself as an individual,” and yet death is the cessation of the individual.38 Thus, that self does not and cannot experience this death because it represents the end of the self. However, death is also the liberation of all these specific intensities that corresponded with the specific shape of that life, and this dispersion of specific experiences constitutes the second ‘death.’ Following Blanchot, Deleuze suggests that this death is “impersonal, with no relation to ‘me’, neither present nor past but always coming, the source of an incessant multiple adventure in a persistent question.”39 The elements comprising the self are “no longer subject to the form imposed upon them by an I or an ego,” and both the individual and those differences are freed from their previous form.40 Thus, every death is double. Death is the cancellation of differences for the self—​a self that never experiences the event—​and the release of all those differences, elements, and intensities for the I. Death is also double in its relation to time, as Deleuze understands it. In one respect, death is a banal inevitability that can be easily mapped on a chronological timeline—​what Deleuze calls Chronos. But, death also “reflects the empty shape of time”—​what Deleuze calls Aon—​at a moment that is tied up both with the past that precedes this moment and with the present moment’s trajectory into the future.41 Despite its inevitability, death occupies a moment that can never be experienced. Death is not reducible to the individual who dies; it comes from a ‘pre-​individual’ universe of intensive differences that both precede and survive the individual after death. Death as double means that it is “an event actualized in a present but every present is infinitely divided by its becoming a past event and its becoming a future.”42 All that the individual is returns to the empty shape of time upon death, from whence it can be reconstituted into new configurations. Thus, death can illuminate the nature of the Deleuzian event that is both inevitable and impossible, confined to a moment and yet co-​extensive with an infinite future and history, specified to an individual self and yet opened up to a host of pre-​individual intensities that preceded that self and are liberated from it. Just as the actualization of any experience ‘cancels’ the ‘virtual’ nature of that experience from which it actualizes, death is the cancellation of the specific constellation of elements constituting the individual and a releasing of those elements from the form of that subject. And, just as it is impossible to anticipate the exact nature of an experience actualizing from the field of immanence, death is an ‘aleatory point’ that is always ahead of us and can never be experienced. In the above discussion of living as the eternal return, Deleuze does not believe that Nietzsche’s concept meant a simple return to an original position or an identical repetition of past experiences. Instead, living is marked by novel transformation and metamorphosis, in which only the new returns. The existence of death—​as Deleuze describes it—​supports this concept of the eternal return. Death is not a movement back to a starting point, nor is it the completion of a circle that began at the beginning of life. It is not the simple turning of seasons, from nothingness to life to death. Instead, it is the ongoing transformation through the return of newness, and death is one manifestation of this newness. To argue that death is simply the end of the self would be to (again) make a hurdy-​gurdy song of the eternal return. Instead, death represents the opening up of the self into the empty shape of time and the most fundamental metamorphosis of the self into something new. Death “happens because the act of living is necessarily open to the outside, on new becomings

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444  Chas. Phillips and metamorphoses.”43 Thus, death allows for a glimpse at the nature of the virtual as a vital force through which everything is becoming. The process of living is the process of becoming, even (or especially) if that means becoming dead at a given moment.

Collapsing the Two Faces of Living and Death in the Event Four important revelations are hidden amid the seemingly trite Deleuzian claim that death is the cessation of living, and thus cannot be experienced or even actualized by the self. Living is done both by a personal self and an impersonal I, and these two registers are mirrored in the event of death. One death—​the death of the self—​is the end of everything for the self. The second death, however—​the death of the I—​is a metamorphosis of the elements constituting the subject who dies. As an event, death is impossible to actualize and will never be experienced by the self that dies. However, death is also a commonplace and unremarkable inevitability that will occur to every living being. Death thus occurs but does not occur to oneself. First, there is a parallel structure between death and the ever-​present role of the virtual in the experience of living. Both the virtual and death come from what Deleuze calls ‘the outside’: the form-​less set of intensities that ultimately constitute the formed self. The result of death is a dissolution of that form, in which the elements that constituted the self return “to the amorphous depth of matter.”44 Those liberated elements will emerge from the field of immanence again, where they can be reincorporated in novel formations. The process tracks the eternal return, as described above. Living is simply one’s becoming, undergoing the transformations that are materialized in the actualization of the virtual. Living is simply one’s becoming, undergoing the transformations that are materialized in the actualization of the virtual; it is the contracted moment of time in which new intensities are drawn from the virtual and creatively actualized. But the virtual itself can never be experienced, and the intensities drawn from it can only be sensed. Living is marked by the creative unfolding of a virtual that can never be experienced. Like the virtual, death cannot be experienced by the self, and can therefore elucidate Deleuze’s philosophy of living. Dying, like living, is simply the ongoing metamorphoses deriving from the realm of the virtual. Thus, death is integral to, and exemplary of, living: it is “inseparable from our intensive becomings.”45 And because it is such a fundamental transformation, in which the self concludes and the elements within the form of the I are freed, death can be understood as living to the nth degree46 or the ultimate becoming. Affirmation of the inevitable but impossible event of death is merely an affirmation of the creativity embedded in living. Second, if we take seriously Deleuze’s notions of virtuality and the field of immanence, death reveals more clearly what is entailed by living: the becoming of the self in time. Living is the continual transformation of the self that derives from the field of immanence and emerges in actuality. But the virtuality of the field of immanence will never be experienced—​ only the product of this immanence will be lived. Thus, living is marked by the creative unfolding of a virtual that can never be experienced. Death provides a model for grasping this impossible but inevitable event. Even though death cannot be experienced by the self, it represents a fundamental becoming of the I through an opening up of the self. Third, living and death form an inextricable pair that can be disentangled only on a conceptual level. The two faces of living that Deleuze provides are in tension with one another: the personal self is a manifestation of myriad elements emerging from the field of immanence that cannot be directly experienced. The impersonal self—​a vehicle or form for the intensities gathered from the formless realm of the virtual—​is distinct but without identity. Each moment of living involves the actualization of virtual intensities that can only ever be experienced as the actualized results of those intensities. The tensions between the

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Gilles Deleuze  445 two registers of living do not resolve, but rather commingle to form the productive energy subtending the process of becoming. From a conceptual level, the personal self is in a state of permanent becoming, and the consistency of that self lies only in the impersonal self that is its form. From a mortality perspective, the personal self does not ‘survive’ death but death is merely a fundamental transition between one form and another for the impersonal self. The two faces of death, as Deleuze understands them, correspond with these two faces of living and are in equivalent tension with one another. Death will occur, but it will not occur to the self; death is a metamorphosis that never comes to pass for the self; the death of the I is a liberation of the elements constituting the self and a return of those elements into the field of immanence, but it also represents the end of everything for that specific constellation of elements constituting the self. The collapsing of the two registers of living and death takes place in the emergence of the virtual into the actual, or the eternal return of difference. The event is the eternal return of difference, or the transposition of the virtual into the actual. In death, the most profound becoming takes place in an event that can never be experienced but that must occur. The eternal return is the nth degree of the dice roll because it involves the return of only the most extreme form, and this form cannot be known in advance or orchestrated by the self. The process of becoming is the ongoing recomposition of the subject, in which something new from the formless milieu of virtual elements surrounding it emerges and is integrated into the subject. From this perspective, death is simply the most extreme form of this becoming. Finally, the process of living and dying—​of becoming—​is all done without a reliance on a stable identity of the subject. Indeed, Deleuze’s conception of each subject refutes any such notion of identity or representation. The foundational relation of the subject is becoming, rather than being, and thus it cannot be reduced to a fundamental identity that persists through time. Thus, while it is possible to invoke a ‘we’ or an ‘I,’ these pronouns do not have a self-​same referent in time. Instead, living individuals are nothing more than the ongoing processes of metamorphosis that mark Deleuze’s metaphysical approach to the cosmos.

Notes 1 Somers-​Hall, 1. 2 Somers-​Hall, 1. 3 Somers-​Hall, 1. 4 Smith, 122–​46. 5 Deleuze, Difference, 139–​40. 6 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 25. 7 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 26. 8 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 9 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 10 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 11 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 12 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 13 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 29. 14 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 31. 15 Deleuze, Pure Immanence, 31. 16 Deleuze, Difference, 254. 17 Deleuze, Difference, 254. 18 Deleuze, Difference, 256. 19 Deleuze, Difference, 257. 20 Deleuze, Difference, 257. 21 Deleuze, Difference, 257.

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446  Chas. Phillips 22 Deleuze, Difference, 257. 23 Deleuze, Difference, 257. 24 Deleuze, Difference, 241. 25 Deleuze, Difference, 6. 26 Deleuze, Difference, 41. 27 Deleuze, Difference, 41. 28 Deleuze, Difference, 55. 29 Deleuze, Difference, 57. 30 Deleuze, Difference, 90. 31 Deleuze, Difference, 91. 32 Deleuze, Difference, 91. 33 Deleuze, Difference, 126. 34 Deleuze, Difference, 259. 35 For this interpretation of Colombat’s analysis of Deleuze’s death, I am indebted to Tamsin Lorraine’s rich and original work, presented at the Logic of Sense conference at Gettysburg College in October, 2019. I draw from her extension of Colombat’s thought and her own reading of Deleuze’s concept of death, suicide, and living as becoming. 36 Colombat, 240. 37 Colombat, 240. 38 Colombat, 240. 39 Deleuze, Difference, 112. 40 Deleuze, Difference, 113. 41 Colombat, 241. 42 Colombat, 241. 43 Colombat, 245. 44 Colombat, 243. 45 Colombat, 243. 46 Colombat, 244.

References Colombat, A. P. “November 4, 1995: Deleuze’s Death as an Event?” Man and World 29, no. 3 (1996): 235–​49. Deleuze, Gilles. Difference and Repetition. Translated by Paul R. Patton. New York: Columbia University Press, 1994. —​—​—​ Pure Immanence: Essays on a Life. Translated by Anne Boyman. New York: Zone Books, 2012. Smith, D. W. Essays on Deleuze. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012. Somers-​Hall, Henry. “Introduction.” In The Cambridge Companion to Deleuze, 1–​12. Edited by Daniel Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

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44  Jacques Derrida on Death, the Death Penalty, and Mourning Marguerite La Caze

Algerian-​born French philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930–​2004), known as the inventor of deconstruction, published prolifically on many subjects, including language, literature, ethics, politics, religion, and death, leaving us numerous books, published seminars, and interviews to understand his work.1 In his final interview, not long before he died, Derrida turned to the issue of death when asked about his own question of learning how to live: no, I never learned-​to-​live. In fact not at all! Learning to live should mean learning to die, learning to take into account, so as to accept, absolute mortality (that is, without salvation, resurrection, or redemption—​neither for oneself nor for the other). That’s been the old philosophical injunction since Plato: to philosophize is to learn to die. I believe in this truth without being able to resign myself to it. And less and less so. I have never learned to accept it, to accept death, that is.2 For Derrida, this is a personal, philosophical, and political point, as he goes on to add how growing inequality leads to so many human and non-​human animals being denied a life that is worth living. In general, I think of Derrida as a kind of modern-​day Socrates, in that many of his discussions are aporetic, like Plato’s early Socratic dialogues. Rather than delivering a conclusion, they leave us in perplexity about the problem, and introduce more questions than we began with. However, as in Plato’s later dialogues, occasionally Derrida does leave us with a sort of “answer” so that we do feel more enlightened than when we started. To see how Derrida arrives at this final point concerning the desire to learn how to live, accepting mortality, and its relation to justice and our responsibility to the human Other, we need to have a sense of his overall approach to philosophy and the concepts that he uses in analyzing philosophical texts and in advancing his own arguments. Derrida wrote about death in a wide range of contexts. I will focus on his articulation of death and dying, his deconstruction of the death penalty, and his discussion of mourning, and their political implications. What is distinctive in Derrida’s view of these topics is his concept of survival, his articulation of the injustice of choosing the death of the Other, and the impossibility of mourning their death. Reflecting on concepts that destabilize the gap between life and death helps us grasp Derrida’s thinking about death and dying and how it relates to ethics and politics. He passionately pursued questions about the distinctiveness of mortality, the human essence, the wrong of the death penalty, and proper mourning for loved ones, which help us to consider how we can live and do justice to the Other.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-45

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448  Marguerite La Caze

Différance and Deconstruction Two crucial ideas we need to review in this context are Derrida’s notions of différance and his practice of deconstruction. In a fascinating essay called “Différance,” Derrida introduces a term suggesting both to differ and to defer. He distinguishes between a difference that concerns distinction and a deferring that can be either spatial or temporal, both expressed in the French term différer.3 He coins the neologism, différance with an ‘a’, to indicate these two meanings and to show how it can only be discerned in writing, not heard in speech, because the conventional word “différence” with an ‘e’ is pronounced the same way in French. This change of letter is important since it demonstrates that speech should not be privileged over writing, and it highlights the temporal meaning of deferring any absolute certainty about meaning. While Derrida insists that différance is neither a word nor a concept, but refers to an assemblage or web of meanings, he concludes that “What we note as différance will thus be the movement of play that ‘produces’ … these differences, these effects of differences.”4 These differences are the play of differences of meanings and terms within a language; for example, the notion of presence refers to what are perceived as its opposites, such as absence or lack, which in turn refer to other meanings.5 To describe the relationship between chains of terms and the residue of meaning that is carried, Derrida uses the term “trace.” One way to understand his entire series of projects is as tracing chains of meaning as they refer to past or future different elements they may appear to be excluding. As Derrida explains in “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority,’ ” the two senses of différance correspond to different kinds of deconstruction, an approach to interpretation that finds blind spots, contradictions, and what is hidden in the margins of concepts and texts. One kind of deconstruction concerns the paradoxical logic of concepts themselves; the other is genealogical, tracing and interpreting the history of a concept in texts.6 Derrida maintained that deconstruction is not a method and not something he does to texts. Instead, texts are self-​deconstructing; they have their own way of revealing the conflict between the center and margins, what is affirmed and what is disavowed, what is explicit and what implicit. As Derrida writes, deconstruction “may be at work, in the work, within the system to be deconstructed.”7 In Derrida’s ethical and political writings, he focuses on unconditional and conditional versions of concepts, such as justice, hospitality, and forgiveness.8 Unconditional concepts imply an unconditional demand to be ethical, that can never be arrived at or even closely approached, whereas conditional concepts suggest reciprocity or exchange.9 We can understand the (unstable) distinction between unconditional and conditional concepts by exploring the logic of the true, proper, or absolute gift. A gift that is given in order to receive something in return is not a true gift; it is an exchange, it is conditional, it has strings attached. A proper or unconditional gift would have no such conditions or expectations, and yet when we give a gift, it is almost inevitable that there is some element of exchange, even if it is just a desire that the Other appreciate the gift.10 Derrida accepts this inevitability even though he believes we should strive to be more generous, more hospitable, more just, and more forgiving. Relatedly, we also know that we often have to negotiate between the pure and impure forms of these acts and practices.11 Each of our concepts, such as ethics and politics, is thoroughly intertwined with its paired opposite and the effort to distinguish ideas and terms through opposition elides the degree to which they depend upon and reference the excluded concept. These intertwined pairs appear in relation to death, since death is often opposed to living as a privation of life, and we tend to think that death and life are opposites and can be

