Book 1, Chapter 19: That To Study Philosophy Is To Learn To Die (Part 3 of 3)

In this final part of his long essay, Montaigne talks with incredible logic and beauty of why it is stupid to fear our last day. 

Seneca reported that an old weather-beaten guard approached Ceaser asking for permission to kill himself. Ceaser looked at his withered and decrepit body and said, ‘You think then, that you are alive?’ If a man should fall into such a condition suddenly, he would not be able to bear it, but nature leads us step by step into this miserable state, so that we are not even conscious of the moment when our youth dies in us, even though this may be a harder death than the final end of the languishing body – the death of old age; the fall is not as great from an uneasy being to none at all as it is from an energetic and flourishing being to one that is troublesome and painful. The body, bent and bowed, has less force to support a burden, and this is also true for the soul. That’s why we have to raise her (the soul) up firmly against the enemy. No anxiety, fear or disturbance should have any place in her. She should be master to all her lusts and passions, mistress of necessity, shame, poverty and any other injuries of fortune.

Our religion very religion has no surer foundation than the contempt of death. It is very logical really: why should we fear to lose a thing, which being lost, cannot be lamented? Also, since there are so many ways in which we could die, isn’t it worse to fear them all than just undergo one of them? And what does it matter, when it is inevitable? When Socrates was (wrongly) told, ‘The thirty tyrants have sentenced you to death’, he responded, ‘And nature them.’ It is ridiculous to trouble ourselves about taking the only step that is to end all our troubles! As our birth brought us the birth of all things, so in our death is the death of all things included. And to lament that we will not be alive a hundrer years from now is as foolish as feeling sorry that we were not alive a hundred years ago. Death is the beginning of another life. Nothing can be a grievance that is but once. Is it reasonable to fear a thing for so long that will come so soon?

Long lives and short are made one by death. There is no long, nor short, to things that are no more. Aristotle tells us of little animals on the banks of the river Hypanis that never live more than a day; those that die at eight in the morning die in their youth and those that die at five in the evening die in their old age. Which of us would not laugh to see this time of death affect our grief or relief? The most and the least, of ours, in comparison with eternity, or yet with the duration of mountains, rivers, stars, trees, and even some animals, is no less ridiculous.

Nature compels us to leave this world as we entered it. The same pass we made from death to life, without passion or fear, should be repeated from life to death. Your death is a part of the order of the universe. Death is a part of you, and while you try to evade it, you evade yourself. This very being of yours that you nor enjoy is equally divided between birth and death. The day of your birth is one day’s advance towards the grave. Seneca said, ‘The first hour that gave us life took away also an hour’, and Manilius said, ‘As we are born we die, and the end commences with the beginning’.

The whole time you live, you take from life and live at the expense of life itself. The perpetual work of your life is only to lay the foundation of death. You are in death while you are in life, because you still are after death, when you are no longer alive. Or, if you want to put it another way, you are dead after life, but you are dying while you are living, and death handles the dying much more rudely than it handles the dead. If you have profited from life, go away satisfied. Lucretius said, ‘Why not depart from life as a satisfied guest from a feast?’

And if you have not profited from life, why are you worried about losing it? For what purpose do you desire to keep it? To this, Lucretius said, ‘Why seem to add longer life, merely to renew ill-spent time, and be again tormented?’

Life is neither good nor evil, it is only the scene for good or evil, and if you have lives a day, you have seen it all. One day is equal and alike all other days. There is no other light, no other shade, no other sun or moon or stars. The order and character of things is the same as that that your ancestors enjoyed, and that your posterity will be entertained with. And come the worst day that can come, the distribution and variety of all the acts of my comedy are performed in a year. If you have observed the revolution of the four seasons, then you know the infancy, the youth, the strength, and the old age of the world. The year has played its part, and knows no other art but to begin again; it will always be the same thing.

