Over the past year, I have wrestled with many questions. There are two, in particular, that have forced me to rethink everything:
How should we think about life in the context of death?
How should we think about death in the context of life?
We recently saw a very public demise: the rise and rapid fall of Silicon Valley Bank (SVB).
I can’t recall where I heard this quote — it was likely the Odd Lots (Bloomberg) or Money Talks (The Economist) podcast — but the guest described SVB’s poor risk management and descent into bankruptcy as not being systematic in life but “systematic in death.”
It reminds me of an Ernest Hemingway quote:
‘How did you go bankrupt?’
‘Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.’
-The Sun Also Rises
Banks and bankruptcy, organisms and death — it’s all the same.
SVB was systematic in death. Our own existence is systematic in death.
Bankruptcy happens gradually, then suddenly. We experience our life gradually, day by day, and then suddenly it’s taken away.
Crucially, while death is inevitable, a meaningful life is not.
In light of this, it’s imperative to ask:
How should we be more systematic in life? How could we add meaning?
“You want to live but do you know how to live? You are scared of dying and tell me, is the kind of life you lead really any different from being dead?”
OF GLORIES AND VANITIES
Death makes no exception. It treats everyone — even the proud and powerful — equally. We all meet with the same fate.
Heavily influenced by the Black Death, the Hundred Years’ War and famine, the Danse Macabre was an allegory of the Late Middle Ages. It illustrated how everyone — from emperors and kings, to laborers and peasants — dances with Death on the way to the grave.
The message is sobering: no matter your station or place in society, the outcome is the same. We all dance to the grave.
Ramesses II, or Ramesses the Great, was an Egyptian pharaoh. He is often regarded as the greatest, most celebrated and most powerful pharaoh during the most powerful period of ancient Egypt.
Among his crowning achievements, Ramesses built the Ramesseum, a memorial temple where his memory and greatness could live on after his death. It was to be his “temple of a million years.”
Now, just 3,000 years later, the temple is in ruins. A colossal statue of Ramesses — 19m (62 ft) tall when standing — now lies on the sand, broken into pieces.
In spite of all the power and all the greatness, Ramesses — known as “Ozymandias” in ancient Greek — met the same fate as all the rest.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias (1818)
Alexander III of Macedon, known as Alexander the Great, had everything.
He rose to power in the ancient Greek kingdom of Macedon at age 20. One of his tutors was none other than Aristotle.
In a 13-year military campaign, Alexander waged war and conquered everything. His empire expanded from Greece to the Indus River in present-day Pakistan — approximately 5.2 million square kilometers.
Undefeated in battle, he is widely considered to be one of history’s greatest and most successful military commanders.
Despite all the glory and all the conquests, Alexander, who was possibly poisoned at just 32 years of age, met the same fate as all the rest.
“Alexander the Great and his mule driver both died and the same thing happened to both."
In order to become more systematic in life, how do we avoid the vanities — narcissism, greed, lust for power and recognition, to name a few — that afflicted even the greatest rulers in history?
BEGIN AT THE END
Chess is a beautiful, complicated game.
After only three turns (three moves by each player), there are 121 million possible games. The human mind could not possibly contemplate all the options.
Like chess, life is beautiful and complicated. It is full of possibilities. And the human mind can’t calculate every move to perfection.
Chess and life have something else in common:
There is an opening (birth),
A middle game (the entirety of our beautiful, incalculable life) and
An endgame (death)
Jose Raul Capablanca, one of the greatest chess players of all time, offers a course of study for the game of life:
“In order to improve your game, you must study the endgame before everything else.”
-Jose Raul Capablanca (World Chess Champion, 1921-1927) [emphasis added]
Most players focus on the opening and middle game (birth and life). But, in those stages, there are too many pieces on the board. There are too many possibilities. There is too much uncertainty.
Instead, Capablanca advises to begin at the end (death). In the endgame, there are fewer pieces left on the board. The number of rational decisions is fewer. And, by that point, the number of possible outcomes is knowable.
This is an important point: He knew how he wanted the game to end.
Capablanca knew his strengths. He knew which endgames favored him. As a result, he played the opening and middle games that would enable him to get to the endgames that he most desired.
To better understand our lives, and the choices that we make each day, we must study the endgame — death.
To live meaningfully and fully, we must sit with the reality that one day, at a time and place unknown to us, it will all end.
We get distracted with the early stages — all the chaos and possibilities — when we should be narrowing our focus to the phase where options diminish and the final outcome is near.
By doing so, we can return to our everyday lives with a plan that gets us to the desired end. We arrive at the end on our terms.
MEMENTO MORI
In ancient Rome, the Roman triumph was a spectacle. Generals, who were victorious in important battles, returned home to large-scale celebrations.
They wore a crown of laurel and an all-purple, gold-embroidered toga picta, regalia that would identify the general as near-divine or near-kingly. The general rode in a four-horse chariot along the streets of Rome, with an unarmed procession that included his army, captives and the spoils of war.