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Jacques Derrida  449 sharply divided from each other conceptually. Yet Derrida complicates these distinctions by discussing survival, a concept that is beyond life and death because it concerns the affirmation of life and illustrates the idea of the trace of our existence surviving our death.12

Death, Life, and Responsibility In The Gift of Death, Derrida explores the relationship between death and responsibility through a reading of Czech philosopher Jan Patočka’s Heretical Essays in the Philosophy of History, a work tracing the phenomenological interconnections between history, philosophy, and politics. Patočka was the spokesperson for Charter 77, a movement to pressure the Czechoslovak government to live up to the human rights principles of the 1975 Helsinki Accords it signed. After being repeatedly interrogated he died.13 Derrida concentrates on the themes of death and responsibility in Patočka’s work, and appears to endorse many of his ideas, including that death and one’s own singularity are experientially tied to each other, in that only I can experience my death. Death, therefore, gives me the gift of my irreplaceability. Derrida writes: “It is from the site of death as the place of my irreplaceability, that is, of my singularity, that I feel called to responsibility. In this sense only a mortal can be responsible.”14 Derrida sees Patočka’s discussion intersecting with Martin Heidegger’s consideration of death in Being and Time, linking concern for accepting death with freedom and responsibility. One idea of Heidegger’s that Derrida accepts is that no one can substitute for one’s own death: “Death is very much that which nobody else can undergo or confront in my place.”15 Thus, he argues for the singularity of death, reasoning that while I can die for the Other I cannot take their death away from them just as they cannot take my death away from me: “dying can never be taken, borrowed, transferred, delivered, promised, or transmitted.”16 Due to that nature of mortality I am not replaceable. I am singular and in Derrida’s view uniquely responsible. Furthermore, Derrida considers the objection that Emmanuel Levinas, writing from the ethical perspective, has to Heidegger’s view that it is my own death that is foremost. Levinas held that responsibility is always first for the Other and their death, and secondarily for me and my death and so the Other’s mortality and vulnerability make me responsible.17 That responsibility is the possibility of sacrifice for the Other, an idea Derrida associates with guilt: “Guilt is inherent in responsibility because responsibility is always unequal to itself: one is never responsible enough.”18 Furthermore, Derrida uses the concept of survival, which for him, following Walter Benjamin, means to live on and to survive after death.19 For Derrida, even writing anticipates death. Writing signifies the authors’ death in generating words that will live beyond them (leaving a “trace”) and will be interpreted in ways they will never know about.20 Derrida explains his understanding of survival, connecting it to Heidegger’s concept of Dasein (or the human being): survival is an originary concept that constitutes the very structure of what we call existence, Dasein, if you will. We are structurally survivors, marked by this structure of the trace and of the testament. But, having said that, I would not want to encourage an interpretation that situates surviving on the side of death and the past rather than life and the future. No, deconstruction is always on the side of life and the future. Everything I say … about survival as a complication of the opposition life/​death proceeds in me from an unconditional affirmation of life.21

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450  Marguerite La Caze Commenting on Derrida’s concept of survival, French anthropologist Didier Fassin argues that Derrida provides an alternative to many modern and contemporary conceptions of life based on a dualism between biological life and lived experience. Fassin contends: It seems to me that Derrida’s reflection shatters this distinction: ‘survival’ mixes inextricably physical life, threatened by his cancer, and existential experience, expressed in his work. To survive is to be still fully alive and to live beyond death. It is the ‘unconditional affirmation’ of life and the pleasure of living, and it is the hope of ‘surviving’ through the traces left for the living.22 Derrida sees survival as living intensely, which should be chosen over death. In another sense, survival occurs through the way that memories of us are retained by the living.

State-​sanctioned Death As we have just seen, Derrida’s reflections on the concept of survival reveal part of his perspective on death (and intense living) and how we regard the Other. We gain additional purchase on his views by considering his discussion of the death penalty; Derrida was committed to opposing capital punishment philosophically and considering how we can ensure survival for others in that context. Derrida discussed the death penalty in several works, most thoroughly in his seminars originally delivered in 1999–​2001.23 Many ideas from the seminar are expressed with great economy in an interview, “Death Penalties.”24 In the seminars, Derrida reflects on the relation between philosophy and the death penalty and argues that philosophers, at least qua philosophers in the Western tradition, have not argued against the death penalty. He analyzes canonical texts to show how they have either supported or been silent on capital punishment. Albert Camus’s “Reflections on the Guillotine” is an interesting exception here, although Derrida describes it as a literary essay that can be separated from the primary corpus of Camus’s philosophy.25 Nevertheless, Derrida finds this pro-​ capital-​ punishment work deconstructible. He considers Immanuel Kant’s argument in the Metaphysics of Morals to be the most important as it attempts to bypass utilitarian justifications for the death penalty, like those propounding its deterrent value.26 Kant, according to Derrida, argues forcefully in favor of the death penalty on deontological grounds—​meaning there is a categorical imperative to punish a person for the crime committed with an equally severe punishment that is fulfilled by the death penalty in certain cases. Kant maintains that the law of retribution (ius talionis) can determine the type and amount of punishment and gives the example of murder: “If, however, he has committed murder he must die.”27 Derrida, however, contends that Kant cannot prevent utilitarian elements entering and undermining his deontological argument. He reveals the contradictions and anomalies with which Kant’s categorical and deontological arguments for the death penalty are riven, such as how capital punishment appears inconsistent with unconditional respect for others, justifications for punishment are contaminated by vengefulness, and other crimes, including treason, are punished by death. Derrida also notes that punishments cannot always be in proportion to crimes, especially for barbaric crimes, and shows further inconsistency in Kant’s approach by noting that exceptions to the law of retribution are allowed.28 In spite of his opposition to the death penalty, Derrida argues that abolitionist claims are also deconstructible. Here, he interprets eighteenth-​century Italian jurist Cesare Beccaria (1738–​94) whose arguments, unlike Kant’s, concentrate on whether the death penalty is

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Jacques Derrida  451 necessary or useful. Beccaria argues against the death penalty on the grounds that a life of hard labor will be seen as a more severe punishment and, therefore, more of a deterrent.29 He considers that many will accept the prospect of capital punishment, “some through fanaticism, and others through vanity.”30 But even in advancing the logical rationale for abolition, Beccaria allows a range of exceptions when there are wars or other kinds of conflict.31 For Derrida, these exceptions deconstruct his argument and illustrate some of the problems with formulating an unconditional abolitionist position, in that Beccaria limits the death penalty but does not genuinely advocate its abolition. Indeed, Derrida argues it is difficult to distinguish the death penalty from other forms of killing that occur through conscription and wars, terrorism, abortion, and euthanasia.32 His reason for finding the abolitionist position challenging is the difficulty of finding a principle that will apply to all these different cases. Another concern is that a focus on the method used in the death penalty or avoiding cruelty leads to an “anesthesial logic” that is pursued in the search for painless execution.33 This logic leads to another conditional form of abolition, that is, abolition of the death penalty only if it is not deemed to be cruel. Yet, what is cruel can be defined legally in many different ways, and this idea does not take into account that to be put to death is cruel in itself.34 Through all these readings of other texts, Derrida searches for an articulation of an unconditional argument for the abolition of or opposition to the death penalty, that distinguishes the death penalty from other forms of killing. He suggests that not all state-​sanctioned killings count as capital punishment; for example, the Shoah and other genocides did not involve a trial or official announcement as a punishment.35 And while Derrida does not seem to arrive at an unconditional abolitionist position, because he believes that arguments for unconditional abolition are deconstructible, he arrives at a sense of the true wrong of capital punishment. In an important and surprising discussion—​surprising as his language sounds more phenomenological than deconstructive—​Derrida concludes that understanding the human relation to time clarifies how wrong execution is. His description of death in The Gift of Death prepares the way for this analysis. The essence of what makes us human, Derrida argues, is that we do not know how and, normally speaking, when we will die: The point is that it belongs to life not necessarily to be immortal but to have a future, thus some life before it, some event to come only where death, the instant of death, is not calculable, is not the object of a calculable decision.36 Thus, the normative implication of Derrida’s discussion is that no one else should be able to choose the time of our death as to do that is to violate the essence of our being. This case is different from euthanasia or suicide, where a person chooses the time of their own death, so they do not violate their own essence in the same way. Moreover, his questioning of the death penalty and its control over human temporality inevitably leads to a questioning of prison practices, including solitary confinement, life in prison without parole, and imprisonment itself.37

The Necessity of Friendship and the Work of Mourning Derrida’s concern about the way the death penalty violates the essence and humanity of the Other is also reinforced by his account of friendship and mourning. In The Politics of Friendship, Derrida devises what he calls the “law of friendship”: from the beginning friendship is framed by the possibility that one will die before the Other and the Other

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452  Marguerite La Caze will have to mourn the death of their friend.38 Furthermore, in The Work of Mourning, he writes that To have a friend, to look at him, to follow him with your eyes, is to know in a more intense way, already injured, always insistent, and more and more unforgettable, that one of the two of you will inevitably see the other die.39 More generally, the work of mourning has aporias or logical gaps or contradictions in that to succeed, it must fail. After the death of a friend we want to be faithful to their memory: should we speak of them or be silent? Both are a kind of betrayal, as To go on speaking of this all alone, after the death of the Other, to sketch out the least conjecture or risk the interpretation, feels to me like an endless insult or wound—​and yet also a duty, a duty toward him.40 An aporia of mourning is the betrayal of assuming we know what the friend would have wanted us to say or the risk of doing something to remember them that they would have found completely unexpected. Derrida describes the loss occasioned by the death of the Other as shattering and transformative: another end of the world, the same end, another, and each time it is nothing less than an origin of the world, each time the sole world, the unique world, which, in its end, appears to us as it was at the origin—​sole and unique.41 This might seem an exaggeration, for isn’t it only part of the world that is lost? But he explains further that death takes from us not only some particular life within the world, some moment that belongs to us, but, each time, without limit, someone through whom the world, and first of all our own world, will have opened up in a both finite and infinite—​mortally infinite—​way.42 These characterizations make more sense of the idea that a friend brings into being a whole way of looking at the world, and so in that sense our entire world (and worldview) comes to an end at their death. Quoting Leon Battista Alberti from On Painting, Derrida states that “Death is not one example of absence among others; it speaks to us of absence itself by naming the most absent of absences, the one that is given by death.”43 Here we see what death means for us as an exemplar of other absences. Since we know that death is inevitable, mourning the deaths of other people is also inevitable. Derrida describes the concept of “impossible mourning” where we do not recover from the death of the Other and move on. Instead we are haunted by the Other. For Derrida, in friendship we take in aspects of the Other that we carry with us for the rest of our lives: “For even before the unqualifiable event called death, interiority (of the other in me, in you, in us) had already begun its work.”44 This is part of what he means by the haunting of the Other. We must try to do justice to the alterity or otherness and difference of the Other, so we have a duty to mourn and to mourn well. Derrida wrote numerous essays in mourning for his friends and peers, including Maurice Blanchot, Sarah Kofman, and Levinas, and thought of himself as one of the last survivors of

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Jacques Derrida  453 the sixties generation of French intellectuals. Fourteen of his reminiscences and reflections on mortality are collected in The Work of Mourning. While Derrida is influenced to some extent by Sigmund Freud’s idea of mourning as partly taking the Other into ourselves and Heidegger’s idea of death shaping our life, he departs from both.45 He moves away from Freud by arguing that we do not complete the work of mourning; he moves away from Heidegger by showing how death and friendship are so closely connected, and that the death of the Other, not my own death as Heidegger claims, is the primary experience. Derrida argues, “whoever thus works at the work of mourning learns the impossible—​and that mourning is interminable. Inconsolable. Irreconcilable.”46 To engage in a successful work of mourning, on the Freudian account, we would focus on our own recovery and would have to no longer mourn. In contrast, Derrida’s aporias of mourning suggest that mourning does not and should not succeed in the sense of ending by enabling the person who is grieving to become whole once more. Rather, we should fail by continuing to mourn, by continuing to be haunted by the deceased. A feature of that mourning will be the Other living on in us, whereby Derrida says “we can get over our mourning of him only by getting over our mourning, by getting over, by ourselves, the mourning of ourselves, I mean the mourning of our autonomy, of everything that would make us the measure of ourselves.”47 It is only by accepting that we are not fully autonomous, that we are partly constituted by the Other, that we could be said to truly mourn. Hence, Derrida suggests that our self-​understanding is advanced by our consciousness of mortality and the inevitability of death. Derrida writes of his friend literary theorist Roland Barthes, who is famous for his proclamation of “the death of the author,” which separates the interpretation of texts from their creator, treating their identity as irrelevant.48 In his essay, Derrida playfully counters this erasure of the individual by claiming that the singularity of the person who dies is represented by their proper name, since their name signifies their uniqueness and non-​replaceability.49 Furthermore, this name and the written texts outlive the friend. People’s signatures suggest their deaths even before they die, he contends, in attesting to their uniqueness even more strongly than does their name.50 As in his discussion of the gift of death and capital punishment, Derrida uses the theme of the work of mourning to emphasize the affirmation of life and our responsibility to others. He writes after Sarah Kofman’s death that “The affirmation of life is nothing other than a certain thought of death; it is neither opposition nor indifference to death—​indeed one would almost say the opposite if this were not giving in to opposition.”51 He means that Kofman’s affirmation of life is not made through a denial or anxiety over death. Derrida’s meditation on the meaning of death is taken further in his funeral oration for Levinas, where he discusses death as the “non-​response” or the “without-​response.”52 This perspective on death considers how the death of the Other feels for the one left behind. One way to understand the human concern with mortality is as human vulnerability; the second concerns the unknown aspect of the Other. Derrida’s reading of this unknown is that we are always separated from the Other by their difference and singularity. This difference is a kind of interruption in our relation, and yet “another interruption comes at death to hollow out even more infinitely this first separation.”53 This idea of interruption becomes a way for Derrida to explain anxiety about death as an extension of an anxiety we may often feel about being cut off from the Other, and again why the death of the Other is so preeminent for us. Derrida’s discussion of the work of mourning adds depth to his opposition to the death penalty as it shows from the perspective of the one who mourns the death of the Other the loss that they suffer. Thus, the wrongness of the death penalty is not only that it

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454  Marguerite La Caze chooses or imposes the time of death for the condemned, but also the suffering that it brings for all those who mourn that death.

