THE IMMORTALITY PROJECT
A Timeless Tale of Friends and Philosophy, of Love and Death,
Of Heaven and Hell, and of the Earth Suspended Between Them
Looking back on that fateful afternoon of so many years ago, it seems to me now I acted from nothing more
profound than survival instinct. It was later on that I felt to need to dignify my actions, by imagining that my
personal need to take stock of my situation was really a desire to understand the world, in order to be of
service. The simple truth is I felt my life had ground to a halt that day, and, like the Buddha, who sat down
beneath a tree, refusing to move until he should receive enlightenment, I paused on the front steps of the
house, unable to proceed without addressing the dilemma caused by suddenly realizing my mortality.
I am aware (and I knew at the time) that such feelings are neither original nor especially profound: everyone
receives a premonition of death sooner or later. The busy world around me seemed senseless in the face of
this doom: it seemed to me that only the mindless clamor of birth, struggle, demise and another cycle - nature's
senseless song - obscured the more permanent fact: all things perish. It is probable that certain personal
misfortunes I had recently experienced helped precipitate my condition; it is also true that my awareness of no
longer being young was a contributing factor. The future had shrunk from something indefinite but boundless
to a quietly ticking clock that could not be set back.
And so I sat there, on the steps, unable to move, to think ahead to my next meal, the next day, the coming year,
torn between a terror from which I could see no deliverance and an apathetic state of surrender.
Well thank God for friends, because I couldn't have rescued myself. Without my having to stir, they must have
sensed my situation, and one by one they began to gather about me, some leaning on the banister of the stairs,
some others seated beside me.
Plotinus was there, smelling like a barn on a hot day, and Borges, nearly blind but neatly dressed.
Swedenborg stood before us all, very polite, with his shining, distant eyes, while Ouspensky, short and
muscular, nervous and fidgety, paced about. And Arthur M. Young, the scientist and inventor, appeared
wearing the same jacket he's pictured in on the back of his book, "The Reflexive Universe," the one with the
outrageous lapels - and wearing as well the same ambiguous smile.
Borges, who had the most flair for style, welcomed me as the newest member of what he enigmatically called
"The Immortality Project," whose membership, he noted, was fluid, and whose task was perhaps unending
"since," he added dryly, "we have forever."
"But that's exactly what I don't have!" I protested. "I feel the shadow of an enormous time-piece chewing my life
away bit by bit..." The author blinked as if trying to contain his displeasure, but whether it was directed at my
sentiment or my mixture of metaphors, I could not tell.
Arthur Young, crouching on the steps, said in a kind way, "In these little meetings we have, all kinds of ideas are
put forth. We find we make most progress when we leave ourselves most open."
"Yes, yes," Ouspensky interjected. "In fact we have learned not to choose hastily between one proposition
and another, but to seek instead a larger Truth that is inclusive, perhaps approximated in various forms."
"And so," said Swedenborg, and his voice was like a gentle stream, "our method is to put on the table any
number of interesting notions on our topic, including your own, and see how we may help one another."
"The only rule," came the voice of Plotinus, shaky with age but firm with conviction, "is not to make rules. No
dogma, no creed, nothing ossified. Let the ideas grow and they live!"
"To tell you the truth," I spoke up, "I feel a little better already. Somehow just being here with you, and being
able to talk, allows me to breathe more deeply and calmly. Things don't seem quite so grim."
"Excellent, " said Young. "Let's get started, then. One of my enduring interests is the harmonization of
science and religion, or, to put it another way, I've always been fascinated with how the material world and its
properties relates to consciousness and our search for meaning. You are familiar, I assume, with the idea of the
conservation of matter?"
"In a general way," I answered. "And, if I understand where you're heading, you are going to suggest that, in
dying, our bodies are converted to energy which in turn may become "frozen" into material form again, and that
this continuous exchange is objective proof of the indestructibility of our basic substance."
"Indeed," Young responded after a moment's silence, but his mind was already somewhere else. "Excuse me, I
was just reminded of that physicist who died mountain climbing - Pagles is his name. Have you read the
concluding lines of his book, "The Cosmic Code?" It's eerie: he speaks of frequent dreams of falling to his
death, and how, gradually, his sense of fear is replaced by a remarkable calm, as he comes to realize his being is
knit into the fabric of the universe."