Give place to others, as others have given place to you. Who can complain when all have the same destiny? Live as long as you can – you  shall by that nothing shorten the space you are to be dead; it is to no purpose, you shall be in the condition that you fear so much for just as long as if you had died at birth. Death will still remain eternal.

And yet you will be in such a condition that you will have no reason to be displeased, because when you are dead, there will be no other living self to lament over your grave. It should not concern you whether you are living or dead because in living, you are still in being, and in death, you are no more.

Wherever your life ends, it is all there. Make use of your time while you can. It depend upon your will, not the number of days that you have. Is it possible that you can imagine never to arrive at the place towards which you are continually going? and yet there is no journey without an end.

Lucretius said, ‘No night has followed day, no day has followed night, in which there has not been heard sobs and sorrowing cries, the companions of deaths and funerals.’

Anyway, imagine how much more unbearable an immortal life would be to man than the one he has now. If you didn’t have death, you would be cursing Fate for depriving you of it. There is some bitterness mixed in death only so that, seeing how convenient it is, you do not greedily and indiscreetly seek and embrace it, and so that you may live in a balance between being neither too sick of life nor excited about death. You will die once, and death lies somewhere between pleasure and pain. Why fear your last day? It contributes no more to your end than any of your other days.

Everyday travels towards death, the last only arrives at it.

Book 1, Chapter 19: That To Study Philosophy Is To Learn To Die (Part 2 of 3)

In this part of the essay, Montaigne offers some ways of dealing with death. He shares his own (one may find, extreme) strategies of preparing himself for the end

'Let us disarm death of all novelty and strangeness. Let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts'

 Man laughs and plays and gallops and dances without thinking at all of death. Nonetheless, when it comes to them by surprise, or to their wives, children, or friends, what torment and outcries, what madness and despair! Have you ever seen anyone so changed, confused, and subdued? Therefore, man must prepare in advance for it. If it were an enemy that could be avoided then I would advise to borrow arms, even from cowardice if need be, but it is not, and it will catch you whether you are hiding away or fleeing like a coward, or whether you face it bravely. No kind of weapon can secure us against it.

Nonetheless there is a strategy.

Let us learn bravely to stand our ground and fight him. To deprive him of the greatest advantage that he has over us, we have to take a route that is not common. Let us disarm him of all novelty and strangeness. Let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.

We should imagine him constantly, in all kinds of shapes. At the stumbling of a horse, the falling of a tile, the prick of a pin, we should stop and ask ourselves, ‘Well, and what if it had been death itself?’ This way, we can encourage and fortify ourselves. Even when we are happy and feasting, we should remember how frail our condition is, and never get carried away with our delights. We should stop and reflect how our happiness tends to death, and think of all the dangers that death threatens us with. The Egyptians followed this advice seriously: in the middle of their feasting and joy, they had a dried human skeleton brought to the room, for the guests to be reminded.

Where death waits for us is uncertain; let us look for him everywhere. The premeditation of death is the premeditation of liberty; he who has learned to die has learned to un-serve. There is nothing evil in life for him who understands that the end of life has no evil. To learn how to die releases us from all subjection and constraint.

In everything in life, art and industry cannot perform anything useful without the help of nature. In my own nature, I am not melancholic, but I am meditative, and there is nothing I have entertained myself with more continually than imaginations of death, even when I have been happiest and healthiest, when, as Catullus said, ‘my florid age rejoiced in pleasant spring.’

Recently I was in the company of ladies and at games, and people must have thought I was possessed with jealousy or some kind of uncertain hope. In truth I was thinking of some one who, a few days before, had died with a burning fever. He had been returning from a party like this one, with his head full of idle fantasies of love and jollity, as mine was then, and for all I knew, the same destiny awaited me.

Every minute I think I am escaping, and what may be done tomorrow must be done today.

A friend of mine was going through my notes the other day, and he found a memo where I had written of something I would have done had I not died. I told him, as was true, that the thought came to me when I was not far from my house, and I was happy and healthy. Yet, I wrote it down there, because I was not certain that I would live to come home. I am eternally brooding over my own thoughts, and confine them to my own particular concerns. At all hours, I am well-prepared for death, so that whenever he comes, he can bring nothing along with him that I did not expect long before. We should always, as near as we can be, be booted and spurred, and ready to go.