Conclusion In a talk on Jean-​François Lyotard’s work, Derrida explains Lyotard’s distinction between a beautiful or magical death and a death that is worse than death.54 The beautiful death is a death that is given a meaning, which is authorized, and can be understood as a sacrifice, such as Socrates’s death from the hemlock ordered by the state for his perceived crimes. The other death is the death where meaning is taken away, or perpetrators attempt to take it away, as in the genocidal murder committed at Auschwitz and elsewhere. Such deaths can never be considered sacrificial, except as “an abuse of rhetoric.”55 Derrida goes further by suggesting that some deaths are so terrible that even to mourn them is to legitimate them, to accept in some way that these deaths were authorized by the state. However, Lyotard acknowledges that the formation of the state of Israel allows the transformation of wrong into an effort to exact damages. Moreover, it could be possible to reclaim the meaning of the deaths through collective mourning, such as through Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), although with the same aporias that mark individual mourning.56 For Jacques Derrida, an understanding of the human experience of death explains the wrongness of the death penalty in its choosing for us the means and time of our death, a choice that violates the essence of the human. Derrida also deconstructs the opposition between life and death through his concept of survival, which suggests a way to cope with some of the horrors of untimely death. Finally, his articulation of the work of mourning concerns the impossibility of mourning, and the absolute loss of the loved one, providing a further perspective on the implications of capital punishment. For Derrida, questions of death and life are always related to survival, to justice, and to responsibility to the Other.

Notes 1 I would like to thank Damian Cox and several anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments on an earlier draft. 2 Derrida, Learning to Live, 24. 3 Derrida, “Différance,” 129. 4 Derrida, “Différance,” 132, 141. 5 Derrida, “Différance,” 139. 6 Derrida, “Force of Law,” 21. 7 Derrida, Memoires, 73. 8 Derrida, “Force of Law”; Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism. 9 Derrida, Negotiations, 295–​314. 10 Derrida, Given Time, 27. 11 See Derrida, Negotiations. 12 Derrida, Specters of Marx; Fathy. 13 Patočka, vii, 161, n.2. 14 Derrida, Gift of Death, 41. 15 Derrida, Gift of Death, 41; Heidegger, 279–​311. 16 Derrida, Gift of Death, 44. Derrida also discusses Heidegger and death in Aporias. 17 Derrida, Gift of Death, 46. 18 Derrida, Gift of Death, 51. 19 Derrida, Learning to Live, 26. In Walter Benjamin, the terms are überleben and fortleben. Benjamin, 31. 20 Derrida, Learning to Live, 33.

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Jacques Derrida  455 21 Derrida, Learning to Live, 51–​2; Derrida, Parages, 11–​101. 22 Fassin. 23 Derrida, Death Penalty I; Derrida, Death Penalty II. 24 Derrida and Roudinesco. 25 Camus; Derrida and Roudinesco, 147. 26 See Guenther on Derrida’s work, critical race theory, and prison abolition; Adelsberg considers the historical dimensions; and La Caze (15–​18) constructs a principled abolition. 27 Kant, 6:333. 28 Derrida and Roudinesco, 150–​2; Derrida, Death Penalty I, 140–​1, 273; Derrida, Death Penalty II, 37–​43, 69, 88, 91, 186–​209. 29 Beccaria, 90. 30 Beccaria, 87. 31 Beccaria, 84–​5. 32 Derrida and Roudinesco, 152; Derrida, Death Penalty I, 5, 152–​3. 33 Derrida, Death Penalty I, 49–​50. 34 Kamuf analyses the importance of this logic in the US context. 35 Derrida and Roudinesco, 154; Derrida, Death Penalty I, 253. 36 Derrida, Death Penalty I, 256. 37 See Swiffen’s discussion of imprisonment without parole. 38 Derrida, Politics of Friendship, 13–​14. 39 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 107; for more detail see 171. 40 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 55. 41 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 95. 42 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 107. 43 Alberti; Derrida, Work of Mourning, 154. 44 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 46. 45 See Freud, 239–​60; and Heidegger. 46 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 143. 47 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 161. 48 Barthes. 49 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 34. 50 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 136. 51 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 175. 52 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 203. 53 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 206. 54 See Lyotard, 86–​106. 55 Derrida, Work of Mourning, 236. 56 Lyotard, 56. I would like to thank an anonymous reviewer for making this point about collective mourning. Naas extends Derrida’s conception of mourning to communal mourning.

References Adelsberg, Geoffrey. “US Racism and Derrida’s Theologico-​Political Sovereignty.” In Death and Other Penalties: Philosophy in a Time of Mass Incarceration. Edited by Geoffrey Adelsberg, Lisa Guenther, and Scott Zeman, 83–​94. New York: Fordham University Press, 2015. Alberti, Leon Battista. On Painting. Translated by Cecil Grayson. London: Penguin, 1991. Barthes, Roland. “The Death of the Author.” Aspen, no. 5–​6 (1967), www.ubu.com/​aspen/​aspen5and6/​ threeEssays.html#barthes. Beccaria, Cesare. An Essay on Crimes and Punishments. New York: Stephen Gould, 1809 [1764]. Benjamin, Walter. One-​Way Street and Other Writings. Translated by J. A. Underwood. London: Penguin, 2009. Camus, Albert. “Reflections on the Guillotine.” In Resistance, Rebellion, and Death. Translated by Justin O’Brien, 175–​234. New York: Knopf, 1960.

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456  Marguerite La Caze Derrida, Jacques. Aporias: Dying—​Awaiting (One Another at) the “Limits of Truth.” Translated by Thomas Dutoit. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993. —​—​—​ “Différance.” In Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs. Translated by David B. Allison. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1973. —​—​—​“Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority.’ ” Translated by Mary Quaintance. In Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice. Edited by Drucilla Cornell, Michel Rosenfeld, and David Gray Carlson. London: Routledge, 1992. —​—​—​ Given Time: 1. Counterfeit Money. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1991. —​—​—​ Learning to Live Finally: An Interview with Kean Birnbaum. Translated by Pascale-​Anne Brault and Michael Naas. Hoboken, NJ: Melville House, 2007. —​—​—​ Memoires for Paul de Man. Translated by Cecile Lindsay, Jonathan Culler, and Eduardo Cadova. New York: Columbia University Press, 1986. —​—​—​ Negotiations: Interventions and Interviews 1971–​2001. Translated by Elizabeth Rottenberg. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002. —​—​—​ On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Translated by Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes. London: Routledge, 2001. —​—​—​ Parages. Translated by Tom Conley, James Hulbert, John P. Leavey, and Avital Ronell. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010. —​—​—​ Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge, 1994. —​—​—​ The Death Penalty, Vol. I. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014. —​—​—​ The Death Penalty, Vol. II. Translated by Elizabeth Rottenberg. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017. —​—​—​ The Gift of Death. Translated by David Wills. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1996. —​—​—​ The Politics of Friendship. Translated by George Collins. London: Verso, 2005. —​—​—​ The Work of Mourning. Edited by Pascale-​Anne Brault and Michael Naas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Derrida, Jacques, and Elisabeth Roudinesco. “Death Penalties.” In For What Tomorrow: A Dialogue. Translated by Jeff Fort, 139–​65. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004. Fassin, Didier. “Ethics of Survival: A Democratic Approach to the Politics of Life.” Humanity: An International Journal of Human Rights 1, no.1 (2010): 81–​95. Fathy, Safaa, D’ailleurs Derrida. France: Arte; Germany: Gloria Films; Finland: Kinotar Oy and Yle, 1999. Freud, Sigmund. “Mourning and Melancholia.” In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XIV. Translated by James Strachey et.al. London: Hogarth, 1964 [1917]. Guenther, Lisa. “An Abolitionism Worthy of the Name: From the Death Penalty to the Prison Industrial Complex.” In Deconstructing the Death Penalty towards a New Abolitionism: Essays on Derrida’s Death Penalty Seminars. Edited by Kelly Oliver and Stephanie Straub, 239–​57. New York: Fordham University Press, 2018. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. New York: Harper, 2008. Kamuf, Peggy. “Protocol: Death Penalty Addiction.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 50, Spindel Supplement (2012): 5–​19. Kant, Immanuel. Metaphysics of Morals. In Practical Philosophy. Translated by Mary J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. La Caze, Marguerite. Ethical Restoration and Communal Violence: The Grieving and the Unrepentant. Lanham: Lexington, 2018. Lyotard, Jean-​François. The Differend: Phrases in Dispute. Translated by Georges Van Den Abbeele. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988.

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Jacques Derrida  457 Naas, Michael. “History’s Remains: Of Memory, Mourning, and the Event.’ Research in Phenomenology 33 (2003): 75–​96. Patočka, Jan. Heretical Essays in the Philosophy of History. Translated by Erazim Konák. Chicago: Open Court, 1996. Swiffen. Amy. “Mastery over the Time of the Other: The Death Penalty and Life in Prison without Parole.” Law Critique 27 (2016): 171–​86.

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45  Alasdair MacIntyre and the Twilight of the Virtues John W. Schiemann

Contemporary Scottish philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre (January 12, 1929–​) is one of the foremost representatives of the modern virtue ethics revival. Drawing mainly on Aristotle, virtue ethics attempts to answer questions about how one should live rather than how one should act. This philosophical orientation focuses on the development of moral and intellectual character reflected in the exercise of the virtues, dispositions, or habits of character that enable one to live well. The revival of virtue ethics is generally dated to Anscombe’s 1958 paper “Modern Moral Philosophy,” but MacIntyre’s 1981 book After Virtue presented the most direct challenge to modern moral thinking and full-​throated defense of a (modestly) updated Aristotelianism. MacIntyre does not directly address dying or death at any length in any of his work, and does not discuss aging as distinct from other forms of vulnerability and dependence in any sustained way. Moreover, his critique of the modern capitalist and liberal nation-​state can be overly strident and many readers cannot adopt the supernatural, theistic commitments informing some of his later work. Nevertheless, his extended discussion of practical rationality—​the ability to determine the right action at the right time in the right way—​and the virtues of vulnerability and dependence have direct implications for our understanding of aging and dying, and the centrality of teleology and narrative in his philosophy suggests a framework for assessing human lives at their terminus.

MacIntyre’s Radical Virtue Ethics If virtue ethics concerns how we should live and the virtues that help us do so in an excellent way, that broad ambit surely includes thinking about how we should age and die. MacIntyre argues that we acquire virtues and cultivate a well-​lived life in small, local communities, rather than the contemporary nation-​state. Consequently, his virtue ethics is inherently radical in four ways. First, he resolutely rejects the advanced capitalist economic order for its economic inequality, widespread poverty, precarious employment, economic exploitation, and perversion of real needs and desires (e.g. meaningful work) by consumerism.1 Second, he disdains political liberalism, including its “social democratic variants,” as “oligarchies disguised as liberal democracies” in which the average citizen is a bystander with few real alternatives at the ballot box and policies are the result of a bargaining game between powerful interests, which only occasionally provide useful public goods such as the Americans with Disabilities Act.2 Far from serving as the neutral umpire in the contest between competing interests and ideas, the liberal state preserves the existing order.3 Third, he criticizes the “peculiarly modern phenomenon” of extreme compartmentalization of prevailing social roles, values, and associated virtues.4 The result is a “divided self,” that privileges distorted virtues of adaptability and flexibility to successfully segment and switch between roles, and discounts DOI: 10.4324/9781003005384-46

