Category: Seasons

Some cemeteries in Barcelona offer tombstones with qrcodes so that visitors can learn more about the deceased just following the link in their smartphones.

Sometimes when wandering along niches in a cemetery, I read the names, dates, and I wonder about the lives of the people who are buried there, unknown names. When it is the case of a young boy or girl, or a child, I can not help thinking that they had to leave “too early”, perhaps because of a disease or an accident. All the others, what sort of life did they have? What did they do, what kind of events happened to them? No life is insignificant or worthless. Every one of them could have been the subject of a biography that no one wrote.

Just for an instant, I imagine that, suddenly, these rows of niches become the shelves of a library, with volumes of biographies, and perhaps personal diaries, and photo albums. Wandering among the aisles and shelves, I could open up a volume at random.

In a brief biography there could be something like:

• 1947: Finds a job as librarian at the Faculty of Physics
• 1955: Marries Joaquim Jove
• 1956: Has a son who will be christened Angel.

In a diary or memoirs, perhaps there could be something like “I was twelve, and our class had been visiting the zoo. I was going back with a friend, walking along the harbor, when a woman that was selling tickets at the “Golondrinas” booth (boats in Barcelona’s harbor), called us and offered us free tickets for a ride because it was her birthday. I would always remember her kindness to us.”

There is no such a thing as an insignificant life. For every person we watch, we can imagine his past or his future (Post about four ages). In every instant, so many things happen that no biography nor memoir could fetch all this wealth. Not even the most compulsive diarist could record everything. For example, the joy that we feel when commuting to work, just because the wet heat of the summer is over and the first fresh autumn breeze arrives.

And even if they could exist, these infinite memoir volumes, no one could ever get to read even the most small fraction of them. There would be too many and too little time. Not even each of us about ourselves! We cannot keep track of everything that happens. It is sane let things go, as if we travelled with a small backpack, with room for the daily needs and just some light souvenirs, instead of a huge warehouse where all can be stored forever.

Anyway, I like the idea that no one is insignificant and uninteresting, and that these biographies could have been written and I could browse them.

The type of residence in the cemeteries, of course, follows the same style we had in life:

Those living in rent apartments in a normal neighborhood go to simple niches.

Those living in mansions, go to pantheons.

With a some black humor, we could say that we leave the cemetery of the living to move to the city of the dead.

cementeriodeleste.blogspot.com/ is an excellent blog about Poblenou cemetery . There are some remarkable sculptures such as the famous “Death’s kiss”.

Others are very unusual, as this homage to someone belonging to the Roman Heredia family, a natural size marble sculpture, complete with sunglasses and whiskey bottle.

The most popular tomb is that of Francesc Canals, el Santet del Poblenou (the little saint of Poblenou), about whom there is not much known other than he worked at “El siglo” store and was very kind to everyone. He died in 1899 at the age of 22 and very soon people started to believe that he helped those in need that asked for some favor. This popular devotion is still alive today. Lots of candles and images are found around his tomb. People write what they need in little pieces of paper. One day I was talking with a woman that had just lit some candles. A couple of them were for some particular favors she asked but the other ones, she brought them to the “Santet” for other people that could be in a distress. Isn’t that a generous attitude?

Another nice attitude can be found in Cassen’s tomb, Casto Sendra Barrufet, a comic actor: Quien bien te quiere te hará reir. In Spanish they say “Quien bien te quiere te hará llorar” (those who care about you will make you cry), as if education, or the way to a right life could only be taught by punishment. He changed it to “Those who care about you will make you … laugh”. I couldn’t agree more.

Near the cemetery there is a marble workshop where they can make either a kitchen countertop or a tombstone. They work for the cemetery of the living and for the city of the dead. I wonder if I could ask to transform my kitchen countertop in my own tombstone with an engraving “here was lunch and dinner prepared …”.

In the last post we mentioned the “frank talks” at life’s end, when sometimes one has to decide between life-extending therapies, and pain palliative care. The question was about how much are we willing to go through to have a shot of being alive and what level of being alive is acceptable. ¿What would we answer if we were told that we would be mentally aware, able to read, hold a conversation, but walking or normal feeding would be impossible and we would be dependent on pain relievers?

Let’s imagine that this kind of talk would be possible at life’s beginning, before birth, as if we were a indeterminate non-being that can choose about going into existence (let’s forget for an instant the paradox of an indeterminate identity having to choose).

We would be informed about the equipment and conditions of our earthly stay, our genetic code, the strengths and weaknesses: “If you want to enter into existence now, those are your options, you will be a male, medium height, medium intelligence, not exactly an athlete, nor a genius.” We would be informed too about the social environment, in what kind family and in which country are we going to be raised, whether it is  in the developed world or the undeveloped. ( the TV series Quantum Leap proposed a similar approach ).

(from Dürer’s Dresden Sketchbook on Human Proportion)
Perhaps we would not be satisfied with just that piece of information, the cards that are dealt out to us. Before betting on the game of life we would inquiry about whether we are going to have a happy life, or an interesting one, whether we are going to experience pain, or frustration; how long are we going to live. Probably a honest answer would not be a completely  reassuring one. Some amount of confusion, pain and disappointments are guaranteed. But the list of possibilities of knowing, discovering and enjoy is endless. Saul Bellow said it wonderfully in Ravelstein. If we can, for example, feel the fresh, cold morning air when we open the window to ventilate the bedroom, or the taste of olive oil on a toast, talk with a friend, is that enough?