And we should have no business with us but our own, because we shall find enough work to do without any need of addition. One man complains that death will prevent him a glorious victory, another that he must die before his daughter has married, or his children finished school, a third seems only troubled to be losing his wife’s company, a fourth the conversation of his son. For my part, I am at this instant in such a condition that I am ready to dislodge, whenever it shall please God, without regret for anything whatsoever. I disengage myself from all worldly relations and take leave from all but myself. Never did anyone prepare to say goodbye to the world more absolutely and unreservedly, and shake hands with all manners of interest in it, than I expect to do. The deadest deaths are the best.

As the Egyptians, after their feasts where they presented their guests with the image of death, said, ‘Drink and be merry, for such shalt thou be when thou art dead’, so it is my custom to have death not only in my imagination but continually in my mouth. There is nothing I am more curious about and delighted to hear of than the manner of men’s deaths: their words, looks, behaviour etc. There are also no places in history I am more interested in than those associated with the subject. If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register with a comment on the various deaths of men. He who should teach men how to die would at the same time teach them how to live. Dicarchus made one, to which he gave that title, but it was designed for another and less profitable goal.

Some may object that the actual pain and terror of dying so infinitely exceeds what we can imagine, that to guard against it this way is useless. Let them say what they will; to premeditate it is doubtlessly a great advantage. Nature herself encourages and assists us: if our death is sudden and violent, we have no time to fear; if otherwise, then as my disease worsens, I naturally enter into a certain loathing and disdain of life. I find it is more strenuous to digest this idea of death when I am healthy than when I am languishing in fever. In fever, I have less to do with the commodities of life, and I lose the use and pleasure of them, and I begin to look upon death with less terror. This makes me hope that the more I remove myself from the first and the nearer I approach the latter, the more easy it will be to exchange the one for the other. 

Book 1, Chapter 15: Of The Punishment of Cowardice

Montaigne ponders over what the punishment should be for cowards

'it makes sense that we differentiate between faults that come only from weakness, and those that are malicious, because ... in the former we could justify ourselves by invoking the same nature that left us in a state of imperfection and lack of courage'

I once heard a prince talking to a great captain over dinner about the death-sentence of Monsieur de Vervins, a man who was condemned for having handed over Boulogne to the English (in 1544). The prince was insisting that a soldier could not be justly put to death for not being brave enough. And yes, it makes sense that we differentiate between faults that come only from weakness, and those that are clearly the result of treachery and malice, because in the latter, we act against the rules of reason that nature has imprinted in us, but in the former we could justify ourselves by invoking the same nature that left us in a state of imperfection and lack of courage. Many have thought, in fact, that we cannot be questioned for anything except what we commit against our conscience, and those who feel that there should be no punishment for heretics or misbelievers, nor for judges who fail in their duties due to mere ignorance, base their judgment partly on this rule.

But as for cowardice, it is clear that the most common way of punishing it is through shame and ignominy. In Greece, before the legislator Charondas changed the practice, those who fled from a battle were punished with death. But Charondas ordained that the coward should instead have to go out in public for three days, in women’s clothing. He did this hoping that they would continue to serve, their courage having been awakened by this open shame.

Tertullian echoed this sentiment, that it would be better to embarrass someone that do much worse:

‘Rather bring the blood into a man’s cheek than let it out of his body’

Apparently, in Ancient Rome those who fled were also punished with death. I read of an Emperor Julius put ten of his soldiers to death for fleeing from the Parthians. Yet, elsewhere, for similar offences, he only condemned fleers by lowering their rank.

The Roman soldiers who fled Cannes were harshly condemned but not killed. I think it should be taken into account that a shameful punishment may not just make the fleers harsh and cold, it may also make them enemies.