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Alasdair MacIntyre  459 virtues such as integrity and constancy which are central to moral life.5 Finally, MacIntyre is radical in advocating a politics of self-​defense for all those local societies that aspire to achieve some relatively self-​sufficient and independent form of participatory practice-​based community and that therefore need to protect themselves from the corrosive effects of capitalism and the depredations of state power.6 We can readily extend MacIntyre’s radical critical stance to how our society treats aging, dying, and death. Gross economic inequalities mean that many of the aging are denied access to the health care increasingly necessary to continue flourishing in old age and to die with dignity and without pain. Public policy concerning the elderly is considered in isolation and emerges as the result of horse-​trading between competing special interests rather than through an integrated approach that considers aging and dying in the broader context of community life.7 Finally, we parcel out the aged and dying members of our families and communities to nursing homes and assisted living facilities where they become compartmentalized, employment responsibilities for professional caregivers. Arguing that his “politics of self-​defense” must be built according to local customs and traditions, MacIntyre rejects calls to provide a generic blueprint for these alternative communities. MacIntyre instead references a wide variety of examples, from “Jesuit and Guarani reducciones in eighteenth century Paraguay” to a contemporary Danish fishing village.8 More generally, he finds his preferred, integrated communities in “households, fishing crews, farming cooperatives, schools, clinics, neighborhoods, small towns.”9 These entities are characterized by small-​scale, participatory economic practices which do not promote or seek growth but do require protection against hostile external market effects. They explicitly reject consumerism, generate reasonably narrow inequalities of income and wealth, limit labor mobility to preserve stability, increase investment in children’s education, and mandate universal participation in “the tedious and dangerous jobs.”10 Politically, they substitute the bargaining model of lobbying and periodic ineffectual voting with a deliberative process which “reflects a common mind arrived at through widespread shared deliberation governed by norms of rational inquiry.”11 According to MacIntyre, a community’s shared rational deliberation would be ensured by participation by all, Marxist norms of justice prescribing each contributes according to his ability and receives according to her need, and a broadly shared understanding of procedures for decision-​making, deliberation, and cultural practices.12 Small-​scale, local communities with these characteristics provide a framework for their members to achieve individual and common goods via participation in a range of “practices” which together constitute human flourishing. A practice is any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended.13 MacIntyre’s examples range from chess to car manufacturing teams, and in the context of aging, dying, and death we might add Alzheimer’s research, urban planning for the aged, funerary services, hospice care, and more.14 In the course of engaging in these practices, individuals (may) receive external goods such as prizes or wages, but they also receive goods

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460  John W. Schiemann internal to the practice, in the form of an excellently built car or excellent home care. Such goods are only available from the (social) practice itself, by working together to give, say, excellent care to a dying person and their family members, with “excellent” an objective standard against which their cooperative efforts are compared. Meeting that standard requires virtues –​“acquired human qualit[ies] the possession and exercise of which tends to enable us to achieve those goods which are internal to practices and the lack of which effectively prevents us from achieving any such goods.”15 So hospice caregivers require not only certain medical skills and knowledge, but also virtues of, say, prudence, honesty, and benevolence, in order to effectively but compassionately explain the dying process to a range of affected parties. Moreover, our activity in practices is partially constitutive of a certain kind of life; it defines what it means to be a hospice nurse vs. an architect. From these examples it is clear that such forms of cooperative activity are characteristic of our best economic and social life, are abundant in number and variety, and possess an overlapping character. Someone may be at once a member of a household, a university, a martial arts club, and a volunteer fire company. Not only must the individual deliberate on the proper place of these goods in her own life, and how those goods should be ordered, but also how they fit into the proper ordering of our common goods. It won’t be possible to pursue my individual good as someone who volunteers at a civic center for the aged in a community which does not value such centers sufficiently to fund them.16 Thus it is only through identifying common goods that we can determine our individual goods and the role that different goods play in our lives. [T]‌o pass from youth through middle age towards death characteristically involves changes in and revisions of one’s ends, [which are often] … shared with others, [and] achieved only through the continuing cooperation of others or … constituted by the ongoing participation of others.17 In MacIntyre’s vision we live out a story in which, perhaps, largely individual social, athletic, and career goals predominate when young, familial and community concerns are added in middle age, and cooperative community activities become ascendant in retirement. MacIntyre substitutes Aristotle’s “metaphysical biology” positing natural ends or goals to which all creatures tend, now indefensible in light of Darwinian evolution, with a “socially teleological account” of our ends conceived as a narrative “quest,” “whose object is to discover that truth about my life as a whole which is an indispensable part of the good of that life.”18 The narrative structure of the quest, with beginning, middle, and end, means that death marks the point at which the life is evaluated in terms of whether it achieved the goods it sought, amounting to a “final judgment.” The “range of particular actions, transactions, and projects … are the enacted narrative of that life, and as the life of that one particular body” (original emphasis).19 The conception of the ultimate end or telos, remains initially unclear and ill-​defined even to those on the quest. The virtues are just those habits of character that allow us to overcome obstacles on our unfolding quest.20

Virtue and Narrative in the Twilight of Life Other moral philosophers, MacIntyre charges, presume we are fully independent and rational agents, never considering how developmental and physical vulnerability and dependence might impose limitations on our development and exercise of independent practical reasoning. We necessarily depend on family members, teachers, and others to become independent practical reasoners, people who, at times, know our good better than even we do and

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Alasdair MacIntyre  461 assist in the achievement of our goods. When effective, these teachers, nurses, coaches, and mentors enable us to rethink and redefine our desires and reasoning by guiding us in various practices, the goods internal to them, and the virtues necessary to achieve those goods, which may ultimately lead to questioning or challenging the very advice and guidance we have been provided. Our partial dependence on others continues into adulthood and old age because of our animal frailty.21 Thus, we are always embedded in relationships and networks of giving and receiving and our position in them changes over time. One consequence is that there is no simple reciprocity. “There is generally … no relevant way of comparing what our parents gave us by way of care and education with what we are called upon to give to the same parents by way of care in illness or old age.”22 Our vulnerability and dependence mean that the virtues of receiving (proper gratitude) must complement the virtues of giving. The former include the capacity to show gratitude “without allowing that gratitude to be a burden, courtesy toward the graceless giver, and forbearance toward the inadequate giver.”23 Aging may present special difficulties for the exercise of the virtues of giving and receiving. Aging can be accompanied by a slow and incremental decline in effective practical reasoning across domains beyond memory to encompass perception, drawing logical inferences, and more. These range from the mundane, such as not being aware someone has just given you something, to the more complex, such as inhibiting the pursuit of one’s own good by insisting on doing something “in the old way.” If “the unity and the excellence of the human body are the unity and excellence of agency,” then aging may disrupt this unity, impairing the physical and mental directedness and the achievements resulting from the two in unison.24 Such cases present caregivers (and caring communities) with particular difficulties. If we have come to know the aged person over an extended period, we know their specific goods beyond the generic goods such as adequate nutrition. So, for example, we know that they like to watch the German Bundesliga but not the Spanish premier league and that they prefer to die at home rather than pursue treatment in a hospital. A decline in practical reasoning may make it not just difficult for them to attain these goods directly themselves, but also make it difficult for them to accept caregiver actions designed to help them achieve those goods. Thus, a refusal to, say, repair a leaky roof might eventually force them out of the home in which they wish to spend their last months, weeks, and days. Thus, those aging are likely at some point to require two forms of care: (1) the “whole messy and immensely fatiguing business of bedpans and vomit and changing sheets, of dealing with sores … [and] wandering incoherence” as well as (2) acting as a proxy by exercising the practical reason diminished or lost by the one for whom the proxy cares.25 Thus caregivers require central virtues such as affection, sympathy, kindness, gentleness, honesty balanced by compassion, “just generosity,” patience, and a kind of courage or fortitude to recognize the need for dignity in the face of physical disgust or discomfort.26 In addition, serving as an effective proxy “presupposes preexisting ties of friendship” because one must have come to know the other’s good to represent them well.27 This informal role is particularly important in the case of the aged who suffer declining practical rationality. MacIntyre notes that one traditional virtue is particularly important for proxies: truthfulness. One of the most difficult aspects of aging is the failure of our practical rationality to ‘catch’ that it is failing. Just as our friends provide correctives to us when we are developing (or even in full possession of) our practical rationality, so too do they provide correctives when our practical rationality begins to slip.28 This work might require developing and exercising new virtues altogether such as novel rhetorical and negotiation skills. The caregiver must slowly take up the slack in practical rationality as it is lost in the older parent or aged person, but just the slack, just the necessary amount or ways so that the aged person continues to exercise as much independent practical reasoning as possible. Finding this balance

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462  John W. Schiemann requires the virtue of good judgment. A good proxy understands what needs proxying and what doesn’t. The decline in practical reasoning also presents a real challenge (and an opportunity to develop and display distinct virtues) for the aged and dying receiving care from others. The narrowing of perception and difficulty with short-​term memory may cause one not to perceive or to forget that something was done for you and so to not display gratitude. We also may not realize the implications of life choices on caregivers, leading to unreasonable expectations and unfair lack of gratitude. The toll of physical and emotional caring might occasionally result in caregiving that is momentarily tactless or curt and it takes perception, patience, and forbearance on the part of the receiver to understand, capacities which may have waned. Changing circumstances may require the previously self-​sufficient to call forth an honesty and perhaps unpracticed humility to accept and adapt to the changing circumstances rather than fruitlessly fighting against them. This is where the quotidian, frustrating reality of caring—​and being cared for—​while aging sometimes engenders conflict. Not all virtues may be impacted by a decline in practical reasoning specifically, of course. Courage in the face of physical pain and frustrations may remain throughout, for example. But a decline in practical reasoning presents particular problems to the aging for exercising the virtues. Although dying in many respects recruits many of the same virtues as aging, it may call for differences in their exercise by both givers and receivers. Care as the right balance between losing oneself in empathy on the one hand and somewhat more distant task management on the other may need to shift to cope with emotional pain. The virtues associated with “messy bedpans” and other repellent tasks may need to be exercised both more frequently and more intensely. Truthfulness may be even more important in caring for the dying than in caring for the aging. While being forthright about an observed decline in the aging is necessary (if delicate), small moments of untruthfulness may also be important in helping them achieve their goods if a decline in practical reason prevents them from an honest assessment of their needs: for example, telling the aging person “I’m going to get gas” when the ulterior motive is to take out the trash to keep the house clean. While such situations are also likely to arise during an at least somewhat prolonged dying process, there is a moment where truthfulness, honesty, and the courage to truthfulness and honesty come to the fore in the most acute way: the transition from aging to dying. There is the physical fact of the transition from aging to dying—​a grim test result or the looming decision of whether to seek more treatment or to seek hospice care. And then, as noted already, there may be some degree of decline in practical reason in the dying person, such that they may only partially understand the transition that stands before them. The caring proxy must, with compassion and sensitivity, help the dying understand his condition and make his choices to the degree that is still possible. This might require a sophisticated degree of practical reasoning and rhetorical skill, to find a way to frame the situation and the options in a way that is both accurate but comprehensible. The exercise of these virtues (or the failure to do so) over the course of a life, including in its waning stages, constitutes an important part of the narrative of that life, a narrative that is assessed and written at its terminus in death. MacIntyre identifies a four-​part framework for assessing lives and applies it to four “exemplary lives.”29 First, did the person “have good reason to desire” the objects they sought to obtain over their life? Second, did their sought objects and actions reveal them to be “sound and effective practical reasoners”? Third, were they “disposed to act as the virtues require”? Finally, did they “direct … their actions toward the achievement of their final end”? MacIntyre’s brief narratives in his latest book describe how each of his model subjects provided answers to the first three questions in the way they lived their lives, but he is less direct in identifying what constitutes (and how we are to identify) our own “final ends.” That

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Alasdair MacIntyre  463 said, his notion of a narrative quest suggests an answer: “The good that is our final end constitutes our lives as wholes, as unities.”30 How might the quest fail and our unity dissipate? Recall that since we are never just carpenters or musicians or fathers, but always participants in multiple practices and roles, it is necessary for us to order those practices, to find their proper place in individual lives at a given time and across time, as well as for collections of individuals. We can fail to do this well, says MacIntyre by “lead[ing] compartmentalized lives” and so “failing to integrate our different roles” or by “liv[ing] somewhat haphazardly, … lives in which we recurrently allow activities in one area to disrupt or frustrate or defer activities in other areas.”31 We manage to fashion our lives well when we integrate our roles, practices, and goods in a coherent way. The unity of a person’s life “is the unity of a dramatic narrative, of a story whose outcome can be success or failure for each protagonist.”32 The narrative of a successful life will reveal a person’s “directedness, an increasing success in integrating her pursuits of the various individual and common goods that she values into a unified pursuit of her final good,” giving the narrative a teleological structure.33 MacIntyre suggests that this final end is wholly compatible with our complex temporal life: the good life for man is the life spent in seeking for the good life for man, and the virtues necessary for the seeking are those which will enable us to understand what more and what else the good life for man is.34 This is true even to the extent that we complete and perfect our lives by allowing them to remain incomplete. A good life is one in which an agent … leav[es] her or himself open to a final good beyond all such goods, as good desirable beyond all such goods … What matters is what the agent was open to at the time of her or his death, not the perhaps great, but final goods of which the agent was deprived by that death.35 Indeed, MacIntyre himself vindicates this non-​theistic narrative interpretation in several case study biographies. In his narrative of the Soviet writer Vasily Grossman, MacIntyre approvingly comments on a character in one of Grossman’s novels, saying “What she already knew was that it is in living and dying as human beings that we achieve an ‘eternal and bitter victory’ over the destructive forces of history.”36 In his examination of Trinidadian sports writer, historian, and political activist C. L. R. James, MacIntyre notes that a general lesson about “the tragic character of human existence” is “not only that we need to strive for completeness in our lives, but that completeness is not to be attained. So James lived out what he took to be a necessarily incomplete life.”37 A page later MacIntyre quotes his subject, again with approbation, for understanding “that it is not quality of goods or utility which matter, but movement; not where or what you have, but where you have come from, where you are going, and the rate at which you are getting there.”38

Glimpsing Eternity: Politics and Good Lives The ways in which MacIntyre’s updated Aristotelianism illuminate important aspects of aging, dying, and death have important implications for broader and enduring questions of our political life—​even if MacIntyre himself does not always develop them. In his discussion of the importance of friendship for acting as a proxy, MacIntyre cites Aquinas in support of his argument, and charges Nietzsche as having an inverted image of friendship.39 But it is Nietzsche who demonstrates an understanding of the power of a true friend’s truthfulness: “Let your pity be speculation, so that you know first whether your friend wants

