According to Michel de Montaigne (Essays I: xix) Cicero was right to say that to study philosophy is to learn to die. He suggests this might be true in two different ways. First, the act of studying involves us distancing our thinking minds from our unthinking bodies, which is in some ways a precursor to the experience of death. Second, wise reflection about death teaches us not to fear it, better preparing us to face the end of life. Both are interesting ideas, although not fully developed in the chapter. This is not one of Montaigne’s better essays, for he quickly becomes distracted from recounting his own acute observations in favour of the citation of endless classical sources. In this instance, the wisdom of the modern is squandered owing to unmerited respect for the wisdom of the ancients.
Montaigne tells us that he thought regularly about his own death. Life expectancy was much shorter in his day that ours, and he died before he reached the age sixty, a few years less than Cicero managed. Even if true that philosophy helps us to put death into perspective, it does not follow that we should spend all our days thinking about it. We might do well to remember another piece of Roman advice: primum vivere deinde philosophari, which translates roughly as first live, then philosophise.
A third option – one which best sums up my point of view – is to say that the problem of coming to terms with our own death is at the same time the problem of how we live well now. Or, to put this in the language that Cicero uses, that to study philosophy is to learn to live, which itself is the best preparation for death. This idea was presented in succinct, epigrammatical format by our great contemporary philosopher, Bob Dylan. In the early 1960s, at the precocious age of twenty-three, he wrote
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn Suicide remarks are torn From the fool's gold mouthpiece The hollow horn plays wasted words Proves to warn that he not busy being born Is busy dying.
I take him to mean that when we put a stop to the process of our birth, we thereby set in motion the process of our death; and that all of us, however old in years, however philosophical in temperament, are currently subject to one or other of these binary processes.
The best analogy I can suggest is to image life as a place rather than as a journey. I do not think of a station or an airport, with boards displaying arrivals and departures; I think instead of as a visit to a museum: to be born is to enter, to die is to leave. At the start of my visit I look around with curiosity, trying to discover all there is to be seen and understood; I might rush around in a random fashion, or I might look slowly and methodically. But either way, the crucial point is, when I start to lose interest in exploring the collection in all its different aspects, then I head for a comfortable chair near to the exit door, where I wait impatiently until it is time to leave. Those of us who are busy being born are the ones who never tire of finding new and interesting displays to enjoy, whereas those who are busy dying are the ones who have seen all they want, and are simply hanging around, disengaged, until closing time.
The museum analogy errs on the side of intellectualism, for sure. Those who know me will not be surprised. One could equally imagine visiting a botanic garden or wandering around a major department store. Whether we “look” at artefacts, plants or consumer goods, the point remains the same: when you think you have seen enough, when you stop finding the displays interesting, then you are implicitly readying yourself for the next thing. For us humans, the next thing is death and dissolution. We cannot avoid death, but I think we can avoid Montaigne’s mistake of spending much of our lives preparing to die.
How do I keep renewing my interest in life? It helps to be physically fit and healthy, so exercise is advisable. This has been adjusted, over time, to take account of aging joints and muscles. I am not trying to stay forever young (to reference one of Dylan’s later, and more sentimental songs), rather I am trying to retain a good level of fitness appropriate for my age. I have abandoned higher impact, competitive sports for lower intensity training, and although I now miss the pace and rivalry, it helps to preserve my body and my dignity.
Temperance is also important. As we grow older, we find it easy to excuse indulgence, but excess can be a sign not just of loss of self-control but also loss of curiosity. My propensity to over consume food and alcohol is often inversely related to my openness to new and challenging experiences; they are sins of complacency. That said, it is also true that too much abstinence makes for a dull life, which is a form of premature death. A central part of human culture involves the sharing and enjoyment of food and alcohol, and this is another way of keeping an interest in life: learning to cook and enjoy different cuisines, discovering new wines and whiskies, sharing these discoveries with friends. Educating my taste is one of the great pleasures of life, and one of the great sources of sociability.
I should add a caveat at this point, which is that I do not think that enthusiasm for novelty requires us to abandon settled tastes. We are sure to have favourite food to eat and wine to drink, just as we will have preferred place to visit, books to read, music to listen to and friends to spend time with. It would be very odd if we found that we never acquired some stable preferences, that shaped and structured the way we live. The problem, I suggest, is when these stable preferences become our only choices, when we abandon the quest for new experience in favour of constant repetition of the familiar.