"Fine stuff," Borges nodded approvingly at the speaker. "But wouldn't you agree, Professor, that for those
of us who are parents there exists another code, more personal than cosmic, which affords us a continuing
existence of a sort after death? I'm speaking of the genetic code."
"You mean our progeny, our children?" Swedenborg ventured, a little lost in the science of a later age.
"Yes," I agreed, though the question had not been directed at me. "I know this both as a son who sees his
parents in himself and as a father who sees himself in his children. It's fascinating to observe - but I'm afraid it
won't afford much consolation when I come to face that awful moment alone."
"Besides," Ouspensky chimed in, "more crucial than the inheritance of the flesh is the inheritance of the spirit.
The whole ancient caste system of India suffers from this misunderstanding. A woman must find a man, not
from the proper family or economic background, but one with the subtle affinity of a soul - mate."
Plotinus, who had been sitting so still as to appear asleep, smiled toothlessly. "That is the reason I have never
divulged my place of birth or ancestry! I resist the popular inclination to define me in such outward terms, terms,
you will note, imposed by nature or by chance; I insist on being understood in the more dignified terms of my
chosen actions. And so too with my offspring: rather than procreate and produce a whole brood of little
Plotinuses I perpetuate my ideas through teachings to my disciples."
"No doubt the habits of your personal hygiene are an aid in preserving your blessed celibacy," Borges
remarked wryly.
The whole gathering laughed, and I saw how much they loved one another, and how effortlessly time seemed
to pass in their company. In the midst of this mirth we became aware of the approach of a visitor. He came
slowly along the warm, empty street, riding atop a huge tortoise (this favored mode of transport likely being
responsible for his habitual tardiness); all in turn welcomed Fu - Hsi, the emperor of China, he to whom the gift
of writing was first imparted by an aquatic unicorn, he who composed the sixty four hexagrams constituting the
world's first boo, the "I - Ching."
Dismounting, the venerable monarch bowed. Then, from a satchel, he produced a number of stalks which he
tossed haphazardly into the air: they fell to the ground in the form known to the wise as the Li hexagram. Next,
from the same pouch the emperor removed a manuscript wrapped in silk. Consulting its pages upon the
tortoise's back, he his fingers came to rest upon the proper passage. Looking up from the manuscript at me he
quoted, "As you grow older you see that life is very fragile. This causes depression. Do not overreact to cure
the sadness. To do so is unnatural, not the real you. As you grow older you see that human nature is vain.
This causes cynicism. Re-examine and re-dedicate yourself to your motives and values. Avoid extremes and
excess."
I noticed that Ouspensky, normally so restless, had become still; I recalled his interest in Tarot cards. I glanced
down at the stalks from which the sixty four possible hexagrams could be constructed, and I thought, "If the
matrix of possibilities is infinite, then all things may happen in the course of eternity.."
Inadvertently, I must have spoken aloud, for Ouspensky seemed to echo my sentiment.
"This present world," he observed, "is not the only reality we may know."
"Nor necessarily the best," Young offered. "Consider: how is it I was able to develop my 'theory of process?'
The answer, in part, is that I browse, and in browsing happened upon a number of texts that shaped the
direction of my life. You, in turn," he continued, directing his remarks now to me in particular, "have come to know
me, as well as the others gathered here, through this same very fine habit of searching out books and ideas.
Now we all tend to consider such discoveries fortuitous, and though over time we can hardly imagine our lives
without their influence. So it seems valid to imagine there are people and ideas that by chance we never
encounter in this life, but that might have created for us a very different, perhaps more felicitous, and certainly
every bit as inevitable - seeming world."
Fu - Hsi had now seated himself before us, with his back leaning against the tortoise who crouched peacefully
on the sidewalk, his limbs pulled within his shell, his leathery head half - protruding. Neither the beast nor I
understood the sense of everything we were hearing, but we were experiencing something more important: time
here seemed to slow down and expand - its leisurely pace was no longer dictated by the cold indifference of
hours and minutes and seconds. Time ebbed and flowed with our feelings, and there was always enough, and
yet more, as if time itself were engendered by the beauty of ideas, and sustained by their loving cultivation.
"Your Majesty," I addressed the emperor, "what is the significance of the art or writing you invented?"