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464  John W. Schiemann pity. Perhaps what he loves in you is an unstinting eye and a glimpse of eternity.”40 With his unstinting eye, MacIntyre may be more of a friend to liberalism than he knows. He has claimed that ordinary people “are in fact generally and to a significant degree proto-​Aristotelians,” an observation meant to showcase our moral teleology and to help us understand our predicament under the conditions of modernity.41 And yet, elsewhere in his scorching critiques of modernity, MacIntyre would appear to claim that we are and can only ever be, absent a successful radical retreat to his small-​scale local communities, proto and never full-​fledged Aristotelians. Neither his argument nor the empirical facts support such a pessimistic view, however. He is right that we are in our daily practice Aristotelians (who, for example, place value in excellence and the virtues to achieve it), even if unreflectively so, but he is wrong that we cannot be such under the conditions of advanced capitalism and political liberalism. An examination of both his own theoretical and conceptual framework as well as the important role empirically that the virtues play in our everyday lives warrants much more optimism—​and ongoing belief that MacIntyre’s interpretation of Aristotle (and revival of virtue) can help us grapple with problems associated with death and aging. There is no gainsaying MacIntyre’s basic claims about the gross economic, political, and other inequalities characteristic of advanced capitalist democracies. MacIntyre is also surely correct that there is little space for rational deliberation about our common good in contemporary liberal politics. The problem is that MacIntyre tends to idealize pre-​capitalist social structure and it is not at all clear there has ever been rational consensus formation about the common good of any reasonably large group of people or that local customs were necessarily any more just in terms of desert, whether in Athens or feudal Europe (his go-​to examples).42 In short, if the standard of collective identification of the common good via practical rationality exercised freely and openly by all participants really is utopian, then its absence cannot count against modern political liberalism. But is it still possible to flourish (and achieve a meaningful life and death) under the liberal capitalist conditions of the modern nation-​state? MacIntyre says no because modern compartmentalization and its consequent incoherence prevent us from acquiring the virtues and exercising them. He offers an example in the “differences in contemporary attitudes to death,” say of a child in a car accident, between the family, liability lawyers, and auto company executives.43 MacIntyre acknowledges that a division of labor and social roles characterizes “all societies … but ours carries it to an extreme.”44 Insulated from a shared understanding of their common good in their social roles, the child’s death is, respectively, “a unique, uncompensatable loss, financial value from recent jury awards, and a datum for (acceptable) death rates.”45 We might question whether such differentiation was really all that different in the premodern past. Consider the medieval period, when MacIntyre claims there would have been few of the modern distinctions in meaning across social roles. Suppose in this earlier era instead of a car accident we have a child who drowned fetching water from a manorial well. We can only assume the family feels some degree of profound grief about the child’s loss, perhaps exacerbated by an increased economic and even existential threat, insofar as children’s work was necessary for subsistence. In both ways, then, it seems to be, for the family, “a unique loss for which nothing can compensate.” Let the village priest and the local lord of the manor substitute for the lawyer and auto company executive, respectively. Whereas for MacIntyre’s lawyer the death has a monetary value, for the medieval priest the child’s death has spiritual value, as a soul reunited with his god and an opportunity to solidify the faith in the faithful in the form of a funeral. He certainly can’t feel it as a “unique loss” in the same way as the family. For MacIntyre’s automobile executive, the child’s death is a statistical datum, unintelligible in and of itself and meaningful only when summarized in some statistic like “an annual death rate.” But for the manorial lord (assuming he was

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Alasdair MacIntyre  465 even made aware) the child was just one more villein from (one of) his village(s) who died that month or year, something to be concerned about only if deaths reached a point that might threaten social stability or the effectiveness of obligatory labor on his demesne. If then, in fact, differences in the meaning of death across social roles is part and parcel of human society, then MacIntyre’s critique loses some of its bite. We can expect both some differentiation even in MacIntyre’s idealized communities and we can anticipate the exercise of virtues across social orders. The reason for this is both what MacIntyre has said—​we are all Aristotelians—​and what he has tried not to say—​that the virtues continue to flourish in the conditions of advanced capitalism and political liberalism. Consider here what might seem like a signature (and condemning) instance of compartmentalization, bureaucracy, rights, and liberal utilitarianism: end of life decisions in contemporary health care. When a terminally ill person is hospitalized and facing decisions about continuing treatment or transitioning to hospice care, all of MacIntyre’s concerns come into play. There are multiple social roles and figures involved—​family members, attending physicians and nurses, hospice administrators, and social workers. In addition to the hospital and hospice bureaucratic procedures to follow, the long arms of the law include local, state, and federal authorities. The patient retains rights regarding healthcare decisions and, like it or not, doctor and hospital administrators face (possibly conflicting) utilitarian calculations regarding costs and benefits of different choices, impacting finances, other patients, hospital policies, quality of life, and other, broader perspectives. The virtues, too, come into play, perhaps most acutely when the dying person is no longer a completely independent practical reasoner and so is at least partially dependent on others for identifying and achieving her good. Rights and utility surely cannot take us far enough in grappling with the problem of how to proceed. Caregivers require virtues of courage, honesty, compassion, rhetorical skill, and friendship, to help the patient understand her situation, and achieve her good. These virtues are potentially exercised by all of those inhabiting the social roles identified above—​poorly or excellently or somewhere in between—​in the difficult conversations around bedsides every day. And those conversations are remarkably free of references to rights or euphemisms for utility and are more accurately characterized as fundamentally practical deliberation about the good in the sense MacIntyre means. As these examples suggest, MacIntyre’s objections to the liberal order appear to be too sweeping and reductive. Moreover, MacIntyre offers three streams of evidence himself that further erase the boundaries between the world he champions and the one we inhabit. The first draws on the practices and local communities to which he frequently adverts. None of those communities was or is hermetically sealed from the surrounding social, economic, and political orders. For the second, recall the “exemplary” narratives and lives referenced previously; none of the four he discusses were lived out entirely in local communities hived off from modernity. Indeed, all of these extraordinary individuals exercised their virtues in some form of political life far beyond local community. As a last example, consider his reference to a Scottish policy innovation in eldercare during a 2017 conference discussion.46 MacIntyre approvingly relates how someone had the “bright idea” to create free care centers for the elderly staffed largely by middle-​age working-​ class women who had some non-​medical training and had cared for their own, now grown, children. Medical officials were available but did not need to provide the majority of care and so this was much less expensive. According to MacIntyre, this arrangement provided an occupation for these individuals, they enjoyed it, and they were good at it. Leaving aside the question of whether these working-​class Scottish caregivers may have preferred other opportunities, note that the system MacIntyre praises was created within the framework of

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466  John W. Schiemann a modern liberal state and so within the messy pluralism he decries (without any guarantee that it emerged solely from deliberation about the common good). It may be fitting to conclude this chapter the way MacIntyre concludes his last book, by considering our ends, finite and final.47 As we have seen, this final end can be thought of in terms of life as an open-​ended narrative quest. The arrival of death, of the end of a life, except in the cases of suicide or heroic acts, is always arbitrary, even if that seems most obvious (and acutely painful) when someone is young. This must color our understanding of MacIntyre’s claim that “The enacted narrative of our lives … finds its ending at the point at which we have achieved or failed to achieve our ends as rational agents, when we have or have not completed our lives appropriately.”48 But when is a life completed? Literal narratives have endings that are crafted, composed, planned, controlled; life-​as-​narrative is always open-​ended until the moment of death. Only then can the conclusion be written, the complete arc of the storyline understood (and, of course, the meaning of that life may change over time as figures like Van Gogh, Thoreau, and Gregor Mendel suggest). In other words, humans, their goods, and the objects they created are condemned to arbitrary finitude. These too will decay and disappear over time, certainly in the very long run. But what MacIntyre suggests is that if our pursuit of excellence and the individual good was still in progress at death, if we are still “open” to this pursuit, then, arguably, we do indeed stretch beyond finite goods, glimpsing eternity.

Notes 1 MacIntyre, After Virtue, xvi; MacIntyre, “Three Perspectives,” 122, 147–​9; MacIntyre, Ethics, 93–​101, 95–​7, 108–​9, 132, 187, 219–​20; MacIntyre, “Plain Persons,” 129; MacIntyre, “What More,” 264–​5. 2 MacIntyre, Three Rival, 153–​4; MacIntyre, “What More,” 263; MacIntyre, “Politics,” 236–​7; MacIntyre, Ethics, 124–​5, 127, 168–​70; MacIntyre, “Natural Law,” 42–​3; MacIntyre, “Theses,” 227. 3 MacIntyre, “Social Structures,” 195; MacIntyre, Ethics, 134–​5, 77–​8, 66; MacIntyre, “Moral Philosophy,” 115–​16, 120; MacIntyre, “Some Enlightenment,” 182. 4 MacIntyre, Ethics, 202–​4, 207–​8, 228, 237; MacIntyre, “Social Structures,” 197; MacIntyre, “Moral Philosophy,” 117. 5 MacIntyre, “Social Structures,” 197, 200–​ 1; MacIntyre, “What More,” 267–​ 8; MacIntyre, “Plain Persons,” 147; MacIntyre, Ethics, 202; MacIntyre, “Politics,” 235–​6; MacIntyre, “Social Structures,” 200; MacIntyre, “Moral Philosophy,” 117, 119. 6 MacIntyre, Three Rival, 155; MacIntyre, Ethics, 237–​8; MacIntyre, After Virtue, xvi; MacIntyre, “Toleration,” 213; MacIntyre, “Moral Philosophy,” 122. 7 MacIntyre, “Common Goods,” 52:59–​56:38. 8 MacIntyre, “Preface,” xi; MacIntyre, “Theses,” 231–​2; MacIntyre, Ethics, 178–​82; MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 143; MacIntyre, “What More,” 268. 9 MacIntyre, “Rival Aristotles,” 39; MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 135, 142–​5. 10 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 144–​5. 11 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 131; MacIntyre, Ethics, 124; MacIntyre, “Natural Law,” 42–​3, 60; MacIntyre, “Theses,” 227. 12 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 129–​30; MacIntyre, “Rival Aristotles,” 39; MacIntyre, “Politics, 241; MacIntyre, Ethics, 192, 224; MacIntyre, “Toleration,” 216, 223. 13 MacIntyre, After Virtue, 187. 14 MacIntyre, After Virtue, 187; MacIntyre, Ethics, 130–​1. 15 MacIntyre, After Virtue, 191. 16 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 140. 17 MacIntyre, “What Is,” 100. 18 MacIntyre, After Virtue, xi, 58, 148, 162–​3, 174–​6, 196; MacIntyre, Three Rival, 197. 19 MacIntyre, Three Rival, 197.

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Alasdair MacIntyre  467 20 MacIntyre, After Virtue, 219. 21 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 49; MacIntyre, “What Is,” 87, 96. 22 MacIntyre, “What Is,” 100. 23 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 126. 24 MacIntyre, “What Is,” 100. 25 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 139. 26 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 98, 120–​4. 27 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 139. 28 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 96. 29 MacIntyre, Ethics, 238, 243. 30 MacIntyre, Ethics, 229. 31 MacIntyre, Ethics, 228. 32 MacIntyre, “Plain Persons,” 141. 33 MacIntyre, Ethics, 57. 34 MacIntyre, After Virtue, 219. 35 MacIntyre, Ethics, 231. 36 MacIntyre, Ethics, 258. 37 MacIntyre, Ethics, 294. 38 MacIntyre, Ethics, 295. 39 MacIntyre, Dependent Rational, 164–​5. 40 Nietzsche, 60. 41 MacIntyre, “Plain Persons,” 138. 42 Cammack, 136, 162–​3. 43 MacIntyre, “Social Structures,”198–​9. 44 MacIntyre, Ethics, 202. 45 MacIntyre, “Social Structures,” 198. 46 MacIntyre, “Common Goods,” 52:03–​56:25. 47 MacIntyre, Ethics, 315. 48 MacIntyre, Ethics, 233.

References Cammack, Daniela. “Deliberation and Discussion in Classical Athens.” Journal of Political Philosophy 29, no. 2 (2021): 135–​66. MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. 3rd edn. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. 2007. —​—​—​“Common Goods, Frequent Evils.” Keynote address, The Common Good as Common Project Conference, March 27, 2017. Available at: https://​nanovic.nd.edu/​events/​2017/​03/​28/​graduate-​ student-​conference-​the-​common-​good-​as-​a-​common-​project/​#video. —​—​—​ Dependent Rational Animals: Why Human Beings Need the Virtues. Chicago: Open Court, 1999. —​—​—​ Ethics in the Conflicts of Modernity: An Essay on Desire, Practical Reasoning, and Narrative. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016. —​—​—​“Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Social Practice: What Holds Them Apart?” In Selected Essays, vol. 1. —​—​—​“Natural Law as Subversive: The Case of Aquinas.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​“Plain Persons and Moral Philosophy: Rules, Virtues and Goods.” In The MacIntyre Reader. —​—​—​“Politics, Philosophy and the Common Good.” In The MacIntyre Reader. —​—​—​ “Preface.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2 —​—​—​“Rival Aristotles: Aristotle Against Some Modern Aristotelians.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​ Selected Essays. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. —​—​—​“Social Structures and Their Threats to Moral Agency.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​“Some Enlightenment Projects Reconsidered.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​ The MacIntyre Reader. Edited by Kelvin Knight. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998.

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468  John W. Schiemann —​—​—​ “The Theses on Feuerbach: A Road Not Taken.” In The MacIntyre Reader. —​—​—​“Three Perspectives on Marxism: 1953, 1968, 1995.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​ Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990. —​—​—​“Toleration and the Goods of Conflict.” In Selected Essays, vol. 2. —​—​—​“What Is a Human Body?” In Selected Essays, vol. 1. —​—​—​“What More Needs To Be Said? A Beginning, Although Only a Beginning, at Saying It.” Analyse & Kritik 30, no. 1 (2008): 261–​81. Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm. Also Sprach Zarathustra. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 1964.

