XVIII
August 15, 198-
Death is the greatest philosopher. Without a word, it can cause a person to take stock of her life. I would think this could be very revealing but painfully so. Death the philosopher is always asking questions, questions about goodness and value, about the meaning and purpose of life. These questions sting like bites of the gadfly. And most people don’t have the heart to put up with interrogation, so they attempt to avoid the questions by closing their minds to death, but death is patient, and one day the door is unwittingly opened and there one finds the dark figure waiting to begin that forgotten conversation. Confronting death, one’s own or that of another, is always deeply unnerving but especially for sensitive souls such as Christine who feel that somehow they have betrayed life by having betrayed others or themselves. But the anguish death causes doesn’t necessarily make death an enemy of life. On the contrary, death is life’s ally. Sin, corruption, and suffering are enemies of life, but they end with death. Death, it seems, is capable of mercy, eventually freeing those who suffer and lifting a burden from those who must go on with their lives. But what am I saying? The finality of death is terrifyingly absolute.
My own disembodied nature disqualifies me as an authority on the subject of death, since I am neither alive nor dead. However, my lack of experience in the matters of life and death has once again failed to silence me. I must have my say; words are my lifeblood. Besides, the topic has its own logic, a painful logic, judging by Christine’s reaction to her own mortality, but one that even a deathless, not immortal but simply lifeless, creature like myself can follow. Like most people, Christine would rather not be reminded of death. And why should they? It is like discovering that the air is being slowly removed from the room one is in, so slowly that one does not notice until many years have passed and one finds himself or herself short of breath. Seeking to escape one discovers the doors and windows are not real and that there is no escape, other than death itself. It would certainly be more comfortable not to know the truth, to ignore the increasing shortness of breath and the peeling images on the walls. Then again, facing the truth might be the mark of having lived most completely by recognizing the human condition for what it is, in fact the condition of all things, as the old fisherman reminds us.
Perhaps death is nothing at all, simply an unpleasant absurdity of life, signifying nothing beyond its fearsome countenance—like excreta, disgusting to behold yet signs of life. No, you say, death is not so easily explained away for those of us who truly must die. Yes, forgive my glibness. I who feel so intently the desire to live in the flesh, to be a part of life, should understand why one would rather not think about the cessation of his or her existence. Yet death does not appear to be simply nothing, a desert-like void that is constantly devouring the precious waters of life. Or if death is such a thing—and it probably is—I believe it is also something more. Just as excreta can be used to enrich life, to encourage it flourish, so can death.
It is the decaying presence of Robert that reminds Christine of her own spirituality—her responsibility to higher things. It is natural that Robert causes Christine to think about the goodness of her mysterious friend Ruth. It is natural that he reminds her of the life she left behind. Death is a constant reminder, a dark mirror in which the soul is most clearly seen. Is it no wonder that Christine would like to flee from Robert, so that she might flee from herself. She could of course. It seems that most people choose to hide. It is comforting, but it is a poorer thing. There is a price in hiding; every choice has its price. Imagine those who hide from death. The price paid is that of hiding from life itself, even more costly, from their souls which shrivel in the dark cave of illusion. Isn’t it ironic that choosing to hide from death, one chooses to die. What will Christine choose? I think she will choose to live.
From Frank Kyle’s not yet published novel The Girl and the Philosopher.
