Mankind, having failed to remedy death, misery and ignorance, resolved, for the sake of its happiness, never to think about them.

(Blaise Pascal, 1623–62)

Write about death? It won’t sell. No one wants to think about it. It won’t find a readership. Nobody cares!

As absurd as it may be, death is a taboo subject in most Western countries. We hide from it and avoid it for as long as possible. As with serious illnesses and accidents, it’s one of those things we like to imagine happen only to other people; after all, we’ve got more important things to be getting on with.

Paradoxically, usually it isn’t death itself that is the problem, nor, for that matter, what does or does not follow it. It is the conditions of death and the suffering that ensues, whether physical or psychological, which frighten us most.

These fears seem to be reinforced by the sense that many people die badly. Over-medicalisation, unremitting therapy, lengthening life expectancy, families spread far and wide – all these factors bring new issues. Aside from the pain attached to illness or physical decline, the dying suffer from loneliness, a sense of abandonment, lack of communication and denial of their imminent deaths by medical personnel, by members of their families and by society in general. But why?

Tormented by our careers, trapped by our material needs, monopolised by domestic worries, most of the time we let our lives pass in a hurry. Even the retired run around, fleeing the boredom that we associate with the end of work, throwing themselves into all sorts of new activities. For they are afraid of being useless, of serving no purpose if they don’t keep moving, don’t reject encroaching death. Naturally, then, when the game suddenly stops, we are at a loss: ‘Die? Already? How’s that possible?’

Under these conditions, would it not make sense to ask: do we die badly because we live badly?

The Tibetan Book of the Dead describes the great voyage into death as a difficult ordeal but also, and above all, as an opportunity for liberation, a chance to find the bliss that was beyond us when we lived. The suffering and fear evoked in the book are essentially tied to karma, to the actions that we took or did not take in our lives and to their impact on our consciences.

People who work with the dying confirm how important the last days and hours are. All of a sudden, right before the end, the dying want to make peace with themselves, with others, with the world. ‘He died peacefully,’ we say to reassure ourselves. Dying in peace is important, certainly, but why not anticipate it? Is it so painful, so difficult to prepare oneself for death? Does this require the accumulation of knowledge, of experiences, a belief in God or in life after death?

What would you do if you were told that you had only one month to live?

Imagining our own death as imminent forces us to verify or evaluate the importance we attach to those things we impose on ourselves on a daily basis, month after month and year after year.

Imagining our own death as imminent obliges us to take stock of ourselves, of our choices and actions.

Imagining our own death as imminent brings to light what we hold dearest in our heart of hearts, what we truly value.

Imagining our own death as imminent means acknowledging the plenty in our lives.

Imagining our own death as imminent means considering freedom, a process that can revolutionise not only our individual existences but also society.

Might it not be these disturbing questions that encourage us to avoid thinking too much about death, and about our lives?

The oil of my lamp

Is all used up, in the night.

At my window, the moon!

(Bashō, 1644–94)