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Index

Ablondi, F. 213 absolute freedom 74, 335, 422 absolute knowing 331, 336 action and speech 396–​7 Adam and Eve, in Paradise Lost (Milton) 219–​27 Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre (Beauvoir) 427, 430 Adkins, B. 334–​5 afterlife, the: Alfarabi on 145–​8; American civil religion and 353–​5; fear of 422; Heaven and 82; MacIntyre on glimpsing eternity and 463–​6; material continuity between living and dead and 155–​6; moral reckoning in 62–​3, 66–​7; St. Augustine on 132–​9; see also resurrection; soul, the After Virtue (MacIntyre) 458 aging: Aristotle on virtues of 50–​7; Beauvoir on 431–​4; change in identity with 431 AIDS 417, 422 Alberti, L. B. 452 Alexander the Great 70, 231 Alfarabi 141, 166; on motivations for war 142–​3; on pleasure, virtue, and the afterlife 145–​6; on worlds without rank 143–​5 al-​Fārābī, A. N. 152 al-​Ghazālī, A. H. M. 151–​8; on death of kings 156–​7; on death of the Prophet and “shadows of the graves” 153–​5; grappling with works and legacy of 152; on material continuity and the presence of the dead 155–​6; on remembrance of death as disciplining of self 153; on role and limits of intercession 157–​8 Ali, A. 391 All Men Are Mortal (Beauvoir) 430 American spirituality 351–​9; civil religion and the afterlife in 353–​5; revivalist theology in 355–​8 Americans with Disabilities Act 458 Ames, R. 83 Analects 19, 20, 24 Angel, J. L. 2, 3 animal laborans 399, 401 animals: Arendt on 394, 399; Aristotle on 51–​2; Bacon on 202–​3; Buddha on 64; Burke on 305; Cato on 102; Cicero on 107; Derrida on 447; Heidegger on 407; Hume on 271; Kant

on 310–​12, 316; Mill on 366; Montesquieu on 262–​3; Seneca on 124; St. Augustine on 136 Antoinette, M. 304 Antichrist, The (Nietzsche) 375 Antigone (Sophocles) 334–​5, 336 anti-​materialism 41–​2, 353 anti-​rationalism 185; superstition as 231–​2 anxiety: Aristotle on 134–​5; Bhagavad-​Gītā on 95–​6; Beauvoir on 428–​9; Buddha on 62; Derrida on 453; Descartes on 211–​12; Gandhi on 391; Hegel on 332; Heidegger on 406, 409–​10; Hobbes on 242; Hume on 271, 278; Locke on 253; Mill on 364; Montaigne on 183; Montesquieu on 268; Tocqueville on 355, 358 Apology (Socrates) 386 Aquinas, T. 463 Arendt, H. 30, 394–​402; on fragility of the world and political death 397–​9; on natality as response to human finitude 395–​7; on political mortality 401–​2; on politicization of healthcare, life, and aging 400–​1 Areopagitica (Milton) 219 Ariès, P. 2, 4 Aristotle 3, 29, 142; MacIntyre and 458, 463–​4; on virtues of aging 50–​7 Ars Moriendi 388 Articles of Confederation see Federalist art of living 389–​91, 422–​3 asceticism 165–​6, 333, 422–​3 atomism 70 atrocities, war 34–​5 Attainment of Happiness (Alfarabi) 143 Aubrey, J. 205 authentic being-​toward-​death 408, 410–​12 authentic death 412 Averroes 148 Avicenna 166 Bacon, F. 198–​205; death of 204–​5; on human philosophy and importance of reputation 203–​4; on natural philosophy and decay of all bodies 202–​3; on utility of a longer, healthier life 199–​200 Bahuguna, S. 98–​9

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470 Index Bailey, R. 1–​2 Banquet Argument 116 Bayle, P. 230 beasts, law of the 262–​3 Beaumont, G. de 351, 353, 355 Beauvoir, S. de 426–​34; on death 427–​31; life and death of 426–​7 Beccaria, C. 450–​1 Beecher, L. 353, 355–​7 Being and Time (Heidegger) 405–​12, 449; on anticipations of death in authentic mode 410–​12; on misunderstandings of death in inauthentic model 409–​10; on moods and death 408–​9; on moving from inauthentic everydayness to authentic being-​toward-​death 408; on person as being-​in-​the-​world 406–​7 being-​for-​others 431, 432 being-​in-​the-​world 406–​9 being-​toward-​death 408; authentic 408, 410–​12; inauthentic 409–​10 Benhabib, S. 399 Beyond Good and Evil (Nietzsche) 375, 377 Bhagavad Gītā 90–​9, 384–​5, 389; dharmic disinterestedness in 94–​6; equanimity, conscience, and earthly preservation in 96–​9; (im)mortality and the ontology of the self in 91–​3 biopolitical state 416–​18; biopower, sexuality, and life in 418–​20 Birth of Tragedy, The (Nietzsche) 374–​5 Blanchot, M. 452 Blood of Others, The (Beauvoir) 427, 430 Bloom, A. 283 Book of Dead Philosophers, The (Critchley) 4 Book of Religion (Alfarabi) 141, 144, 147 Book of Remembrance of Death and What Comes After It (al-​Ghazālī) 151, 152, 158 Boswell, J. 271 Bradley, B. 4 Brief Lives (Aubrey) 205 Brueckner, A. 115 Buddhism 60–​7, 385; death, finitude, and tragedy in 63–​6; death as opportunity in 66; key teachings in 61–​3; role of death in 60–​1; theory of politics in 63 Burke, E. 185, 261, 299–​307, 312; on death 299–​303; death and grief in life of 306–​7; on human nature and sympathy 301; on nature 300; on second nature and memory 301–​2; on supernature, God, and hope 302–​3; on unnatural death and revolution 303–​6 Butterworth, C. 142 Caesar, A. 204 Caesar, J. 101, 104, 126–​7, 204 Calvinism 352, 356 Cambridge Companion to Life and Death, The (Luper) 4 capital punishment 364–​5, 450–​1

care-​based political authority 22–​3 Categories (Aristotle) 134 Catholic Church 139, 186, 209, 254, 422 Cato the Younger 101–​8, 123, 126–​7, 316 Chadwick, E. 369 Chanut, P. 210, 213 Christianity: American spirituality and 351–​9; Bacon on 201; Catholic versus Protestant 186; Christian Right and Republican Party and 358–​9; Foucault on 420–​1; Hegel on the spirit in 335–​6; Locke on 253–​8; Maimonides’s resistance to 165; Nietzsche on 375–​8; Paradise Lost (Milton) on 219–​27; revivalist theology in 355–​8; Spinoza on 232–​3; St. Augustine and 132–​9 Christina, Queen of Sweden 209–​10 Churchill, W. 252–​3 Cicero 101–​8, 122, 181, 182, 201; on human imperfection and human wisdom 107–​8; on moral and political implications of mortality 104–​5; on suicide as manifestation of self-​ sufficiency 105–​7; on virtue and the good for mortal beings 102–​4 City of God, The (St. Augustine) 135–​9 civil society 25, 246, 283, 303, 314, 317, 337–​8 Colmo, C. 142 Colombat, A. P. 442–​3 Coming of Age, The (Beauvoir) 426, 431, 434 Commentary on Plato’s Republic (Averroes) 148 Commentary on the Mishnah (Maimonides) 161, 163–​4 community 19, 25–​6, 77, 104, 253, 268, 307, 323; ethical 331–​6; Jewish 163–​4; political 312–​14 Confessions (St. Augustine) 132–​5 Confucianism 19–​26; datong and great community in 25–​6; li and social cohesion in 24–​5; primer of 20; ren and care-​based political authority in 22–​3; xiao and relational personhood in 20–​2 conscience, guiltiness as bad 220–​2 consciousness: Beauvoir on 428, 430 Bhagavad Gītā on 92–​3, 97; Deleuze on 438; Derrida on 453; Gandhi 385; Hegel on 331–​7; Heidegger on 406; Kant on 311; Montaigne on 181, 185; Mill on 362, 366, 369; Montesquieu on 263; Nietzsche on 374; Rousseau on 287; Spinoza on 235–​6; St. Augustine on 132 consequentialism 63, 363 Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans and Their Decline (Montesquieu) 261, 262 Consolation to Marcia (Seneca) 121, 123 Consolation to Polybius (Seneca) 121 Constitution, U.S. see Federalist Corcyrean Civil War 33–​4 Corvinus, V. 173 Counsel for Kings (al-​Ghazālī) 156–​7

 471

Index  471 COVID-​19 pandemic 2, 369 Cressy, D. 2 criminal laws 267–​8; death penalty 364–​5 Critchley, S. 4 Critique of Judgment (Kant) 310 Critique of Practical Reason (Kant) 310, 311–​12 Critique of Pure Reason (Kant) 310 Cromwell, O. 219 d’Alembert, J. L. R. 268 Dao 81–​4 Daoism 80–​8 Dasein 406–​7, 409, 410, 449 datong 25–​6 Death and Desire (Adkins) 334–​5 death penalty 364–​5, 450–​1 De Cive (Hobbes) 242 Declaration of Independence 328 deconstruction 447, 448–​9 De Finibus (Cicero) 101, 105 De Homine (Hobbes) 241–​2 De Lacoste, G. 427, 429 Deleuze, G. 437–​45; on collapsing the two faces of living and death in the event 444–​5; on every death as double 442–​4; on living as eternal return of difference 441–​2; on transcendental field in living 438–​41 democracy 30–​1, 35, 139, 234, 327, 351, 353–​4, 356 Democracy in America (Tocqueville) 351–​9 deontology 67, 450 deprivation approach 73–​4, 112, 428 De Rerum Natura (Lucretius) 111 Derrida, J. 447–​54; on death, life, and responsibility 449–​50; on différance and deconstruction 448–​9; on necessity of friendship and work of mourning 451–​4 Descartes, R. 121, 209–​15; background of 209–​10; ethics of 210–​11; on how we should relate to death 214–​15; thought experiment 407; on why we should not fear death 211–​12; on why we should not long for death 213–​14 despair 11–​12, 133, 182, 315, 317, 346–​7 despotism 265–​7, 314 determinate negation 331–​2, 338 dharma 94–​6 dialectic 46–​7, 132–​3, 223, 332 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (Hume) 272 différence 448–​9 Discipline and Punish (Foucault) 420 Discourse on Inequality (Rousseau) 282–​4, 286 Discourse on the Method (Descartes) 209 Discourses on Livy (Machiavelli) 171, 173–​7 disdain for death 183 disease: Athens plague 31–​3; Gandhi on 387–​9; in old age 51; political 185, 320–​1 dispositions 53–​6, 75, 82, 84–​5, 97, 123–​4, 203, 262, 286, 354, 458; Hume on 272, 275–​7

Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, The (Milton) 219 Dolgin, E. 2 dukkha 62 dying process, the: art of living and 389–​91, 422–​3; Beauvoir on 430–​1; Epicurus on 74–​5, 77, 111; MacIntyre on 465–​6; Maimonides on 161–​8; Mill on 362–​9; Seneca on 125–​8; Smith on peace in 292–​7; utilitarianism and 363 earnestness of life 344–​6 Ecce Homo (Nietzsche) 375, 378, 380 Elements of Law, The (Hobbes) 242 Elements of the Philosophy of Right (Hegel) 331, 336–​9 Elkins, Z. 327 Emile (Rousseau) 282, 286 empiricism 253, 271, 438 Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences, The (Hegel) 331 End of Days 166–​7 Epicureanism 70–​7, 202; on death 71–​3, 111–​12, 428; on dying 74–​5; on friendship 75–​7; on metaphysics and ethics 70–​1; objections and responses to 73–​4 epistemology 209, 241, 252, 253, 254–​6, 374, 376, 415 equality: Arendt on 398–​9; Buddha on 66–​7; Burke on 302; Gandhi on 387; Kierkegaard on 345; Milton on 224; Montesquieu on 264; Nietzsche on 376; Rousseau on 282–​3; Thucydides on 30; Tocqueville on 354 Erkine, J. 220 Essay Concerning Human Understanding, An (Locke) 253, 256–​8 Essay on the Origin of Languages (Rousseau) 283 Essays (de Montaigne) 180–​6; Montaigne’s evolving approach to death in 183–​5; “That to Philosophize Is to Learn to Die” 181–​3 Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral (Bacon) 198, 201, 203 eternal return of difference 441–​2 ethics: Descartes on 210–​11; Epicurean 70–​1; Hegel on 336–​9; of love 342–​3; MacIntyre on virtue 458–​60; Spinoza on 230–​1 Ethics (Spinoza) 230, 232, 234–​7 eudaimonia 71, 75, 77 Eudemian Ethics (Aristotle) 52 euthanasia 315, 369, 451 evolutionism 418 existentialism 345, 395, 426 Fall, the 136–​7; in Paradise Lost 219–​27 Fassin, D. 450 Fear and Trembling (Kierkegaard) 347–​8 fear of death: Bacon on 199, 200–​2; Beauvoir on 428–​9; Descartes on 211–​12; Epicurus on 72;

472

472 Index Gandhi on 384–​91; Hobbes on 241–​8; Hume on 273–​4; Montaigne on 182, 186; Rousseau on 281–​8; Seneca on 124; Smith on 292–​3; Spinoza on 230–​6 Federalist 320–​8; the Constitution and political immortality and 325–​7; future of the 327–​8; on sources of political death 323–​5; on understanding bad deaths 322–​3; on what counts as political death 321–​2 Feldman, F. 4 Fiedler, L. 352 Finney, C. G. 353, 355–​7 Fischer, J. M. 115 Force of Circumstance (Beauvoir) 427, 429 “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’“ (Derrida) 448 forgetting 9–​10, 95, 107, 263, 441 Förster-​Nietzsche, E. 373, 381 fortune 53, 106, 121–​8, 171, 172–​3, 196, 277, 304, 374; Aristotle on 53; building a 352; Cicero on 106; reversal of 31, 34–​5; Seneca on 122–​3 Foucault, M. 121, 415–​23; on biopower, sexuality, and life in the biopolitical state 418–​20; on history from ancient death preparation rituals modern die-​ins 420–​3; on sovereign power, racism, and death in the biopolitical state 416–​18 fragmentariness 408 Frame, D. 180 freedom: absolute 422; in death 128; from fear of death 186; Hegel on absolute 335; Hegel on consciousness and 333; Kant on death and moral 311–​12; Kierkegaard and love and death leading to 348–​9; of mind 230; Montesquieu on tranquility, security, and 265–​8; political 267; premeditation of death as premeditation of 183 French Revolution, the: Burke on 301–​2, 305, 307; Hegel on 331, 335; rejection of religion and 305; unnatural death in 303–​6 Freud, S. 34, 453 friendship: with death, collective 422; Derrida on 451–​4; Epicurus on 75–​7; MacIntyre on 460–​3; Smith on 296 Gandhi, M. K. 383–​91; on dealing with disease, grief, and death directly 387–​9; on designing death 389–​91; on exemplars of nonviolent methods 385–​7; guide to transcending fear of death 384–​5; saving lives as focus of 387; on saving other lives without fearing one’s own death 384 Garden, K. 152 Gay Science, The (Nietzsche) 380, 381 Genealogy of Morality, The (Nietzsche) 376 Generation of Animals (Aristotle) 50, 51, 52 genocide 221, 416, 451, 454 Gift of Death, The (Derrida) 449, 451