We could imagine that we are buying the tickets for a certain kind of life trip. Success is not guaranteed and it’s really the ultimate adventure trip, engaging into existence in a particular time, place and human condition. If this was like planning a hike, a hypothetical guide could certainly tell that along the way we are going to find traps, injuries and at the same time, delicious fountains, unexpected views, wonderful presents. But no map with white or black points is given. We can miss wonders placed along the way just because we are still recovering from our last misstep.

We could also imagine that instead of having the choice of entering into existence or not, we would be able to choose what kind of life. This is what Plato considers at the end of the Republic in the myth of Er.

After death, souls are given the chance of choosing a particular kind of life for another cycle, a tyran, an animal, a normal man. Before being born again, souls pass through the plain of Forgetfulness and drink the water from the river of Unmindfulness, so that they don’t remember the process. I wonder what could I choose for my next cycle, or what was I thinking when I opted for my present life.

Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of life and mortality. Your genius will not be allotted to you, but you choose your genius; and let him who draws the first lot have the first choice, and the life which he chooses shall be his destiny. […] When the Interpreter had thus spoken he scattered lots indifferently among them all, and each of them took up the lot which fell near him, all but Er himself (he was not allowed), and each as he took his lot perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and there were many more lives than the souls present, and they were of all sorts. There were lives of every animal and of man in every condition. And there were tyrannies among them, some lasting out the tyrant’s life, others which broke off in the middle and came to an end in poverty and exile and beggary; and there were lives of famous men, some who were famous for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and success in games, or, again, for their birth and the qualities of their ancestors; and some who were the reverse of famous for the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; there was not, however, any definite character them, because the soul, when choosing a new life, must of necessity become different. But there was every other quality, and the all mingled with one another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and disease and health; and there were mean states also.  Let each one of us leave every other kind of knowledge and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure he may be able to learn and may find some one who will make him able to learn and discern between good and evil, and so to choose always and everywhere the better life as he has opportunity. […] A man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith in truth and right, that there too he may be undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer yet worse himself; but let him know how to choose the mean and avoid the extremes on either side, as far as possible, not only in this life but in all that which is to come. For this is the way of happiness. …] The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion, and this was the soul of Ajax the son of Telamon, who would not be a man, remembering the injustice which was done him the judgment about the arms. The next was Agamemnon, who took the life of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated human nature by reason of his sufferings. About the middle came the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was unable to resist the temptation: and after her there followed the soul of Epeus the son of Panopeus passing into the nature of a woman cunning in the arts; and far away among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey. There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection of former tolls had disenchanted him of ambition, and he went about for a considerable time in search of the life of a private man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in finding this, which was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said that he would have done the had his lot been first instead of last, and that he was delighted to have it. […] and when they had all passed, they marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste destitute of trees and verdure; and then towards evening they encamped by the river of Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold; of this they were all obliged to drink a certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was necessary; and each one as he drank forgot all things. Now after they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night there was a thunderstorm and earthquake, and then in an instant they were driven upwards in all manner of ways to their birth, like stars shooting.

Plato. Republic. Book X

‘Well, if I’m able to eat chocolate ice cream and watch football on TV, then I’m willing to stay alive. I’m willing to go through a lot of pain if I have a shot at that.’

That was the unexpected answer that a professor emeritus with a terminal disease gave to the question: “how much you’re willing to go through to have a shot at being alive and what level of being alive is tolerable to you”.

It was a conversation between a palliative-care specialist and a patient. When facing the last months of one’s life, quite often we must choose between therapies focused in extending life, involving costly and aggressive hospital care, and options focused in relieving pain…

This conversation is quoted in an excellent essay by Atul Gawande, Letting Go, What should medicine do when it can’t save your life (New Yorker, 02/08/2010 ). The convenience and legislation about this kind of conversations were discussed also in Frank Talk About Care at Life’s End (New York Times, 24/08/2010).

The American healthcare system is “excellent at trying to stave off death with eight-thousand-dollar-a-month chemotherapy, three-thousand-dollar-a-day intensive care, five-thousand-dollar-an-hour surgery”. A kind of care that often ends with the patient lying attached to mechanical ventilator, mind and body shutting down and no chance for saying goodbye to people we care about. On the other hand, surveys show that the top priorities would be “in addition to avoiding suffering, being with family, having the touch of others, being mentally aware, and not becoming a burden to others.”

We don’t have -Gawande says- an updated Ars Moriendi. It was a medieval text with advice about a good death. I couldn’t agree more. I wonder what kind of training should doctors receive in order to be able to teach patients in Ars moriendi. The thing that fascinates me is the diversity of possible answers to the question “what level of being alive is tolerable”. For someone, anything but death is acceptable, for others, if you are not able to feel the adrenaline of extreme sports, life is not worth living. People that commit suicide after an economic reversal, cannot imagine a life without a certain level of comfort. We realize that is not possible to elaborate an Ars Moriendi without writing at the same time an Ars Vivendi. Being mentally aware, to be able to watch the changing forms of clouds in the sky through a window, the lines traced by swallows in spring, a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or some cheese and red wine, watching a comedy or a musical on TV, a conversation with agreements and disagreements.

Ars moriendi gallery at Bibliodissey