by Steven M. Cahn

Two ancient arguments—one of Greek origin, the other Roman—are intended to demonstrate that we should be undisturbed by death. I want to suggest that neither line of reasoning is persuasive.

I

In the Letter to Menoeceus, Epicurus argues that death should be of no concern to the living, because those who are living are not dead and those who are dead don’t exist. As he puts it, “Death, the most terrifying of ills, is nothing to us, since so long as we exist, death is not with us; but when death comes, then we do not exist.”

This outlook combines one insight with two errors. Once we are dead, we cannot be harmed, and in that sense, we have no reason to fear death. Granted, the bodily remains of the dead can be destroyed; likewise the reputation of the dead can be ruined. But in neither case are the dead harmed, for they no longer exist. Say or do what you wish about the dead, they are beyond anyone’s power to help or hurt. They are gone, and no one can affect them.

In that sense, Epicurus is correct to say that while we are alive, death is not present, and once death comes, we are not present. Yet this insight fails to take account of two ways in which death affects us.

First, death prevents our continuing to live, and living affords us the possibility of carrying out plans and finding enjoyment. All other things being equal, longer life is preferable to shorter life. Granted, once we die, we no longer exist, but that observation does not imply that whether we die should make no difference to us.

Second, we have reason to fear the death of others about whom we care. Indeed, the death of those we love or with whom we share deep friendship may be the worst moment in our lives. The death of a parent, child, sibling, spouse, or dear friend can be so devastating that life itself loses its value for us. In that respect death is an ever-present threat.

II

The outlook of Epicurus was defended in a well-known argument offered by Lucretius. In On the Nature of Things, he claims that just as we are unconcerned whether we lived at any time before we were born, so we should be equally unconcerned whether we live at any time after we die. As he says, “Look back now and consider how the bygone ages of eternity that elapsed before our birth were nothing to us. Here, then, is a mirror in which nature shows us the time to come after our death. Do you see anything fearful in it? Do you perceive anything grim? Does it not appear more peaceful than the deepest sleep?”

This argument of Lucretius, however, assumes a symmetry between past and future that is unwarranted. The two are, in fact, essentially different.

Surely I could have been born earlier by a matter of minutes or hours. And few would care deeply if they had entered the world a few months or even several years sooner. But could I have lived long before my birth? I might prefer to have been a contemporary of Socrates, Shakespeare, or George Eliot, but my parents would not yet have been born. So who would I be?

In any case, the past is over, it is unchangeable, and whether I was part of it cannot be affected by present choices.

But how about living centuries more? The idea makes sense and appeals to many. Indeed, with medical progress I might even add hundreds of healthy years to my life, an especially attractive option if others for whom I care could do likewise.

Who would I be if I lived much longer? Answering that question does not pose a problem, because I would still be the child of my parents, and no inconsistency is involved in supposing that all our lives might extend much further than they do at present. Unlike the past, the future is not over, it is not fixed, and whether I shall be part of it can be affected by present choices.

Thus the hope for a greatly extended life is not analogous to the hope for a much earlier birth. The former makes sense, the latter does not.

III

I conclude that the arguments offered by Epicurus and Lucretius do not prove that our concerns about death are unfounded. Perhaps further considerations can be adduced to defend the view that our eventual oblivion should be met with nonchalance. Otherwise, unless we share some version of what the Book of Common Prayer describes as the “sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,” we have reason to accept Bertrand Russell’s view in “A Free Man’s Worship” that we are all united by “the tie of a common doom.” As for the dead, in the words of Ecclesiastes: “Their loves, their hates, their jealousies have long since perished; and they have no more share till the end of time in all that goes on under the sun.” No wonder so many view death with despair.

This essay draws in part on material from Steven M. Cahn and Christine Vitrano, Happiness and Goodness: Philosophical Reflections on Living Well (Columbia University Press).

Steven M. Cahn is professor emeritus of philosophy at the City University of New York Graduate Center. His forthcoming book The Road Traveled and Other Essays (Wipf and Stock) includes an extended autobiographical account.