By Joseph Epstein
Thursday, April 02, 2020
‘Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged
in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully,” wrote Samuel Johnson,
whose mind, without fear of hanging, was concentrated on death throughout his
life. Johnson concentrated on death with, in a word, “terror.” He thought,
mistakenly, that he was not a good enough Christian, and that nothing pleasing
awaited after his demise. None of us is to be hanged in a fortnight, either,
but, these days, with the plague of the coronavirus upon the land, all our
minds are concentrated on death. Turn on the television or radio, national or
local, and one discovers that the dread virus is topics 1 through 896. News of
the increased number of people who have the virus, the numbers of those who,
locally, nationally, and internationally, have died from it, is inescapable.
Two of Pascal’s best-known passages come into play in
connection with the coronavirus. The first has it that “all of humanity’s
problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” The second
speaks to the human condition: “Imagine a number of men in chains, all under
sentence of death, some of whom each day are butchered in the sight of others;
those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows, and looking
at each other with grief and despair await their turn. This is an image of the
human condition.” The coronavirus has forced almost all of us, either in
enforced or self-imposed quarantine, to sit quietly in our room, and the news
of the continuing deaths it is causing — of the obscure and the celebrated —
concentrates our minds on Pascal’s dark human condition.
Montaigne, whom one does not think of as a dark writer,
felt one couldn’t think too often or too much about death, especially one’s
own. He wrote about death in three separate essays — “On Fear,” “Why We Should
Not Be Deemed Happy Until after Our Death,” and “To Philosophize Is to Learn
How to Die” — and his general point was that we should accustom ourselves to
the idea of death, of our own death specifically, in order “to educate and
train [our souls] for their encounter with that adversary, death.” Doing so, we
would thereby fight free of the fear of death, so that when it does arrive “it
will bear no new warning for [us]. As far as we possibly can we must have our
boots on, ready to go.” Montaigne wished to die tending his cabbages, but,
alas, he was instead the victim, at 59, in 1592, of quinsy, a disease of the
throat that can be painful and that, in his case, rendered him speechless at
the close of his life.
“So it has come at last, the distinguished thing,”
uttered Henry James of death on his own deathbed. Far from clear is what is
distinguished about it, death, that most democratic of events, “an old joke,”
as Turgenev once referred to it, “that comes to each of us afresh.” Yet if not
death generally, then some deaths do seem more distinguished than others.
Surely there are good and bad deaths, and sad because unnecessary deaths. A
good death for men, most would agree, is one on the battlefield in a war fought
for an important cause. The classic good death is thought to be that of
Socrates, his principles intact, calmly drinking hemlock in the company of
friends. For a woman a good death might be one in which she dies for her
children or to stave off the death of others, a death marked by selflessness. A
good death is often thought an easeful death, one unaccompanied by pain or
mess. A death in one’s sleep at home at an advanced age is for most of us the
very model of a good death.
Perhaps the most famous easeful death was that of the
philosopher David Hume — famous because James Boswell recorded it in his Life
of Johnson. Hume “was quite different from the plump figure which he used
to present,” Boswell wrote. “He seemed to be placid and even cheerful. He said
he was just approaching to his end.” When Boswell asked him “if the thought of
annihilation never gave him any uneasiness,” Hume answered: Not in the least,
“no more than the thought that he had never been, as Lucretius observes.”
Boswell reported Hume’s calm in the face of death to Samuel Johnson, who
retorted: “He lied. He had a vanity in being thought easy. It is more probable
that he lied than that so very improbable a thing should be as a man not afraid
of death; of going into an unknown state and not being uneasy at leaving all
that he knew.”
Sad deaths sometimes seem to constitute the preponderance
of deaths. Sad is a death that comes about through malfeasance, foolish
misbehavior, accident. Sad it seems to die too soon because of heavy smoking,
obesity, drugs, careless driving. (I write “too soon,” but then Balzac, in Cousin
Pons, notes that “death always comes too soon.”) A too-early death, in
which one is deprived by a large measure of the full share of one’s days, is
inherently sad. Too early is any death that falls well below the life expectancy
of the day. One thinks of Anton Chekhov, George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald,
all of whom died in their forties.