"Discovered!" he hastened to correct me, not invented, discovered. As memory is to the individual, so books
are to civilization. Just as a man's actions are influenced by his remembrance of the past - his desire to avoid
repeating a mistake, or perhaps his wish to continue some important work - so a culture can come to learn from
the errors of its past and build upon its accomplishments. ..And..."
"And..." I prompted him.
"And there is an additional, esoteric sense in which writing and immortality are linked."
Borges shifted slightly in his place but remained silent. We all waited. Finally Fu - Hsi continued.
"All of us here," he said, gesturing to the assembled company but looking at me, "have been summoned from
the dead through this work of fiction you are making. And if your research has been thorough, and if your
understanding is deep, then in a sense we live again, and move and think and speak. This miracle is accomplished
through the gift of writing: first we, the members of this Project, immortalized our ideas, which enables you to
know us; then you recreate us in your imagination - and here we are!"
"And who's to say," Borges interjected in characteristic fashion, "that this present fiction you construct is not
embedded within another story? Who's to say that you, dear author, through whom I live again and speak in
pleasing paradox, are not the fictitious recreation of another mind that lived and suffered long after our earthly
life, who found your book and discovered in its words bright consolation, and who, wishing to immortalize his
discovery in the timelessness of artifice, constructed this present world in which you fret and yearn?"
All fell silent. The only movement was the occasional blinking of the tortoise's eyes that produced a soft
clicking sound. Swedenborg alone seemed displeased, or at least detached. Sensing this, Plotinus called to
him softly.
"Emmanuel."
At the sound of his name the visionary roused himself; only gradually did a look of familiarity return to his eyes.
"I was conversing with a great, fallen angel in a cold and rocky place," he answered, trying to regain his
composure. "His name is Shemjaza. His shattered wings will never heal, so he drags them about as he wanders
among the slate - blue stones. "
"Sir," I ventured, attempting not to sound incredulous, "you have visited both Heaven and Hell, conversing
there with angels and demons?"
"So much joy and tribulation has been granted me," he answered.
"And will the dead be gathered to everlasting judgement and eternal life in the company of these celestial
immortals?"
Swedenborg had regained his calm and spoke slowly, with a disarming air of matter - of - factness, as if
discussing events in a nearby town or city.
"Heaven," he began, "is exactly like earth, and there we will do the same things we here engage in: we will walk
along avenues and through parks, we will sleep in beds inside our homes, we will even occupy ourselves with
fruitful works. The only difference is that there all things are spiritual essence rather than the material forms
which are on earth their correspondences."
"So you reject," Plotinus inquired, his interest piqued by what he sensed was an allusion to the Platonic Ideas,
"the popular Christian notion of Heaven and Hell as places of physical bliss and torment, and along with this
the idea that these, shall we say, "states" exist in a future and far - off time and place, attainable after a final
judgment?"
"Heaven is a state of mind," Swedenborg concurred, "which is why it is possible for me to discover it while still in
fleshly existence. As for judgement, understand this: the Lord, whom I have come to know as the Divine -
Human, wishes no harm to his creatures, but bestows the gift of free will. It is our actions and habits that form
a self - judgement."
"As you do, so you become," Young nodded.
"Yes. The damned in Hell are trapped there for eternity not as a sentenced imposed from without, but
because, through a lifetime devoted to some sin, they have evolved into beings incapable of any other actions."
"And the virtuous?" Plotinus asked. "Do they not, through a life dedicated to the Good, the True, the
Beautiful, discover that their habits have become, in the next life, permanent, immutable aspects of their being,
from which there can no longer be any turning?"
"Even so."
Here Fu - Hsi re-entered the conversation.
"Is is said that the Chinese mind is a practical one, more comfortable with ethics than metaphysics. But I feel
constrained to point out, Emmanuel, that in my experience the lives of most men are lukewarm - neither wholly
given over to virtuous activity nor completely surrendered to vice."
"I believe that is one of the reasons," I spoke up, "that the Catholic Church developed the idea of Purgatory, a
place of temporary punishment and cleansing in preparation for eternal felicity."
Ouspensky practically leapt at us in his eagerness.
"It is also the reason," he said earnestly, "that there exists the eastern and esoteric belief that we need many
lifetimes to undo our errors before we can ascend to a higher plane."
