Self Encounter; 9; All Men are Mortal

There is an old syllogism which goes like this. All men are mortal, Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal. Just obvious, although impeccable logic, seems to be merely an application of a universal theme to a particular incident. But it contains within it the deepest emotional experience that man can have. It is the movement from people die to I die. I'm the whole society tries to hide from us the thought that I as an individual must die. But this is perhaps a commentary on society and on us ourselves. Tall story, in his short story The Death of Ivan Illich, shows how his hero, like most

of us, goes through life thinking always that death is something which belongs to other people, not to him. And then one day when he falls ill, he suddenly realizes that the question is not one of an appendix or a kidney, but of the life and death of him Ivan Illich. And then he begins a scream which lasts for three unendurable days, a scream which is partly a protest against the fact of death, but even more a scream of regret against the wasted life behind him. If we knew that we had exactly one year to live, I think most of us would say we must make the year count, broaden our experience, deepen it, question ourselves in our lives. Suppose we had five years or ten. We would still feel that if we must die, then what we do now must count.

Or what is the difference between five years or ten years or three score years and ten, especially since for most of us, it will not be three score years and ten. The existentialist feel that we do not really live authentically, unless we do confront this fact of our ultimate death and deliberately and fully choose the kind of life we want to have in the face of it. Some of them, of course, say that death means the end of everything. Others would say that we must somehow, despite all lack of compulsive evidence to the contrary, believe in the possibility of our own immortality. One example of the latter point of view is the Spanish philosopher Unumuno. He feels that although our minds would have us say that death is the end, we must somehow go beyond where our minds would lead us and believe despite everything that death is

not the end. In his short story, The Madness of Dr. Montarco, the hero falls mad to be sure, but with what Plato called a divine madness, something which is not a mere departure from normalcy, but rather an inspiration, an adventurous quest for something more. In the scene, which is about to be before us, we see Dr. Montarco talking to a friend who questions him about some short stories, which Montarco has recently written. I don't know whether you're doing the wisest thing by publishing these stories. By heaven I have to. I simply have to express myself and work off my feelings. If I didn't write out these atrocities, I'd probably end by committing them. It's begun to be whispered, the doctor is a hotty man, a man who gives himself heirs and considers himself a genius and regards other people as poor devils incapable of understanding

him. Hotty and proud, am I? No. Only ignorant people, fools are ever really hotty. And frankly, I don't consider myself a fool. My type of foolishness doesn't qualify me. What does all this talk about pride in the struggle for superiority worth anyway? The truth is, my friend, that when a man tries to get ahead of other people, he is simply trying to save himself. When a man tries to drown out the names of other men, he's merely trying to ensure that his own be preserved in a memory of living men. Because he knows that posterity is a close-mished sieve, which allows few names to get through to other ages. Have you ever noticed the way a fly trap works? What do you mean? One of those bottles filled with water that one sees set about the countryside to trap flies. Well, the poor flies try to save themselves, and since there is only one way out, and that's to climb on the backs of their fellow flies, they navigate on cadavers in those

enclosed waters of death, and a tremendous struggle ensues to see which ones will save themselves. Now, if they do not in the least intend to drown one another, they are merely trying to stay afloat. And so it is with the struggle for fame, which is a thousand times more terrible than the struggle for bread. And just so in the struggle for life, Darwin says... Darwin. Have you ever read biological problems by William Rolf? No. Well, read it. You will see that it is not the multiplication of a species that necessitates more food and leads to such struggle. It is a tendency toward needing more and more food, an impulse to go beyond the merely necessary that causes a species to grow and multiply. It is not an instinct toward self-preservation that impels us to action, but an instinct toward expansion, toward invasion and encroachment.