In literature, Tolstoy did death best, whether it was the
suicide of Anna Karenina, the prolonged dying of Prince Andrei Bolkonsky after
the Battle of Austerlitz in War and Peace, or the insignificant (to all
but him) death of Ivan Ilych Golovin in “The Death of Ivan Ilych.” Tolstoy
writes: “Besides considerations as to the possible transfers and promotions
likely to result from Ivan Ilych’s death, the mere fact of the death of a near
acquaintance aroused, as usual, in all who heard of it the complacent feeling
that ‘it is he who is dead and not I.’ . . . Each one thought or felt, ‘Well,
he’s dead, but I’m alive.’” Ivan Ilych himself cannot confront his fate
directly, and for a long stretch he refers to death as “It”: “He would go into
his study, lie down, and again be alone with It: face to face with It. And
nothing could be done with It, except to look at it and shudder.” As for
perhaps the most famous death in English literature, in Dickens’s The Old
Curiosity Shop, Oscar Wilde remarked that “one must have a heart of stone
not to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.”
Which brings us back to death by coronavirus — surely one
that, by the nature of its accidental, its almost haphazard quality, would be
sad indeed. There is no avoiding this blasted virus — “Kung Flu,” an
acquaintance of mine calls it — either on the news, on the streets, or in one’s
consciousness. Because of it we are advised to avoid social gatherings, eating
and drinking in public places, discretionary travel. We are instructed to make
up for the time ordinarily spent in these pleasant pursuits by washing our
hands throughout the day for no less than 20 seconds each time and the rest of
the time trying to remember not to touch our faces. In grocery shops, on the
otherwise empty streets, most people one encounters are wearing face masks and
blue rubber gloves. If the coronavirus continues for an appreciable time, the man
or woman who invents a full-body condom will make a fortune.
The news is utterly dominated by talk of the coronavirus,
with only the weather report offering relief. Owing to the virus, sports, that
opiate of us male masses, have been eliminated. On every news show, physicians
are called in to tell us what to do to elude the virus, what we need to worry
and not worry about. Two different friends sent me advice, via YouTube, given
by a youngish, overweight M.D. with a ponytail, on how to unpack my groceries
safely, which, as he demonstrated, can easily be done if you have, say, 40 or
so minutes to give to the project and perhaps an extra quart of disinfectant on
hand to do it properly.
In the British Spectator, Theodore Dalrymple,
apropos of the coronavirus, makes the distinction between genuine danger and
the frisson of danger, the latter being available to us through horror
movies, roller coasters, thrillers, the former being true terror, and concludes
that the coronavirus entails genuine fear. “A mixture of definite statistics —
the absolute or cumulative number of deaths day by day, for example — and
projections of present trends indefinitely into the future, together with
unknown quantities such as the true rate of mortality and an absence of any
sense of proportion,” he writes, “promotes obedience and a trust in authority
as the only shield we have.” What we are afraid of, of course, is an all but
arbitrary death by germ. “Seven thousand old people have died in Italy,
13,800,000 have not,” Dalrymple writes, “but the 7,000 are infinitely more real
to us than the 13,800,000, and further deaths, even at a slowing rate, can only
reinforce our fears.” None of us wants to die for no better reason than that we
came too close to a stranger carrying the virus or put our hand on an infected
counter or package, or an index finger on an elevator button. To do so, not to
put too fine a point on it, would be unreasonable.
How would Epicurus (341–270 c.e.), that most reasonable
of philosophers, have confronted the coronavirus? Epicurus, contra Montaigne,
instructs us to get our minds off death. Not to worry, he advises. After death
comes oblivion, in which you will be returned to the state you existed in
before you were a child. As for rewards or punishment in the afterlife, perish
the thought, for if there is no God or gods, then worrying about His or their
judgment is a waste of time. The same goes for pain. Two possibilities here,
either it will go away or it will worsen and you will die, upon which benign
oblivion will follow. Hey, no problem! Yet why do I see Epicurus, were he alive
today, washing his hands yet one more time and checking for his face mask
before leaving the house? The man was a philosopher, true, but he was no damn
fool.
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