"The belief," Plotinus interrupted, with just a hint of impatience, " is neither eastern nor esoteric. Plato spoke
often of the transmigration of souls where the dignity of each new form was determined by the deeds enacted
in the previous lifetime. And before Plato there was the cult of Pythagoras, which taught of a Fall from a pure,
immaterial realm , and of the soul's quest to reascend..."
"Pythagoras came from Egypt, or at least was indoctrinated there!"Ouspensky practically shouted.
"As was I, " Plotinus responded in a tone of exaggerated softness.
"Gentlemen," Young interjected, palms upward and trying not to laugh. "East, west, south, north...the
interesting question you raise here regards the notion of a Fall, which seems a universal idea, and one that I have
re - examined in the objective light of science."
"Please wait!" I cried out. "A two - minute time - out, everyone, please. I don't want to miss anything."
Saying this, I jumped up and ran indoors to the kitchen, returning a few moments later carrying a tray laden with
a jug of iced lemonade and six glasses. All drank gratefully in the summer heat, and our conversation resumed
amid the soft clinking of glass with ice.
"The Fall," I reminded Young of our topic, "is familiar to me from stories I heard as a child, and has been
understood at a number of levels."
I was feeling comfortable now, wit ha pleasing sense that I had ceased being merely an object of concern to my
guests, as was evolving into a member of the Project.
"At the personal level," I continued, there is the Fall from grace we all know when we sin. At the level of the
human race there's the legend of Adan and Eve, their eating from the tree of the Knowledge of d and evil, and
their loss of innocence through which, it is said, Death entered the world, and which an Easter poem describes
as the "happy fault, the necessary sin of Adam which brought to us so great a Redeemer." Finally, on the
cosmic level,there is the Fall of Lucifer and his angels, which some have interpreted as a pre - scientific intuition
of the process whereby the universe came into being - is this the meaning you had in mind?"
I looked at Professor Young: he was wearing that familiar, enigmatic smile. After a pause he said,"These three
levels of meaning are inter - related, according to my Theory of Process, wherein a series of stages at one level
of evolution is mirrored in microcosm by substages at a smaller level. In any case I see the term, Fall, as
unnecessarily negative. Spirit, Infinite Potential, empties itself into the material world and in so doing
renounces its complete freedom in order to become some thing, not everything. But this self v- indulged
limitation is also a defining principle: in the arena of time and space Spirit plays, learns to master the
deterministic laws of the cosmos, including those imposed by its particular form, and achieves what I see as its
goal: consciousness."
"So that the universe comes at last to recognize itself," Borges offered, "as the title of your book implies."
"Precisely."
"But this is most curious," Borges persisted, now turning to Plotinus. "It seems that this tradition of a pre -
cosmic Fall, and of an eternal, ideal realm from which the transient world is derived, which can be traced back at
least as far as your master, Plato, can lead to diametrically opposite conclusions. On the one hand we have the
view of Gnosticism, according to which the created world is false - a prison fashioned by an evil Demiurge, into
which the soul sinks and become enmeshed , and from which it must one day awaken and ascend to a Kingdom
of Light. On the other hand we have the professor here celebrating this Fall from grace, or from simplicity, or
from perfection, a fall into a messy world, as a positive process he sees as self - fulfilling, self - actualizing!"
Plotinus stared back impassively, and said, "Our words, once uttered, like our children, once born, will go their
own way - as evidenced by our little clique. But I am in agreement with Arthur on this point: Love, divine Love,
needs to express itself by turning outward in fecundity."
Fu - Hsi tossed an ice - cube in front of the tortoise, who darted his head out and snatched it up. My
neighbor's cat, meanwhile, with whom I have always been on barely civil terms, happened to wander by at that
moment, and become fascinated with the huge, shy monster, whom she approached with characteristic
circumspection. For a while we watched the animals; about the irrepressible wood - lilies swayed and yearned on
their graceful stalks. I felt my mind to be a magic screen, like those in Balinese shadow - puppet theatre,
separating the visible from the invisible. Outside the screen was the world - the beasts and flowers, the quiet
street dappled with shade from the arching trees. Behind the scree was thought, impression, understanding,
and ego as well, with its hopes and fears. But at that moment I was poised between these two: I was the magic
screen of mind, a passive, open doorway, observing and thinking.
"For a long, long time," said the cat in a soft and feminine voice, gesturing with a paw at the flowers, "this is all
there was - the mute, mindless world of vegetation."