If an act occurs that is so cowardly and ignorant that is surpasses all that could be considered normal, then the act itself can be taken as evidence of malice and wickedness, and should be punished accordingly. 

Book 1, Chapter 14: That Men Are Justly Punished For Being Obstinate In The Defence Of A Fort That Is Not In Reason To Be Defended

This essay, competing in length with an astonishingly long title, is about the foolishness of defending a fort that will clearly fall

'a man might look contemptuously at two guns, but only a madman would ignore 30 cannons'

Bravery has its virtues, but it also has its limits, and when those limits are crossed, one steps into ‘the territories of vice’. Having too much bravery, unless the holder of the bravery maintains the ideal limits (when one is near the limits, they are hard to discern), may easily cause one to run into stubbornness, foolishness, and arrogance. For this reason we have the custom of punishing men (even with death) who are stubborn enough, during wartime, to defend a place that is clearly unable to be held on to. If  this custom did not exist, every chicken-coop would try to resist invading armies.

- The Constable de Montmorenci, after laying siege to Pavia (in Italy), was crossing the river Ticino to go back to his quarters when he was stopped by a tower at the end of the bridge, whose inhabitants, insistent on defending themselves, picked a fight. The constable hanged every man he found within. I have several other examples of similar occurrences.

As much as the strengths and the weaknesses of a fortress are measured by the size and power of the forces that attack it (a man might look contemptuously at two guns, but only a madman would ignore 30 cannons), the greatness of the invading prince and the respect accorded to him are also put into the balance. There is a danger, in fact, that too much emphasis will be laid upon this secondary factor, and a man may think himself so high and powerful that he cannot imagine any place shutting its gates to him. He attacks everyone who opposes him, while his luck lasts. We see this clearly in the fierce and haughty calls-to-war made by the Oriental princes and their successors. And in that part of the world where the Portuguese defeated the Indians, they found that some states had the inviolable and universal law that anyone defeated in the presence of the king or his lieutenant would not be saved, by either ransom (prisoner exchange etc) or mercy. Therefore it was important, above all, to avoid falling into the hands of an enemy who was also a judge, and who was victorious, and armed.  

Book 1, Chapter 12: Of Constancy

How one reacts to surprise, particularly to negative surprise, is important. Montaigne urges a state of constancy, where one does not get overly moved by every misfortune that happens to befall

It is natural to ‘tremble at the terrible noise of thunder ... and be affrightened even to paleness and convulsion’ but one’s judgment should stay sound, and one’s reason should not be shaken, and one should not consent to his fright or discomposure

The idea of constancy and resolution implies that we should not hesitate to use all ‘decent and honest’ means to secure ourselves from harm, and any harmful incidents that do occur, and that we are unable to avoid, we should face with bravery. It does not mean that we should be so ‘brave’ as to not secure ourselves from inconvenience, or that we should show no fear of misfortune occurring. We should not condemn any action that we use to defend ourselves, no matter how irregular or ungraceful it may be.

Several countries use the strategy of retreat in war, to good effect, and their backs have proven to be more dangerous to their enemies than their faces. Socrates, when told by Laches that bravery means standing firm in the face of an enemy, laughed and responded, would it be considered cowardly, if one were to win by giving ground to their enemy? Homer also encourages ‘the science of flight’.

- The Lacedoemonians (an area in ancient Greece) were a nation usually stubborn in maintaining their ground. In the battle of Plataea however, they found themselves unable to break up the strong Persian army, and decided to disperse and retire. The Persians, imagining that they fled, dispersed in turn and the Lacedoemonians’s were able to gain victory through this strategy.

When an army is in the line of fire – something that happens quite often in war – it is considered bad for the soldier to leave his post. But considering the violence and fast-paced nature of that moment in the trenches, in the middle of enemy attack, abandoning one’s post, or ducking, or stepping aside, or any similar act of fear, is considered inevitable, and many have been laughed at by their fellow soldiers for doing just this.

