Questioning the Living and Living the Question: What Makes Life Precious?

The question of life and the meaning of life — if indeed they are one and the same — is one that has followed me since my teenage years. Recently, it has returned to the forefront as time has finally given me some room to breathe after overcoming certain hurdles in my private life (and inner world).

In philosophy, the question of life and its meaning is intimately related to the notion of finitude — or death — and ancient proverbs insist that this is what defines life as meaningful, as worth living. In This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom, the philosopher Martin Hägglund wrote:

The thought of my own death, and the death of everything I love, is utterly painful. I do not want to die, since I want to sustain my life and the life of what I love. (Hägglund, 2020, underlined for emphasis)

I repeat, ‘I do not want to die, since I want to sustain my life and the life of what I love’. This sentiment, perhaps not (at all) foreign to us, is one that I feel in my bones — if anything, it has become a phenomenon that I took notice of, and one that fascinates me. Right, why should life be precious? What is it that makes this sentiment — and the religious expression: ‘the sanctity of life’ — felt as imperatively true? Are humans, ‘by design’ — I had in mind evolutionary psychology — as such? So much so that a ‘turning inward’ to question this very impulse may be regarded as a ‘defect’ or malfunction? Why should life be precious? Why should I — by default, so to speak — regard my own life as something worth treasuring — if not already a treasure in and of itself?

In the same paragraph of the book, Hägglund continues:

At the same time, I do not want my life to be eternal. An eternal life is not only unattainable but also undesirable, since it would eliminate the care and passion that animate my life. This problem can be traced even within religious traditions that espouse faith in eternal life. An article in U.S. Catholic asks: “Heaven: Will It be Boring?” The article answers no, for in heaven souls are called “not to eternal rest but to eternal activity—eternal social concern.” Yet this answer only underlines the problem, since there is nothing to be concerned about in heaven. Concern presupposes that something can go wrong or can be lost; otherwise we would not care. An eternal activity—just as much as an eternal rest—is of concern to no one, since it cannot be stopped and does not have to be maintained by anyone. The problem is not that an eternal activity would be “boring” but that it would not be intelligible as my activity. Any activity of mine (including a boring activity) requires that I sustain it. In an eternal activity, there cannot be a person who is bored—or involved in any other way—since an eternal activity does not depend on being sustained by anyone. (Hägglund, 2020, underlined for emphasis)

Now, this excerpt by Hägglund suggests that it is not life per se that is precious to us, but a finite life, more specifically — whose condition is ‘care’ and ‘passion’, he asserts. ‘Care and passion, care and passion’, I thought — circling in my head as I read the line. Is it true that care and passion only come to life with finitude, or is it easy to assume that that is the case only because we (humans) are condemned to finitude? What if we are condemned to infinitude? Given a similar counterfactual — an immortal life on earth rather than ‘heaven’ — can care and passion not arise? After all, we know how much of a creature of habit we are; how little we meditate on loss and death in our everyday waking life (until something unwanted happens). Hägglund’s tacit assumption, then, which connects finitude to ‘purpose’ (or Purpose), stands on shaky ground.

So, really, what if we are condemned to infinitude — to immortality? What might that look like? Well, I might just wake up one day and go on living as usual — my body still ageing, my mind dulling with time — while I observe the people around me — especially those I love, oh yes, them! — falling ill and dying, one after another, while I can’t help but breathe and remain conscious as my own body and mind continue to age and deteriorate. Or we (humans) can each look to our left and right, gaze into the other’s sunken eyes, as our leaden bodies continue to rot for all eternity, while we carry on with our day-to-day concerns.

Given this illustration, might this prospect not feel dreadful — perhaps, even more so than death? Point is, given infinitude, there will always remain an avenue (i.e. a reason, an outlet) for care and passion to spring up, simply because we are desirous beings. Besides, this feeling of dread in the face of infinitude — of immortality, which kings in ancient times sought — isn’t it merely another expression of care and passion? One which, once recognised, is something that we would seek to end? And what is it, exactly, that we seek to end? Anxiety, of course. But what about anxiety? The question can go round and round — and will forevermore so — for as long as we fail to fathom that it is neither the finitude nor infinitude of life that we are so anxious about. It is none but this: displeasure.

Thus, care and passion invariably revolve around the notion of control, as they pertain to the experience of pleasure and displeasure — and conceivably, no matter how base (i.e. sensual enjoyment, sexual gratification) or lofty (i.e. mystical/religious ecstasies). Life is precious as it constitutes the condition of possibility for more pleasure and less displeasure — and, importantly, this is an amoral dictum.

Higher than actuality stands possibility. (Heidegger, Being and Time)