We do not strive to maintain ourselves merely, but to be more than we are all ready to be everything. In the strong words of Father Alonso Rodriguez, we are driven by an appetite for the divine. And whoever does not strive to be everything, he will not be anything. All or nothing. Now there is profound meaning in that. And whatever reason may tell us, reason, that great liar who is invented for the consolation of failures, the doctrine of the golden mean, and whatever reason may tell us in our innermost soul, which we now call the unconscious, and the depths of our spirit we know that if we are going to avoid becoming nothing, the best course to follow is to strive to become all. Now the struggle for life is an offensive struggle, not a defensive one. Let them say what they will about me.

I will not hear them, I'll close my ears. But this purely offensive system of yours, my charcoal. Yes, it has its flaws, and even one great danger. And that is, the moment my arm weakens, or my sword becomes blunted, they will trample me under their feet and turn me to dust. But before that happens, they will already have accomplished their purpose. They will have driven me mad. And so it was to be, says Una Muno. But the man who looked after Montarco in the last hours says this. You know it often strikes me that the feeling of veneration, accorded madman in certain countries, is quite justified. It's simply that I think they say the things that we all think, but don't express because of timidity or shame.

But who can say that the inextinguishable longing to survive this thirst for immortality is not the proof, the revelation of another world. A world which envelops and also makes possible our world. And who can say that when reason and its chains have been broken, such dreams and delirium, such frenzied outbursts as Dr. Montarcos, are not desperate attempts by the spirit to reach this other world? But suppose that opposite to Una Muno, we say that death is the final annihilation. What then? The great epicureans, of course, had a lovely weight dealing with this. They said that if death is a nothingness, all this means is that there's nothing there for us to fear. So long as I am alive, I am conscious. Not perhaps the idea of not being conscious doesn't appeal to me.

But when I'm dead, I won't be there to know it, all of which is very good logically, but I don't think that it does much to console the human spirit. When we come to modern existentialists, we find that Martin Heidegger, the German existentialist, has tried to make something positive out of this negative fact of death. Since only I can die my own death, he says. This means that if I resolutely confront my own death, I somehow bestow upon my life a unique and authentic value. Sardre objects to this. He feels that in one sense it is not correct to say that I die my own death, or at least not that I live my own death as Heidegger would put it. For in reality, says Sardre, it is not I, but the other person who lives my death. So long as I was alive, the meaning of my act, the significance of my past, was constantly

changing forever in suspense, for I constantly re-determined what it all was. When I die, then my dead life becomes a prey to others, and they become its guardians, and they determine what its significance or meaning has been. In any case, says Sardre, it's ridiculous to say that I can even comprehend death. Death doesn't come as a final resolving chord giving my life a meaning, an addition as it were with a fixed sum, for I can't determine the time at which I am to die. Sardre tells us a story of two brothers who went up before God at the day of judgment. And the younger one said, God, why did you make me die so young? And God said, because if you had lived to be older, you would have committed a crime as your older brother did. And the older brother said, God, why did you let me wait and die so old?

There has sometimes been a comparison of man to the condemned in a cell. We see each day a person being let off to execution, and we know that some time, but we don't know when, it will be our day to be let off. Sardre objects that this is not quite a correct image. It is more as though the condemned man did everything possible to get ready for the day of his death and to meet it courageously, and then he's taken off by an attack of flu. Sardre doesn't offer us very much in the way of consolation for all of this. I suppose the most we can say is that we should live in such a way that when the unexpected summing up of our acts occurs, we will not be too reluctant to leave it there to the mercy of the other who will judge it. Simone de Beauvoir, in her novel, All Men Are Mortal, has made the most detailed study of death and mortality and existentialist literature.

She uses a sort of science fiction gimmick, representing to us her hero, Fosca, who in 13th century Italy, in the city, Carmona, is actually offered the opportunity of drinking and a lesser of immortality. Well, speak. In this bottle is the elixir of immortality. Is that all? You don't believe me? But if you're immortal, why are you so afraid of being thrown off the ramparts? But I'm not immortal. The bottle is full. And why haven't you drank any? Would you dare to drink it? You drink first. No. Is there a living animal here, a small animal? My son has a white mouse.

