Tag Archives: Death

Immortality – Mortally Stupid

I’ve been silent here for a few months for two reasons. One is that I’ve been struggling to find something to say. The other, that I was too busy enjoying the sunshine enjoyed by the otherwise rain-sodden isles I live in this summer. I’ll leave it to you to decide which factor was overwhelmingly dominant. Either way, I’m back at university – thrust back to thinking ‘intellectually’ if that is at all possible. What follows was sparked off by a lecture on Joyce.

I’ve put (into Ulysses) so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”

(Joyce, Ulysses Annotated).

Joyce is right, professors will be busy for centuries over what he meant, but not that he’s ensured his own immortality. I’m not going to leap in and say everything we do, ultimately turns to dust. That’s a given, and an easy way out. That argument takes time in its entirety, it doesn’t recognise a span of time, just that it will happen in the vastness of time.

The flaw with Joyce’s idea here, is that he can hope to achieve literary immortality. When it comes to reading, there have been plenty of shifts in thinking that deny Joyce his immortality, but the main one is a change in the way we should read a text. Instead of trying to think what the author meant, we read the text purely as a text. It’s reader response, and personally, it’s a great recognition in literary and academic circles that what the reader thinks, and interprets, is important.

But Joyce has some sense of immortality. We’re talking about him. There’s no smoke without fire – and there is smoke here, but I’d say it’s more smoke and mirrors than a blazing pyre.

We’re complex,

Let’s consider death differently. It’s change epitomised. The ultimate change, the transition from life, a sea of constant changes, to death; a change that is such a paradigm that there is no change for those that experience it. Each present moment passes one after the other. Each moment is a passing; a death. I am not the same person, if you want to be really technical, as I was when I wrote the previous sentence. I’m not the same person I was yesterday. Stasis, in that sense, is impossible. Thus, since mortality is change, immortality is stasis. And that isn’t possible. Of course, we don’t change radically from day to day, but it accumulates. We’re not the same person we were ten years ago. Things have changed, we have changed. So how is it possible to preserve some immortality, when change isolates it?

Dreaming of immortality is ultimately, so stupid, because it ignores a clear lexical message. The word itself gives you the clue. Mortality cannot become immortality. Really, I think the ancient Greeks got it right. In classical mythology, Achilles chose to die and become immortal through kleos instead of returning home; nostos. Kleos is not immortality or living forever; it is simply to have great renown, enough that people still speak of him. What survives is the Kleos of Achilles, not Achilles himself. Regardless, Achilles is now a shade anyway. So when Joyce speaks of his immortality, his boast that scholars would be still trying to figure out what he meant, I’d say that’s more Kleos too than actual immortality. We’re not going and seeing a living Joyce when we read his works, or debate ‘him’ critically. We’re talking about something detached from the actual person that lived. What has survived so far to us is the work, not the author. Joyce hasn’t achieved that immortality. He just has renown.

Flash Fiction: Memory

I’m certain I’ll be dead by the time anyone else reads this. So dear reader, you’re talking to a ghost and I might just be haunting you. What words do the dead have for the living? Ha! What is there to say? I cannot offer you any comfort.

In life I had a name. Many people once had the same name before me. Many since have borne it too. It was just a sign, a way to differentiate one from another, never to describe who I was. I had two lives see. One was before the fall, the other was after. What I would have given to be one of the lucky ones, to have lived on the other side. I played well, but the end is as certain as the beginning.

My bones shine ivory white, picked clean. I am no use; no longer carrion. My memorial is nothing to time immemorial.

I have no tongue with which to speak; the worms took that from me ages ago. Life is not comforting; we learnt that in the fall. In truth, the only thing that changed was a rent in the veil. A rip cut a swathe through it, and the comfortable lie broke.

I remember once that our rational minds were the prize of our evolution; but hollow crowns for a world that never knelt.

I look back on moments of fondness. I feel a mix of laughter and disdain. I only care for a drink.

Might I be stronger, or could hunt better, or survive longer? I ask the birds, but they laugh. They won’t tell where the water is. Why would I need to question the world? My knowledge won’t feed me. I have no clever tools. Mechanics has broken and deserted.

Faced with my death. I write these few lines. Musing about existence. Trying to convince my parched lips that my reason is a gift. In these moments, I lament. For what use is this?

I let life slip between my fingers like grains of sand. My hourglass has run short. I cannot turn it over. What speaks more of my wretched futility, than spending these last moments scrawling in the sand.

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