Giglioni, G. 204 Ginsburg, T. 327 Gittings, C. 2 God: Alfarabi on 144; al-​Ghazālī on 152–​4; Beauvoir on 427–​8; Burke on supernature, hope, and 302–​3; depicted in Fear and Trembling 347–​8; depicted in Paradise Lost 219–​27; Descartes on the body/​soul and 214; Hume on 272, 274–​5; Locke on 254–​6; Maimonides on 161–​8; Nietzsche on 373; social contract and 248; Spinoza on 233–​7; St. Augustine on 136–​9 Godrej, F. 96–​7 Great Community 25–​6 Great Instauration (Bacon) 198 Gregerson, L. 221 grieving 124–​5; Derrida on 451–​4; Gandhi on 387–​9 Grossman, M. 219–​20 Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant) 315 Guha, R. 390 Guide of the Perplexed (Maimonides) 161 guiltiness 220–​2 Hall, D. 83 Hamilton, A. 320; see also Federalist Hamlet (Shakespeare) 189 happiness: drawn from experiences 277–​8; freedom and 121–​8; friendship and 75–​7; health and 52–​3, 56–​7; Kant on death and 316–​17; love and 297; moral life and 103–​4; Rousseau on 281–​8; suicide and 105–​7 Hastings, W. 304 Hawthorne, N. 352 Healing: Metaphysics (Avicenna) 166 healthcare 400–​1; MacIntyre on 459–​60 Heaven 82, 157, 244; American spirituality fixated on 352; Mill on 367 hedonism 71–​2, 146 Hegel, G. W. 331–​9; on Antigone 334–​5; on death and determinate negation 331–​2; on death and revealed religion 335–​6; on ethical society 336–​9; on the French Revolution 335; on struggle for recognition 332–​3 Heidegger, M. 395–​6, 397, 405–​12, 449, 453; on anticipations of death in authentic mode 410–​12; on authentic death and the political 412; on misunderstandings of death in inauthentic mode 409–​10; on moods and death 408–​9; on moving from inauthentic everydayness to authentic being-​toward-​death 408; on person as being-​in-​the-​world 406–​7 hell: Alfarabi on 146; al-​Ghazālī on 154, 157, 158; Burke on 305; depicted in Paradise Lost 221–​2, 225–​6; Foucault on 422; Hobbes on 244, 248; St. Augustine on 136; Tocqueville on 358

 473

Index  473 Hellenist death traditions 420–​1 Henricks, R. G. 81 Heretical Essays in the Philosophy of History (Patočka) 449 Hermeneutics of the Self, The (Foucault) 415 Historia Vitae et Mortis (Bacon) 198, 199 history: authentic 412; Christian 133; creation myths in 220; Deleuze on 437, 441, 443; Derrida on 448, 449; Foucault on 415, 420–​1; Hegel on 331–​3, 335, 336; Heidegger on 405, 412; of humanism 185; Hume on 271; Islamic 154, 157; Jewish 161; MacIntyre on 463; Montaigne on 182, 183, 185; Nietzsche on 381; plays chronicling 189; of political thought, diversity of 3; as progressive realization of freedom in life of humans 336; Publius on 322–​4; redemptive 356, 358; Roman 173, 174, 204; St. Augustine on 133, 137; Tocqueville on American 353 History (Thucydides) 29–​36; atrocities in 34–​5; Corcyrean Civil War in 33–​4; Pericles’ Funeral Oration in 30–​1; Plague at Athens in 31–​3 History of Sexuality, Volume 1 (Foucault) 415, 416, 420 Hobbes, T. 29, 61, 186, 205, 219, 241–​9, 264; on death, immortality, and the seeds of rebellion 243–​4; on death and human ignorance 242; on death and superstition 242–​3; on fear of death and the social contract 245–​6; on fear of death as political danger 241–​4; on fear of death as political good 244–​8; Kant and 310, 311, 313; Rousseau and 281–​2, 285; on sovereignty and death 246–​8; Spinoza and 230–​1, 232; on violent death of the body vs. the eternal death of the soul 245 Holocaust, the 451, 454 Homer 8–​16, 375 hope: Alfarabi on 147–​8; Aristotle on 54–​6; Bacon on 198–​9, 203; Buddha on 65; Burke on 302–​7; Cicero on 107; Derrida on 450; Descartes on 211, 214; Hegel on 338; Hobbes on 245, 248–​9; Homer on 11–​12; Hume on 271, 273, 275–​8; Kierkegaard on 343; Locke on 255; Machiavelli on 177; Mill on 364–​9; Milton on 222, 225; Montesquieu on 263; Nietzsche on 377–​80; Rousseau on 284, 287; Seneca on 123–​4; Shakespeare on 189–​93, 196–​7; Smith on 293; Spinoza on 231–​2, 234, 237; St. Augustine on 137; Thucydides on 29; Tocqueville on 357 Horowtiz, T. 4 Hour of Our Death, The (Ariès) 4 Human Condition, The (Arendt) 394, 395–​6, 399, 400 human nature, Burke on 301 Hume, D. 185, 271–​8; consolation and philosophical disposition of reason and 275–​7; on immortality in light of reason and nature 274–​5; peaceful death of 277–​8, 293,

294, 295; on philosophy and religion 272; on popular religion 273–​4 Ibn Bajja 142, 148 Ibn Sīnā 152 Ibn Tufayl 142, 148 Iliad (Homer) 8 immanence 420–​2, 438–​41 immortality: the Constitution and political 325–​7; Hobbes on 243–​4; Hume on 274–​5; Lucretius’ argument against 116–​17; Machiavelli on 176–​7; Maimonides on 161–​8; and ontology of the self 91–​3; political 397–​8; reputational 203–​5; of the soul 40–​7; Tocqueville on 351–​9 inauthentic being toward death 409–​10 Indian Opinion 388 inequality: Buddha on 66–​7; Derrida on 447; Lucretius on 118; MacIntyre on 458; Rousseau on 282–​3 Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, An (Smith) 292 intercession 157–​8 Introduction to Metaphysics (Heidegger) 412 Irving, W. 352 Isbell, J. 116 Ivanhoe, P. J. 82 Jaspers, K. 395 Jay, J. 320; see also Federalist Jenkins, J. B. 358 Jesus Christ 133, 136–​7, 165; American Spirituality and 352–​8; Gandhi on 386, 391; Locke on 253, 257; revivalist theology on 355–​6 jihad see Alfarabi Johansson, J. 4 Johnson, S. 271 Judaism, Maimonides and 161–​8 justice 1, 29, 67, 94, 138; Cato on 104–​5; Hobbes on 247; Hume on 274–​5; Kant on 314; MacIntyre on 459; St. Augustine on 137–​8; Thucydides on 32, 34 Kahan, A. S. 353 kamma 62–​3, 66–​7 Kant, I. 310–​18, 333, 377, 450; on death, politics, and morality 312–​16; on death and happiness 316–​17; on death and moral freedom 311–​12 karma 388 karman 94 Kaufman, F. 114–​15 Keller, V. 199 Kelly, G. A. 336 Kierkegaard, S. 341–​9, 395; context and background of 341–​2; on death of others and purity of love 343–​4; on despairing unto death 346–​7; ethic of love 342–​3; on learning to live

474

474 Index with loss 347–​8; on our own death and the earnestness of life 344–​6 Kiernan, R. 201 King Lear (Shakespeare) 189–​90; death and life in 196–​7; sad weight of time in 190–​3 knowledge, search for 9–​10; Locke on 253; Montesquieu on 263 Kofman, S. 452, 453 Kraemer, J. 142 Kramer, K. 385 Kramer, L. 328 Krause, S. R. 397 La Boétie, É. de 180, 183, 184 LaHaye, T. 358 Laozi 80–​8; dao, ziran, wuwei in 81–​3; death as social critique and 85–​7; death in 83–​5 laws of nature: 62, 233; Montesquieu on 262–​5 learning to live 447; with loss 347–​8 Lectures on Ethics (Kant) 316 Lectures on the History of Philosophy (Hegel) 331 Le Gay Pied 416 Letter Concerning Toleration, A (Locke) 253, 254–​6 Letter from Adam Smith, L L. D. to William Strahan, Esq., A (Smith) 292, 293, 295 Letters on Ethics: To Lucilius (Seneca) 121, 122–​3, 127 Letter to a Noble Lord, A (Burke) 307 Leviathan (Hobbes) 242, 245, 310 Levinas, E. 449, 452 li 24–​5 liberty see freedom life course model 50–​1, 56; dispositions and 53–​6 lifespan, human: Aristotle on 50; Bacon on 199–​200, 203–​4; changing 1–​3 Lincoln, A. 30, 104 lived experience 252, 439, 442–​3, 450 Locke, J. 132, 219, 230–​1, 251–​8; Kant and 313, 315; on learning from mortality 251–​2; life and major works of 252–​4; on mortality in Essay and The Reasonableness of Christianity 256–​8; on politics, religion, and epistemology in A Letter Concerning Toleration 254–​6 love: as charm against death 366; death of others and purity of 343–​4; ethic of 342–​3; happiness and 297; Hume on 278; Kierkegaard on 341–​9; Rousseau on self-​283, 286; Spinoza on 233–​5 Lucretius 111–​18, 201, 202; argument against immortality 116–​17; Epicurean view of death and 111–​12; Population Argument 117–​18; on prenatal and posthumous nonexistence 112–​13; responses to 113–​16 Luper, S. 4 Lutz, D. 327–​8 Lyotard, J.-​F. 454

Machiavelli, N. 29, 171–​7; assertion that the young are dangerous 174–​5; assertion that the young can learn, the old can’t change 173–​4; on fortune favoring the young 172–​3; on the new and the past 175–​6; on renewal, return, and immortality 176–​7 MacIntyre, A. 458–​66; on glimpsing eternity through politics and good lives 463–​6; on virtue and narrative in the twilight of life 460–​3 Madison, J. 261, 320; see also Federalist magga 62 Magritte, R. 415 Maimonides, M. 161–​8; Commentary on the Mishnah and the Mishneh Torah 161, 163–​4; Treatise on Resurrection and overall teaching of 163, 164–​8 “Makropulos Case: Reflections on the Tedium of Immortality, The” (Williams) 116 Malpas, J. 4 Manent, P. 288 Manicheism 133 Marie (Tocqueville) 351 Marier, P. 2 Marks, E. 427 Marmontel, J.-​F. 366 Marshall, J. 321 martyrdom 137, 167, 390, 422 Marx, K. 341–​2, 395 Mason, G. 327 material continuity between living and dead 155–​6 materialism 249, 352–​5, 358 McChrystal, D. K. 223 meaning in life: Arendt on 401; Beauvoir on 432–​4 Measure for Measure (Shakespeare) 275–​6 Medicare 3 Meditations on First Philosophy (Descartes) 209, 210, 213, 215, 407 Melville, H. 352 Memoirs (Marmontel) 366 memory: and death, in Odyssey 9–​16; reincarnation and 63–​7; second nature and 301–​2 Meno (Socrates) 40–​3 Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare) 189 metaphysics 405, 412; Epicurean 70–​1 Metaphysics of Morals (Kant) 313, 450 Mill, J. S. 362–​9; on the death penalty 364–​5; on sympathy, death, and duty 365–​8; on utilitarianism, death, and dying 363 Milton, J. 219–​27; on death of the body 224–​5; on guiltiness as bad conscience 220–​2; on loss of divine grace 222–​4; on nature of death 220; on permanent death 225–​7 mind-​body union: Descartes on 209, 214, 215, 407; Locke on 254 Mirabai 386–​7, 391 Mishneh Torah (Maimonides) 161, 163–​4

 475

Index  475 modeling, positive 24 Moeller, H.-​G. 83, 84, 87 Mohan, S. 385 Montaigne, M. de 180–​6, 201; early writings on death 181–​3; evolving approach to death 183–​5; politics of death and 185–​6 Montesquieu 261–​9; death of 268–​9; life of 261–​2; on man, beasts, and death 262–​3; on timidity, mutual fear, and sociality 263–​5; on tranquility, security, and liberty 265–​8 Moorhead, J. 356, 357–​8 moral freedom and death 311–​12 morality/​moral virtue 102–​4; Alfarabi on pleasure, the afterlife, and 145–​6; and good for mortal beings 102–​5; human imperfection and human wisdom in 107–​8; Kant on 312–​16; moral and political implications of mortality and 104–​5; in Paradise Lost 219–​27; Seneca on 122; suicide and 105–​7; warrior 146–​8 More, T. 121 mortality: Hume on 271–​8; Locke on 256–​8; moral and political implications of 104–​5; in Paradise Lost 219–​27 mourning 451–​4; see also grieving Much Ado About Nothing (Shakespeare) 189 Muhammad 153–​5 Muslim tradition: Alfarabi and warfare in 141–​6; al-​Ghazālī and remembrance of death in 151–​8 Mussett, S. 429, 433 My Own Life (Hume) 295 Nagel, T. 114, 115 natality 394–​402; animal laborans and 399; as response to human finitude 395–​7 Natural History of Religion (Hume) 273 natural man, Rousseau on 282–​8 Nazi ideology 373, 405, 412, 418 Nelson, L. 98–​9 Nero, Emperor 121, 122, 127, 204 New Age traditions 420 Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle) 29, 52, 54–​5, 142 Nietzsche, F. W. 29, 61, 341, 373–​81, 395, 438, 441, 463; cultural interventions 378–​80; philosophy and life and legacy of 380–​1; tragic pessimism of 374–​5 niroda 62 Nixon, R. 417 Noll, M. 355 No Subject Argument (NSA) 72 Nussbaum, M. 116, 117, 118 Oakeshott, M. 185 Ober, J. 32 O’Byrne, A. 397, 399 Odyssey (Homer) 8–​16, 375; examinations in Ithaca 13–​15; jealous gods in 15–​16; Odysseus’ curious forgetfulness in 9–​10; remembering death in 10–​13