Who get it, Carthrina? Elixir of immortality. Why didn't you think of selling it to me sooner? You'd never have had the bag again. It's that cursed bottle that made me a beggar. How did that come about? My father was wise. He hid the bottle in his attic and forgot about it. When he was about to die, he told me its secret, but advised me to forget it too. When I was 20, I was made a present of eternal youth. What did I have to worry about? I squandered my father's fortune. Each day I said to myself, I will drink it tomorrow. And you never drank? Pavot is struck me and I didn't dare drink. Old age came and I said to myself, I'll drink it the moment I'm about to die. A little while ago the guards discovered me where I was hiding, but I didn't drink.

There is still time. I'm afraid to die, but an eternal life, how long it must be. Watch carefully. It's dead. No. Watch. Watch. It was dead. It will never die again. Make him leave. He's a sorcerer. Must I drink the whole bottle? Yes. Will I ever grow old? No.

You are not going to drink it. He's not lying. Why would he lie? Ah, that's just it. When Christ wanted to punish the Jew who laughed in his face, he condemned him to live forever. Other things I'll be able to do. Don't drink. If you really were offered a chance at immortality, would you have the courage to accept it? Or would the horror of feeling that you could never, never die, be even worse than our customary feeling of distaste or fear for death? In Foscus' case, he regrets it deeply. He finds in the first place that there is no common measure between a mortal and an immortal. When he tries to do something for his city, he sees things in terms of the future. For him, to keep the city alive, it seems justifiable to sacrifice one to three generations. But for those who are living then, this is diabolical.

He can't find any joy in human relations. One woman tells him that she feels repelled by him, as though he were a member of another species. His best friend curses him, as the friend dies, because he feels that he's put more into their venture than Foscus ever has, and yet Foscus alone will live to enjoy it. As Foscus lives on to the 18th century, he meets one woman who means more to him than the rest. And for a while, he feels that the very shortness of her days gives the joy of preciousness to his life, which he hadn't known for a long time. Her time gives value. But when she discovers the truth about him, she too rejects him. And inevitably, in time, she seems to have dropped out of the world for him. Foscus learns also that basically one can't do things for other people. The only good he finally concludes is to act freely in accordance with one's own conscience.

But if this is the case, what can one do for mankind? And perhaps, worst of all, Foscus decides that as soon as one takes the point of view of Sirius as the French like to put it, then all human endeavors with their limited futures and ends seem to have lost all meaning to be a bit of trivia. Foscus tells this story, actually in the 20th century, to an actress Regina. At first Regina had been terribly excited by the thought that she was going to be seen through the eyes of an immortal and remembered forever. But as she listens to Foscus' story, she grows more and more horrified. He concludes his list of adventures with an account of what happened in the 1840s, when he had lent himself, so to speak, to the workers in their struggle for freedom and recognition.

At a banquet, he lingers afterwards and talks to a friend about his new decision. I'm sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm sorry because I realized I could no longer work with you. Why not? I don't believe in the future. There will be a future that at least is so. But all of you speak of it as if it were going to be a paradise. There won't be any paradises, and that's equally certain. Of course not. Paradise for us is simply the moment when the dreams we dream today are finally realized. We're well aware that after that, other men will have new needs, new desires, and will make new demands. How can you have any desires at all knowing that man will never be satisfied? Don't you know what it's like to have desires? Yes.

I once wanted my city, Carmona, to be free, and because I saved her from being subjugated by Florence and Genova, she was lost along with them. You want the Republic, freedom. What makes you so sure that if you succeed, your success will lead eventually to the worst tyranny? If one lives long enough, one sees it every victory, sooner or later, turns to defeat. When it's ever done, eventually ends up by being undone, and from the moment you're born, you begin to die, but in between birth and death, there's life. I suppose the difference between you and me is that a human destiny for you and a femoral human destiny isn't very important in your eyes. That's correct. You're already far off in the future, and you look upon these moments as if they were part of the past.