To be treated like a God would go to anyone’s head. So how did the Romans prevent their generals from thinking too highly of themselves?
An auriga (slave) was placed behind the general in the chariot. The auriga would say:
“Respice post te. Hominem te esse memento. Memento mori!”
“Look behind you! Remember that you are but a man! Remember that you will die!”
Memento mori. Remember that you will die.
Remember that all the earthly glories — the statues, victories and fame — will not matter.
Remember that you are here for a brief time, and then you will return to dust.
Remember.
GRATITUDE AND SERVICE
“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”
-Marcus Aurelius
One of our greatest fears is Thanatophobia — the fear of death. There is an anxiety around death, as well as the process of dying.
In On Death and Dying, Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross describes five stages:
Denial that death is soon to come,
Resentful feelings towards those who will yet live,
Bargaining with the idea of dying,
Feeling depressive due to death being inescapable, and
Acceptance
Too many of us live in the first stage. We deny our mortality and, instead, opt to whistle past the graveyard.
We live in ignorance.
But what if we could bypass all the prior stages and arrive at a place of acceptance? If we could achieve this monumental task, what would become of our lives?
Death would inspire.
Death would motivate.
Death would get you out of bed and moving towards your highest purpose.
In Game of Thrones, there was a customary saying: Valar Morghulis (“all men must die”).
The reply is instructive: Valar Dohaeris (“all men must serve”).
Memento mori. Remember that you will die. Valar morghulis. All men must die.
Valar dohaeris. All men must serve.
Death is inevitable. We will be systematic in death.
A meaningful life, however, is not a guarantee. It must be intentional.
We must fight and struggle for meaning, for purpose, with every breath.
To that end, fill this life with gratitude and service.
Our life is precious. Every moment that we are granted is an absolute gift.
Be grateful — consider keeping a gratitude journal (it’s good for your health). Or simply make a daily habit of giving thanks for all that you have: the air in your lungs, four walls that shelter and clothes that warm you, and the community of family or friends that love and support you.
We are blessed with so much and remember it too infrequently.
Be a servant — make a contribution. It can be big, like starting a non-profit or donating to a charity. Or it can be small, like holding the door for someone or giving up your seat to the elderly, pregnant or disabled.
Day in and day out, we take. And we take. And we take.
But how much do we really give? Could we do more?
“Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time”
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life (1838)
Yes, we must die, but our life also gifts us an opportunity to serve.
We will depart, but through our generosity and selfless acts, we can leave meaningful footprints on the sands of time.
Leave a mark in this world.
REMEMBER TO LIVE
“The final hour when we cease to exist does not itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process. We reach death at that moment, but we have been a long time on the way.”
-Seneca
According to Seneca, death is not a final destination. Instead, every moment that passes belongs to death. As you read these words, death takes the moment away from you.
This cold truth should not startle you. It should inspire you to live well.
Yes, we must remember that all men (and women) die. But, importantly, we must also remember to live.
In The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Bronnie Ware describes the main regrets of those she met in palliative care:
I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me
I wish I hadn’t worked so hard
I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings
I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends
I wish that I had let myself be happier
Do any of these regrets resonate? Do they ring true?
I never worked in palliative care, but I did sit beside my mother in her final days.
I sat. And I wept. I experienced. And I learned.
As her life force left her body, I clung desperately to my own vitality.
I needed to leave the hospital (and later hospice) room to feel the sun on my face.
I needed to laugh with my sisters. To reminisce. To cry.
I needed to feel alive.
My mother was dying, and I needed to feel alive.
“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”
-Seneca
When you see the one who you love most come to their end, you experience every emotion that life can afford:
Grief. Pain. Denial. Regret. Sadness. Anger. Distress. Hopelessness.
But then I made my mom a promise.
With every ounce of strength, I made her an ironclad promise.
I told her that I would shout her name from the rooftops.
I told her that it would be my best year.
I told her that I would be okay.
In that moment, I decided to not go gentle into that good night. I would rage, rage against the dying of the light.
You can accept death. You can remember that you, too, will die.
But that is not enough. That is not nearly enough.
You need to live.
You need to stop delaying for tomorrow what could be done today.
You need to stop fearing failure. After you’re gone, it won’t matter anyway.
You need to act.
To reflect.
Laugh.
Cry.
Set the world on fire. (My mom’s favorite line in the song)
What are you waiting for?
“Come to terms with death, thereafter anything is possible.”
For the one who dies, yes, death is the end (as far as we know).
For those of us who live on, however, it is only the beginning.
Death is the teacher. “How to live” is the lesson.
The chess analogy seems appropriate and Capablanca remains relevant as in the early 1900s. I've read many business/leadership books, but the one that really impacted my life was Stephen Covey's "The 7 habits of highly effective people". The second habit is called "Begin with the end in mind", and refers to the same mantra that Capablanca embraced to become a chess champion. Not like chess, life is an infinite game and it allows us to experience multiple beginnings and ends. Death as a metaphor is a constructive possibility, not the end itself.