When my daughter was younger, I used to take her out for pizza and she always chose a Margherita (tomatoes and mozzarella) and so I decided that I would always choose a Fiorentina (spinach and egg). Then, when she went off to university, she turned vegan and stopped eating dairy products as well as meat and fish. She therefore had to change her pizza preference; and I did too. I still like Fiorentina pizzas, but now I will eat others; I have a stable preference, but I am also willing to vary my order. Thanks to my daughter I have learned to enjoy oat milk, and I eat more fruit and vegetables. I retain my appetite for meat and fish and dairy, and have no plans to stop eating them, but I have supplemented established favourite meals with a regular supply of novel options. In short, I have not just stuck with the old, nor have I opted exclusively for the new: instead, I have expanded my range of choices. Variety is life.
What is true of cuisine is true of culture more generally, by which I mean not only my interest in the arts, but also my engagement in politics and society, and my acquisition of new knowledge. In earlier texts I have described my interest in learning, my political involvement, and my interest in painting, literature and music. A common theme throughout my life has been the desire to keep my mind open and to be ever willing to extend my range of interests. To learn about new areas of knowledge and discover new ideas to think about, to reassess my political values and to find new ways of pursuing them, to broaden the range of artists whose work I look at (and listen to) and engage with, to meet new people and find stimulation and challenge from developing friendships.
At all costs, I try to avoid nostalgia: I have never been persuaded by those who argue that things were much better in the past. Those who desire to go back in time are, in truth, desperate to fast-forward to their end. The only thing that is more interesting than the present is the future, and one sure sign of those who are busy being born is that they are eager to discover just how much better the future might be.
The philosopher Otto Neurath once remarked that doing philosophy is like sailors trying to rebuild their boat while out at open sea. By which he meant we can only ever fix one bit at a time, and often are forced to make use of whatever spare materials are to hand. There is no dry dock available for a perfect refit. This seems to me to be a helpful metaphor for thinking about living a considered life, throughout the course of our lifetimes. Philosophic reflection is not just a pastime to be saved for retirement when we lack the energy for more exciting ventures. For me, the Roman motto I cited earlier would be more persuasive if it said: first live, then philosophize, then live again, then philosophize some more, then live some more, then philosophize again. I know, it sounds less snappy than the original, but it makes the point better. Reflection on life is an iterative process.
At different moments in our lives, our appetite for novelty will vary significantly. There are times when the demands of work or of family overwhelm us, and we have no energy left to explore the world and its treasures. There are times when the intensity of our focus on one thing – maybe building a business, or training for a new career, or perhaps playing a sport or learning a musical instrument – becomes almost obsessional: it is the only thing we want to do with our time, it occupies all of our mental capacity, takes over all of our lives. These experiences are not universal, but they are widespread. I remember well that experience during the time I worked in finance, and I enjoyed the challenge of a period of several years of concentrated effort. It is wholly understandable that at some points in our lives we choose to have a narrow focus. This does not mean giving up on life; on the contrary, it is a choice about the type of life we want, a preference, perhaps temporary, for depth over breadth. Intensity is life, too.
I am also conscious that the range of options available to us is very significantly circumscribed by the time and place in which we live, by the resources available to us, and by the attitudes of those around us. Today, for many people in the world, longer lifespans offer the opportunity of far greater exploration in the “museum of life” (or garden or store), however, it can also mean a greatly extended period of dying, for those who lose interest early on. The options also remain skewed heavily in favour of men, not withstanding some significant progress on gender equality in the last century. Also, the resources available to the rich mean that they have more and better opportunities to choose from. In my experience, those to whom more is given are often prone to squander those opportunities, to undervalue the things which really matter and to overvalue things which are expensive but dull. Even if many of the rich waste their advantages, it remains true that they are advantaged, which means that others are relatively disadvantaged.
I recognise that I am lucky. I was born into an age of affluence and longevity and have enjoyed the privileges that attach to white men in wealthy societies, with the benefits of university education, a professional career and good health. When I consider how to live well, therefore, it is especially important for me to remember that my struggle for life has not required that much struggle; which means, I think, that I am easily prone to laziness, to complacency, and therefore to the premature embrace of dying. It is tempting to dismiss Seneca’s philosophising when we discover his position of power – tutor to the Emperor – and the wealth he amassed through his political connections. Epictetus seems a more admirable exemplar of the Stoic philosophy: a former slave who taught his students how to live with integrity how to manage one’s freedom. Those who have led tougher lives are, for that reason, often better guides to what truly matters in life. They tend to be the voices that challenge me most, which means the voices that help me most.
What is my philosophy? I try to live a considered life, I try to balance novelty with intensity, I try to take account of my good fortune and to extend to others the range of opportunities that I have enjoyed. I know that at some point I will depart from the museum of life, but I hope that my curiosity will not become satiated before I get evicted. Until then, every day, I will try my best to stay busy being born.
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