That Carmona was great and free for 200 years doesn't move you much today, but you know how much she meant to those who loved her. You admit that you're working for only a limited future. A limited future, a limited life. That's our lot as men, and it's enough. Or we may have to fight again, but today we're victorious, and whatever may happen, this is a real victory. I walked toward the door today. The word had a meaning for them, and they knew too that it was important to be alive to be victorious. They had risked, had given their lives to convince themselves of it, and they were convinced. There was no other truth for them.

I could not risk my life, a man of nowhere, without a past, without a future, without a present. I advanced step after step, a dead man, an outsider. They were men, they were alive. I went out to the door. And on the other side of the door was there still something? Yes, Paris. In the road which led off into the country, awards, thickets, sleep. I slept 60 years. When they awakened me, the world was the same as ever. I said to them, I slept 60 years, and they put me into the asylum. Oh, I wasn't unhappy there. Don't go so fast. There's nothing more to tell. Every day the sun rose and said, I went to the asylum I came out. They were wars, and after each war, peace, and after the peace, another war.

Men are born every day, and others die. Stop it. Stop it. What are you going to do now? I don't know. Sleep? No, I can't sleep anymore. I have nightmares. You? Nightmares? I dream that there are no more men. They're all dead. The earth is white. The moon is still in the sky. And it lights up an earth that's completely white. I'm alone with the mouse, the little accursed mouse. There will be no more men, and the mouse will go on turning round in circles through eternity. It was I who condemned it. That was my greatest crime. It doesn't know when it goes on spinning in circles.

And then one day there will be nothing but that mouse and I on the surface of the earth. And I, I under the earth. I'm going to leave now. Where are you going? Anywhere it doesn't matter. And why go? There is a desire in my legs to move. I must take advantage of that desire. And me? How are you? It will come to an end. Let him go. Let him disappear forever. In horror and terror, she accepted the metamorphosis, a nat, a bit of foam and ant, until her death. To me, all men are mortal, is the most pessimistic thing in existentialist literature. And I believe that it contains both an aesthetic and a philosophical flaw.

Fasca regrets what he has done. But why? He lives on and on, but he never grows in wisdom. He never learns anything. Furthermore, he finally concludes that men never change. And consequently, everything remains the same. And in these terms, one can see why he finds immortality so dreadful. The moon is used throughout as an image. Fasca hates it because it will go on there, sneering in the sky, when the earth and the people on it all accept him and the mouse are gone. But why, if he says one would have to go to the moon in order to get out of this impasse, why not try it? One can't blame the Beauvoir for not having in 1946 anticipated the possibility of moon expeditions.

Any more than we could expect her to have foreseen the use of mice and outer space investigations. But is there any reason why an existentialist who holds that there is no fixed human nature? And that man does determine his destiny. Is there any reason why man could not change? Granted that Columbus's discovery didn't qualitatively change the human condition, but simply gave more scope to our greed, hostility, and avarice. But is there any reason why, with or without, outer space, we couldn't change our existence qualitatively? If one knew that man's limitations could never be changed, then I think it's him possible to think that anybody would ever be willing to accept the challenge of immortality. But if it were all left open, not being either one way or the other, then what? The person who ought to accept it is the one who believes in man and in an open future, who is willing to make a passionate commitment without any kind of guarantee.

He ought in short to be an existentialist. Whether we take Unimuno's way and dare to hope for immortality, or whether we feel that this life is the only thing, perhaps there's nothing better to do than to do what Unimuno says, lives so that we deserve immortality. In that case, possibly we may find it after all, or perhaps we will discover that it no longer makes so much difference to us. While men are mortal by Simone de Beauvoir was translated by Leonard Friedman and is

published by the World Publishing Company. This is NET, National Educational Television.