And yet, many have saved their lives from a simple ducking or moving aside. The Marquis was almost hit by a shotgun once, and he slipped aside, and if he had not, he would have certainly died. Similarly the Duke of Urbino saw a gunman shoot a canon that was pointed directly at him, and he ducked. Otherwise, the shot would have hit him in the chest. Honestly speaking, I do not think these evasions are pre-meditated. How can one make a judgment when something so sudden occurs? In fact, it is easier to believe that fortune would favour these men’s apprehension. In other words, just to perceive and sense the danger would take them so long, that it would be too late to actually act. Personally, I cannot endure the sound of sudden gunshots, and I have observed braver men than I feel the same way.  

The Stoics did not pretend that philosophers need to be immune to surprise.

 (The Stoics are members of the ancient Greek school of philosophy that believed virtue was based on knowledge, and that we should live in harmony with nature, and bear its hardships with endurance and strength)

 It is natural to ‘tremble at the terrible noise of thunder, or the sudden clatter of some falling ruin, and be affrightened even to paleness and convulsion’. BUT one’s judgment should stay sound, and one’s reason should not be shaken, and one should not consent to his fright or discomposure. The first reaction is the same, whether one is a philosopher or not, but the second reaction is quite different. For the non-philosopher, the surprise will penetrate his ‘seat of reason, infecting and corrupting it, so that he judges according to his fear’ and changes his behaviour accordingly. The wise Stoic, on the other hand, will follow this advice of Virgil, from the Aeneid:

 ‘Though tears flow, the mind remains unmoved’

The Aristotelian philosopher Virgil does not dismiss the worries of the mind, but he moderates them.   

Book 1, Chapter 1: That Men By Various Means Arrive At The Same End

In this essay, Montaigne talks about two different ways in which people react when someone whom they have angered in the past now has the upper hand. 

When we have angered someone, and then we find them 'in possession of the power of revenge', we usually act all nice and meek so that the indignant person feels sorry for us.

This is an option.

There is also another - one of 'bravery, constancy, resolution' . It is sort of the opposite of the first, but sometimes has the same effect. Lets compare, and discuss the pros and cons of each one

Quickly, some stories that may interest you:
- Prince Edward was mad at some people (called the Limousins). He decided to attack. He wasn't moved at all by the crying women and children, or the people begging for mercy. but he was so impressed by three french guys that were willing to stand up to his whole army that he changed his mind and didn't attack. Another prince also did something similar.
- Emperor Conrad attacked Bavaria, and proclaimed that the women could leave without any 'violation to their honour' and they could take with them as much as they could carry, on foot. The women came out of their houses with their husbands and children on their shoulders. The emperor was well impressed.

Now, back to the matter at hand.
Personally, 'I would sooner surrender my anger to compassion than to esteem'. I'm a softy, and so if it's me you're worried about - best be submissive.
BUT
Some consider pity a weakness. They consider it 'effiminate' to be all tender and compassionate. They want to act with 'obstinate and masculine courage'.
HOWEVER
Bravery could also fail. The risks are obvious. If you're arrogant and cocky, you could well be punished.

It's hard to say. Man 'is a marvellous vain, fickle, and unstable subject, and on whom it is very hard to form any certain and uniform judgement'

Allow me to illustrate this fickle nature of man with another example
- Pompey pardoned the whole city of Mamertines because of one man, Zeno, who took everyone's blame, and offered to be punished for all. Yet, another man in the town of Latium offered the same to Sylla, but obtained nothing.

Now one last story to finish:

Alexander, who is very brave, entered Gaza. He was faced with the commander there, Betis, who was badly wounded, but remained proud, fierce, disdainful. Alexander was enraged that the man showed no humility. He killed him. Now, maybe this was because Alexander himself was so brave, that he found bravery to be natural and was unable to admire it in others. Or maybe he couldn't bear anyone but him being brave. Or maybe he was just really angry. I cannot say for sure, but the violent massacre that occurred that day was certainly pitiless.