Not long ago, two of my relatives passed away. Around that time, it so happened that I facilitated a contemplative session on a text by a little-known French philosopher named Vladimir Jankélévitch (1903-1985), entitled precisely La mórt, “Death”.
Philosophical contemplation brings us face to face with our fundamental themes, and this approach is always done in a renewed spirit, and how could it be less so, given that it was now a theme that had touched me particularly deeply in the past few days? But the fundamental themes of our existence are not only those that interest one or two people, and not as mere intellectual interest; they are precisely those that touch us all by our very condition of being human. And so, each one of the participants in that session was involved in the theme of death, each one carrying within himself or herself that secret and mysterious wound, that “illness of life”, as Jankélévitch calls it.
“Everything speaks to me of death…”, the author’s voice whispered to us, “But indirectly and with veiled words, through hieroglyphics and over-understandings”. How to understand it, then, when death shows itself directly, naked and without veils? Those moments would be nothing but the uncovering of something that was already there anyway. The author says: “it is the allusions that we must know how to understand”. Seeing through the wound of the newly emerged pain, of a giant and insatiable mourning, something else seemed to shine… A deeper meaning than meaning and meaninglessness, a figure that, pointing towards something else, unknown, points towards ourselves, and towards life itself.
Because the deciphering of those hieroglyphics begins to emerge here: For when we think of death, we inevitably think of life, on our own life which allowed us to enjoy their company, and then to suffer and lament their departure… Who am I, or what happens to me, to my life, when I lose a father, a mother, my brothers and sisters, a son, or my grandparents? But even more, what happens to me when I manage to glimpse the meaning of death, which has shown itself in every instant of my life, and which was present in the life of my loved ones, since before I was even aware of it? “The intellection of these passwords modifies the landscape of life from end to end”. How? Death ceases to be pure negativity, a pure absence, pure nihilism. And the meaning of life reveals itself to be another, deeper, subterranean, mysterious… whose routes inevitably intertwine with the paths of death. “Though above all, it is life itself that is made fruitful by the passionate threat of death”….
Death, life, fecundity, passion… Something shines in this great mystery. Because, although it is true that the author is literally speaking of the fecundity of life, he also evokes the fecundity of death – that which otherwise is usually thought of as pure sterility. And yes, it is true, death looms menacingly over us, over our loved ones, over those we do not want to be gone, but this threat is exciting… How to understand this? In a first, almost immediate sense, in the following way: “the living being in general would not finish anything if death were not nipping at his heels, if he were not beset by the fatal term and by the intuitive prognosis of his short career: doomed to the provisional and yet disposing of certain postponements, the condemned is capable of undertaking great things.”
But there is another sense in which this can be understood, when we contemplate on this idea: life not only steps towards death, but is nourished by it, as if it were the matter that keeps a burning fire ablaze. It is not only that the thought of death leads us to live passionately, “undertaking great things”, but it is because of death that we live. If there was no death, we would not live (which is the same as saying that, if we did not live, we would not die). This, which seems obvious, contains a very profound truth: death is no longer that nothingness, that emptiness which is the mere negation of life, but its substance, its matter, its fire. Then death becomes exciting, which is the same as discovering that living is exciting! Discovering it, of course, not with the intellect, but with the flesh, with the senses, with the heart.
“Life is only vital because it is doomed to death,” says Jankélévitch. “Life is only vital because it is doomed to death,” we repeated over and over again, letting these words resonate within us. Life is that blazing fire, burning and illuminated by the invisible breath of death, its constant presence which is the very vitality of life. And even when the fire goes out, and the surroundings darken, even then something of the heat prevails, of that ardor that cannot be erased. “The in-between time of our life,” Jankélévitch then asks, that time that stretches like the string of a bow between its two ends: birth and death, that is, living itself, “is it not perhaps an adventure?”
Life, a mysterious adventure, beautiful and fortunate, long and constant, ephemeral and eternal at the same time; an adventure of encounters, farewells and joys, of constantly arriving at a port to set off again, enriching the mind and heart, protected by the human warmth of those who embrace us, who welcome us and guide us to continue walking. An adventure that remains in the memory of our people, and that leaves, as a legacy, generations of intangible wisdom that runs through our bodies and blends in our blood, immortal inheritance of the fabric of life, in which the different paths which each one of us will have to walk are created. And when it seems to us that our people have reached a final port, we should be surprised if, on a closer inspection, we discover that it was not a port of arrival, but a new departure – a new adventure – in the direction of eternity.
And we, the living, contemplating on death, honoring the life of those who have gone, but also of those who are still here, we search in our inner depths for echoes of the mystery that perhaps we can put into words. And we contemplate, we philosophize about death, not to deny it, not to feel better, not to find consolation or a solution to the “problem”, not to stop feeling and overcome sadness, but to resonate with this life that moves us and fills us, to embrace death and reconcile ourselves with life. So we say: “When I understand that the life of everyone who dies is or has been an adventure, then…”. And we hear, deep down, emerging like precious gems, words that make us understand a little more. Understand what? Perhaps that death is not a problem but a mystery, and that mysteries do not seek a solution, but invoke togetherness, communion, love.