Home life
Dreadful dart
Alice Thomas Ellis
I've been thinking a lot about death recently. He's been prowling round crack- ling the thorns just beyond the light from the camp fire, swiping stragglers. I've heard him. He comes in many guises. Sometimes he's a 'nobleman, courteous and cold'. I usually visualise him as a butler, entirely unconcerned and impartial as to whom he ushers into the Presence, but at the moment he's a savage clad in the skins of animals, swinging a club and clobbering people at random.
My friend Andrew says it's a reflection on our Christian heritage that we should all be so frightened of him. I say I'm not particularly frightened of him, just angry when he takes people we love who would have preferred to live a little longer. Andrew says — oh yes, I am frightened really. Perhaps I am. It goes with my detestation of travelling. It's fine when you've got to where you're going, but imagine not knowing where to turn at the fire, sleet and candlelight; imagine hover- ing uncertainly at the brink of the Brig o'Death, passport lost, luggage left behind and no traveller's cheques. They say a guide comes to meet you, like Cook's in the old days. I hope it's true. I can't get from here to Piccadilly Circus on the Underground without taking a wrong turn- ing.
We continue discussing death while the weather goes through its paces — a bit of sun, black clouds, thunder, torrential rain and a minor hurricane — all in about a quarter of an hour. Then a bit more sun. No wonder we're thinking about death. Somebody told me recently that in India people when they get old sometimes simply stop eating. They drink water and lie down comfortably and their friends come with flowers — which is more sensible than waiting till you've gone and putting them on your grave — and after a while they die. This seems more reasonable than hanging on grimly to the very last minute, sans everything but the will to live, a burden to yourself and an embarrassment to your loved ones. Is it true that we are more frightened of death than anyone else in the world?
A little while ago I had what seemed a good idea. Another bitter anniversary was coming round, and while death may be fine for the dead it's highly unpleasant for the living who miss them unbearably and wish to reassure them that they didn't mean that thing they said that time in the restaurant. I thought that rather than having recourse to the bottle I would commit temporary suicide, so I requested from the doctor a few sleeping pills and when the misery mounted I took one and retired to bed. Three times I took a sleeping pill and crashed out until it dawned on me that they were probably responsible for the blurring of vision and the uncertainty of step which afflicted me as I was creeping round Marks and Spencer's trying to decide between instant lasagne and instant beef stew for the sustenance of those family members who were among the quick. You don't get away with anything in this life and it's time we all admitted it and stopped looking for anodynes. Especially me.
Poetry is a better source of comfort than alcohol or pills. Even the gloomier lines 'Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die' and 'If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte, If rich and poor his beck obey' — are oddly cheering, because, I suppose, they are a reminder of the univer- sality of death. It would be perfectly insufferable if some people escaped his attentions while he reaped up the rest of us. At least he's fair, unlike governments. `They are all gone into the world of light, and I alone sit lingering here' is truly cheering because the lingerer knows it's only a matter of time, but the best of all is Spenser. 'What if some little paine the passage have . . . Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.' On mature reflection, if we were offered the choice between living in earth's climate for ever or going to check out heaven, I know now in which box I'd put the tick.
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