Of the Advancement of Learning (Bacon) 198, 199, 202 Of the Wisdom of the Ancients (Bacon) 199 old age: Aristotle on dispositions of 53–​6; Aristotle on virtues in aging and 50–​7; Bacon on utility of longer, healthier life and 199–​200; Beauvoir on 431–​4; Buddha on 60–​7; definition of 50–​2; happiness and health in 52–​3, 56–​7; Machiavelli on 173–​4; MacIntyre on virtue and narrative in 460–​3 On Length of Life (Aristotle) 51 On Liberty (Mill) 362, 363, 368 On Painting (Alberti) 452 On Providence (Seneca) 121, 125 On Respiration (Aristotle) 50 On the Beautiful and the Fitting (St. Augustine) 134 On the Soul (Aristotle) 52 ontology: Bhagavad Gītā on 91–​8; Heidegger on shift from phenomenology to 405; of the self 91–​3, 420; speech 155; of spirits 244 Other, death of the 451–​4 Otho, Emperor 204 Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Death, The (Bradley, Feldman, Johansson) 4 pain: Aristotle on 52–​3; bodily, in dying 74–​5; deprivationists on 73–​4; of living in society 77; mental, in dying 74 Paradise Lost (Milton) 219–​27; on death of the body 224–​5; on guiltiness as bad conscience 220–​2; on loss of divine grace 222–​4; on nature of death 220; on permanent death 225–​7 Paranjape, M. 390 Paraphrase and Notes on the Epistles of St. Paul (Locke) 253 Parens, J. 142 Parsons, R. 201 Pascal, B. 185 Passions of the Soul, The (Descartes) 210, 212 Patočka, J. 449 peaceful death: of David Hume 277–​8, 293, 294, 295; Smith on 292–​7 Perfect State (Alfarabi) 141, 143 Persian Letters, The (Montesquieu) 261 person 114–​15, 337–​8; Dasein 406–​7, 409, 410, 449 personality 53–​6, 61, 64–​6, 337–​8, 384, 431 personhood: moral 19, 21, 26; relational 20–​2 pessimism, Nietzsche and 374–​5; politics and 375–​8 Phaedo (Socrates) 40–​3 Phaedrus (Socrates) 43–​7 Phenomenology of Spirit, The (Hegel) 331–​3, 336 Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle (Alfarabi) 141, 147 Pitkin, H. F. 401 plague, Athens 29, 31–​3, 35–​6, 180, 184, 387–​88

476

476 Index Plato 29, 40–​7, 66, 126, 137, 447 Poe, E. A. 352 Political Regime (Alfarabi) 141, 143 Politics (Aristotle) 29, 50 politics of Friendship, The (Derrida) 451–​2 popular constitutionalism 328 popular religion, Hume on 273–​4 postmillennialism 355–​6 Prime, R. 97 Prime of Life, The (Beauvoir) 427, 429, 430 Prince, The (Machiavelli) 171, 172 Principle Doctrines, The (Epicurus) 70 Principles of Philosophy, The (Descartes) 209, 210 property 246, 338 Protestantism 186; the spirit in 335–​6 Publius see Federalist Pyrrhus and Cineas (Beauvoir) 427, 430 Quran, the 141, 146, 165 racism 416–​18, 419 Rawls, J. 315 Reagan, R. 417 Reasonableness of Christianity, The (Locke) 253, 256–​8 recognition, human struggle for 332–​3 recollection, theory of 40–​7; dignity and dialectic in 45–​7; in Meno and Phaedo 40–​3; Phaedrus and the ascent to beauty in 43–​5 Reflections on the Revolution in France (Burke) 299 Reflections on the Revolution in France (de Montaigne) 185–​6 Regulus, M. 103 reincarnation 61, 63–​7, 385, 388 relational personhood 20–​2 remembrance of death, al-​Ghazālī on 151–​8 ren 22–​3 Republic (Plato) 29, 66 reputation 54, 102, 104, 182, 199, 203–​5, 307 restraint, politics of 186 resurrection: in Christianity 133, 136; in Islam 152, 155, 157, 158; in Judaism 161–​8; see also afterlife, the revealed religion 335–​6 Reveries of the Solitary Walker, The (Rousseau) 282, 285–​8 revivalist theology 355–​8 Revivication of the Islamic Sciences, The (al-​Ghazālī) 151, 152, 158 Rhetoric (Aristotle) 50–​6 rituals: Bacon on 201, 204; Confucius on 24–​6; Foucault on 420, 422; Hobbes on 243; Hume on 274; Laozi on 87 Rousseau, J.-​J. 172, 219, 281–​8, 353; on natural man 282–​4; on preserving the man of nature in society 284–​5; Reveries of the Solitary Walker and new model of man of nature 285–​8

Rousseau Judge of Jean-​Jacques: Dialogues (Rousseau) 282 Rules for the Direction of Mind (Descarte) 215 Saint-​Martin, A. de 180 samudaya 62 Sandford, S. 434 Sartre, J.-​P. 426–​7, 429 Satan, in Paradise Lost 219–​27 satyagraha 383–​7 Saving Private Ryan 212 Science of Logic, The (Hegel) 331 second bond of knowledge 264 Second Great Awakening 355, 358 second nature, Burke on 301–​2 Second Sex, The (Beauvoir) 426 security 75–​7, 186, 245–​6, 262, 266, 267–​8, 295, 324, 364, 418 Selected Aphorisms (Alfarabi) 142–​5 self, the: Deleuze on 440–​5; knowledge of 45; ontology of 91–​3; remembrance of death as disciplining 153; virtue ethics and divided self and 458–​9 self-​consciousness 185, 332–​4, 336 self-​discipline 96, 354, 358, 384 self-​fashioning 151, 186 self-​knowledge 45, 190, 420 self-​love 102–​3, 283, 286, 380 self-​preservation 103, 124, 243–​4, 245, 283, 314 self-​sacrifice 232–​3 self-​sufficiency: Alfarabi on 144; suicide as manifestation of 105–​7 self-​to-​self relation 420–​1 Seneca the Younger 121–​8, 202; death of 127–​8; on dying well 125–​8; on fear of death 124; on grieving well 124–​5; life and proximity of death 121–​2; stoic philosophy of 122–​4 sequenced thinker approach 5 sexuality and biopower 418–​20 Shakespeare, W. 121, 182, 189–​97, 275–​6; on beneficent weight of time 193–​6; on sad weight of time 190–​3 Shklar, J. 186 Shoah 451, 454 Sickness Unto Death, The (Kierkegaard) 346 “Simplest of Pleasures, The” (Foucault) 416 skepticism 148, 157, 185–​6, 255, 275, 333, 374, 377 Slade, M. 387 Slingerland, E. 83 Smith, A. 271, 292–​7, 301; on commercial societies 295–​7; on death of “savage” 293–​4; on different deaths 294; on savage lives 294–​5; on similar deaths 293–​4 social cohesion 24–​5 social contract 245–​6 social critique, death as 85–​7 social death 304–​5

 477

Index  477 social man 283, 460 Social Security 3 societal context of death 1–​3, 434; MacIntyre on 458–​9 Society Must Be Defended (Foucault) 415, 416, 417 Socrates 123, 447, 454; on dignity and dialectic 45–​7; Gandhi on 385–​6, 391; Phaedrus and the ascent to beauty 43–​5; recollection in the Meno and Phaedo 40–​3 Solomon, R. C. 4 Somers-​Hall, H. 437 Sophocles 334–​5 soul, the: Descartes on 213–​14; Epicurus on 71–​2; Hobbes on eternal death of 245; immortality of 40–​3; intrinsic ability to learn 43–​5; knowledge in 42; Locke on 253–​4; three types of 44; see also afterlife, the sovereignty and death 246–​8, 416–​18 speech, human 46–​7 sphere of freedom 400 Spielberg, S. 212 Spinoza, B. de 172, 230–​7; on absolute freedom 422; on love, death, and politics 233–​5; philosophy and problem of superstition 231–​3; unanswered questions 235–​7 spirit: Aristotle on 12; Bhagavad Gītā on 92; Hegel on the 331–​9; Laozi on 86; Locke on 253; Milton on 225; Montesquieu on 267; Publius on 322, 328 Spirit of the Laws, The (Montesquieu) 262–​3, 265–​8 spiritual death: Kramer on 385; Milton on 222–​4 Stalin, J. 104 state-​sanctioned death 364–​5, 450–​1 St. Augustine 132–​9, 395–​6, 397; on death in Confessions 132–​5; on death in The City of God 135–​9 Stockdale, J. 101 Stoicism 101–​2, 183, 202; Gandhi and 387; human imperfection and human wisdom in 107–​8; moral and political implications of mortality in 104–​5; moral and political virtue in 102–​4; of Seneca the Younger 122–​4; suicide as manifestation of self-​sufficiency in 105–​7 St. Paul 253, 376 Sufism 152 suicide: Kant on 315–​16; as manifestation of self-​sufficiency, Epicurus on 105–​7; Seneca on dying well and 125–​7 Sukhamala Sutta 60 supernature, Burke on 302–​3 superstition: Hobbes on 242–​3; Hume on 273–​4; Spinoza on 230–​3, 235–​6 Symmetry Argument 111–​17; Population Argument and 117–​18; prenatal and posthumous nonexistence in 112–​13; responses to 113–​16 sympathy 76–​7, 296, 301, 365–​8

Tacitus 127–​8 Talmud, the 161–​3, 168 Taylor, H. 362, 368 telos 71, 76, 77 Tempest, The (Shakespeare) 189–​90; beneficent weight of time in 193–​6; death and life in 196–​7 thanatopolitics 416 Theologico-​Political Treatise (Spinoza) 230, 231 Theory of Moral Sentiments, The (Smith) 292, 293 Theses on Feuerbach (Marx) 341–​2 Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions (Kierkegaard) 342–​6 Thucydides 29–​36; on atrocities 34–​5; on Corcyrean Civil War 33–​4; on Pericles’ Funeral Oration 30–​1; on the Plague at Athens 31–​3 Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Nietzsche) 375, 378–​80, 441–​2 Timmerman, T. 73 Tocqueville, A. de 351–​9; on American civil religion and the afterlife 353–​4; on the paradox of American spirituality 351–​3; on revivalist theology 355–​8 totalitarianism 394, 398–​9 tranquility: Epicurean 74–​5; of mind 124; Montesquieu on spirit of 265–​8 transcendental field 438–​41 Treatise on Christian Doctrine, A (Milton) 219, 220, 233–​7 Treatise on Resurrection (Maimonides) 163, 164–​8 truth: al-​Ghazālī’ on 152, 155–​7; Bacon on 200; Beauvoir on 432; Buddha on 61–​2, 67; Derrrida on 447; Descartes on 215; Foucault on 415, 419–​22; Gandhi on 383–​6; Hegel on 331–​2, 336; Heidegger on 408–​10, 412; Kant on 316–​7; Kierkegaard on 341–​3, 346–​8; Locke on 252, 255–​6; Lucretius on 112; MacIntyre on 461–​3; Montaigne on 181; Montequieu on 262; Nietzsche on 373, 376–​8; Plato on 40; Shakespeare on 191–​2; Socrates on 40–​1, 44, 46–​7; Spinoza on 233, 236; St. Augustine on 132, 134 two faces of living 444–​5 Two Treatises of Government (Locke) 253 U.S. Constitution see Federalist utilitarianism 166, 362, 366, 465; death, dying, and 363 Utilitarianism (Mill) 362 utopianism 29, 31–​2, 464 Valéry, P. 5 Van Pevenage, I. 2 Vatican Sayings (Epicurus) 70 Very Easy Death, A (Beauvoir) 427, 430

478

478 Index violent death: of the body vs. eternal death of the soul 245; Hobbes on fear of 241, 246, 247, 249, 264; Locke on fear of 251; of political regimes 300, 324–​5; Rousseau on fear of 281; Smith on 293–​4 virtue: Alfarabi on pleasure, the afterlife, and 145–​6; and good for mortal beings 102–​5; human imperfection and human wisdom in 107–​8; moral and political implications of mortality and 104–​5; and narrative in the twilight of life 460–​3; Seneca on 122; suicide and 105–​7; warrior 146–​8; see also morality/​moral virtue virtue ethics, MacIntyre on 458–​60 Wang Bi 82, 83 warfare: Alfarabi on death and 141–​8; atrocities in 34–​5; motivations for 142–​3; Thucydides on

29–​30, 33–​5; unnatural death and revolution 303–​6; warrior virtue and 146–​8 Who Shall Die (Beauvoir) 427 Williams, B. 31, 116 Winter’s Tale, The (Shakespeare) 189 Wolin, R. 400–​1 Woodruff, P. 30 Work of Mourning, The (Derrida) 453 Works of Love (Kierkegaard) 342, 343 World to Come and Bodily Resurrection, Judaism 162–​4, 166–​7 wuwei 83, 86 xiao 20–​2 Zhuangzi 83–​4 ziran 81–​6