It was windy, and I breathed deeply. Don’t ask how a dead man manages to do this. Those who have been amputated retain feeling in their lost limbs, so I imagine that the one can explain the other. I have never stopped feeling the things that were worth it.
I have begun eternal life. This set expression doesn’t mean anything to me yet: the word eternity only has meaning for mortals.
There are several versions of the events that followed. Here is my version: by walking around wherever I liked, I happened upon the people I love. What could be more natural? I had no desire to visit places I didn’t like, or to go and spend my time with bores.
How do I explain that I was seen and heard? I don’t know. It’s not a banal occurrence, but it is not unique, either. There have been other cases throughout history of dead people who have been seen and heard, possibly more than that if there is some sort of affinity between the living and dead. There have been famous cases and those that remained unknown. If we had to keep a list of every time someone had a troubling encounter with the dead, we could fill entire telephone directories.
I call on everyone to testify: anyone who has lost loved ones has experienced such inexplicable moments. Some have even had epiphanies with people they didn’t know. In truth, there are no limits to what we call living.
This has not prevented—and will not prevent—a sizable proportion of the population from asserting that after death, there is nothing. Such a conviction does not shock me, other than by its peremptory tone and above all by the superior intelligence its proponents pride themselves in possessing. Does this come as any surprise? A sentiment of greater intelligence is always the sign of a deficiency.
I say to you honestly: I am not more intelligent. And I do not even see where the interest of such a claim might lie. Any fantasy of equality I might have is no greater than any fantasy of superiority—futile causes both, for the quality of a human being cannot be measured. Any more than there is a passive or active voice in what is believed to be my final miracle: did I resuscitate or was I resuscitated? If I analyze what went through me, I would say that I was resuscitated. I let it happen to me. The third day? I felt no such thing. When I went from my living state to being dead, I underwent a significant change of perception, particularly where duration is concerned. After I died, was my fate any different from that of mortals? I have no way of knowing, but I have a hunch that I’m not the only one who experienced it as if it were.
A great writer will say that upon dying, the feeling of being in love vanishes and is transformed into universal love. I wanted to verify this by going to see Madeleine. Before she even noticed my presence, I was deeply moved to see her again. The memory of my body took her in my arms, she held me in a furious embrace, none of our passion had changed.
The same writer will explore this topic in his short story entitled “The End of Jealousy”. The narrator, jealous to the point of insanity, is cured of his disease at the moment of his death, and simultaneously no longer feels in love. This writer has a very special conception of jealousy: in his eyes, it constitutes the greater part of love.
As I was also once an ordinary man, I recalled that, when I was alive, I found the thought of Madeleine with another man very unpleasant. Now, I have to admit that the prospect leaves me indifferent. And so, the writer was right: jealousy leaves no trace after death. But he was wrong, at least as far as I was concerned: jealousy and being in love do not overlap.
If I appeared so often to those I love, it was more to honor my father’s message than out of a deep need. That must be another marked difference from being alive: love no longer engenders such a need for contact. Particularly if the separation did not occur due to a misunderstanding or crisis. I do not doubt Madeleine’s love, and I know that she does not doubt mine: why go on meeting so often? What is true for her is all the more so for everyone else.
It’s not about coldness. It’s about trust. Of course I was moved to see some of my disciples and friends again. And their happiness on seeing me in such good shape was reflected on me. What could be more natural? And yet, while I was living through these festive moments, I was eager for them to end. The increased tension was rather hard to bear. I wanted some peace and quiet. I could sense that my friends wanted a great deal from me, and I tried to respond. It was for them and not for me.
If you reproach your departed loved ones with not appearing before you, do not forget that you are the one who needs them and not the other way around. When we truly love someone, do we require that they sacrifice themselves for us? Isn’t allowing those we love a bit of selfish tranquility the finest proof of our devition? That takes less effort than you might think, merely trust.
In truth, if your departed loved ones remain silent, be glad. It means they have died in the best way. That they are having a good experience of death. Do not infer that they do not love you. They love you in the most wonderful way: by not forcing themselves to go into unpleasant contortions for your sake.
It is a sweet thing to be dead. Coming back to you is rather trying. Just imagine: it’s winter, you’re lying under your duvet in the coziness of rest and warmth. Even if you cherish your friends, do you feel like going out in the cold to tell them so? And if you are the friend, do you really want to oblige the person you miss to face the discomfort of wintry weather just to reassure you?
If you love your dead, trust them enough to love their silence.
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People have used the word abnegation when talking about me. Instinctively, I don’t like it. My sacrifice was already such a mistake: do I really have to be burdened with the cardinal virtue that leads to it?
I don’t see the slightest trace of that disposition in myself. People afflicted with abnegation tend to say, with a pride I find out of place, “Oh, I’m not important, I don’t matter.”
Either they are lying—and why tell such an absurd lie? Or they are telling the truth, and it is beneath them. To want not to matter is cowardice, misguided humility.
Everyone matters, to such a colossal degree that it is immeasurable. Nothing is more important than the very thing one claims is infinitesimal.
Abnegation implies a disinterested attitude. I am not disinterested, because I am a lever. I aspire to contagion. Dead or alive, everyone has the power to become a lever. There is no greater power.
Hell does not exist. If the damned exist, it is because there will always be killjoys. We have all met at least one of them: the individual who is constantly frustrated, chronically unsatisfied, the one who, when invited to a splendid feast, will see only the fare that hasn’t been served. Why should they be deprived of their passion for complaining at the time of their death? They are certainly entitled to make a mess of their own death.
The deceased also have the possibility to meet amongst themselves. I have noticed that they nearly always abstain from it. However intense their friendships or love affairs once were, when they are dead, they no longer have much to say to each other. I don’t know why I’m describing this phenomenon in the third person, because, in the end, it applies to me, too.
It’s not a matter of indifference, but another way of loving. It all unfolds as if the dead had become readers: their relationship with the universe is like reading. It demands calm, patient attention, and thoughtful decoding. All of this requires solitude—a solitude conducive to a flash of brilliance. In general, the dead are not as stupid as the living.
What is this reading that keeps us so busy once we have died? The book takes shape depending on our desire; our desire gives rise to the text. We are in that luxurious situation where we are both author and reader: writers who create for their own enchantment. No need of pen or keyboard when you are writing in the cloth of your delight.