This," the tortoise added in melodious baritone, "and the urge to become, to evolve beyond the present
condition."
A bustling, brown bee alighted on a lily.
"So that, over time, animals emerged form the plant - world, and in more time, humans with their distinctive mental
powers grew beyond their animal origins," he said rapidly, matter - of - factly.
"Leading who - knows - where," sang a robin invisibly, overhead.
"Leading whither you will," winked the looking straight into my eyes.
Upon the magic screen, on the surface of my mind, at the horizon of reality and fantasy, something was
happening. The swarming forms that earlier seemed pointless now appeared purposeful. Yeats' "sensual
music" seemed suffused with spiritual overtones. His "dying generations" appeared contiguous and
interdependent.
Rousing myself, I turned toward my companions of a moment ago: only Plotinus remained. "Where have all the
others gone?" I asked.
"They left, one by one, as you no longer needed them," came his reply. "Now answer me this," he said facing me
squarely, and sounding suddenly serious, "What is immortality?"
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then began:
"We die to be reborn at a higher level of existence, but only if we freely choose this path. The key to fuller life
is the idea of self- transcendence. If we love too deeply what we are that is all we'll ever be - and that's a choice
often made, judging by the evident persistence of lower forms. But if we put our faith in a principle that is by its
nature beyond our full understanding, and dedicate our days to the transformation of self, and trough self,
world, we may find, at the hour of our death, that the fearful self has already been cast away, and we're free to
embrace that which only metamorphosis can bring."
"Hmm," Plotinus mused. "So, to paraphrase the Gospel, we know not whither we are going, but we know the
way?"
"Let me explain myself this way," I answered. "When I was a child I cherished a peculiar image of the after - life as
a placed where I was eternally seven years old; there I played with friend, all day, every day, racing little toy cars
down a hill."
"That still doesn't sound too bad to me," the philosopher interrupted.
"I know, but the world only grows if individuals grow. So I ask myself now what a worthier paradise would be
like...and I imagine some kind of building with many rooms , like a museum, but instead of being filled with art
these rooms are suffused with various shades of light. I look about in vain for the adult equivalent of
childhood's friends and toys..."
"Delicious food, perhaps, and beautiful women?"
"Exactly, I'm afraid. And I realize I'm so entangled in my animal existence that I practically equate it with my
truest self."
"A desperate grasper, plagued with unremmitting fear he'll lose what he thinks he needs. It is surprising how
little is left of what you all ego when you subtract fear and desire."
"Yes. But you see, these heavenly rooms, being devoid of objects, invite another, more innocent and curious
me, less personal but more permanent, who wanders among these mansions in search of what he might yet be..."
"Professor Young, in his book, compares us to the clam that can dimly sense, from the ocean floor, a word of
wonders beyond its present grasp, " Plotinus remarked.
"I believe it is that very sensing," I responded, " that wishing, that discontented dreaming, that is the agent of
change! It is clear to me now that, though thoughts must lead to actions, the one essential ingredient in the
evolution of Love..."
"The evolution of Love?"
"Please let me finish. The one necessary thing, about which there can be no pretence, no sham, is the purity of
the mind. Consciousness is not a isolated state bubble, nor a trap, but a door opening to divinity."
Plotinus smiled at my enthusiasm, and said, "Values are eternal, but depend for their effectiveness on people
who come and go. A heart consecrated to beautiful ideas is destined to participate in some way in the shaping
of a brighter tomorrow for humankind."
"How paltry a price seems the ego to me now," I rejoiced. "The dying of that part of me does not tragic any
longer."
Plotinus knit his brow.
"Talk is cheap,:" he warned. "Against the grain of your society you need to break from many acquisitive habits.
Especially as you get older you would be wise to see your life as forming a trajectory aimed at your death.
Simplify. Move toward that which has permanent value. Become outwardly detached and indifferent, but
inwardly zealous. Avoid the pathetic fate of those who would be forever young, forever at the game of vain
appearances, forever lost - my God, I sound like Fu - Hsi!"
"Or at any rate like as fortune - cookie."
"Food again - You mentioned your children earlier. I assume the bravery you wish to demonstrate in the face of
the unknown would be a valuable lesson to impart to them?"
Suddenly I saw before me the ocean shore: I was standing at the edge of the cold, roaring waves with my sons,
as we stand every summer. I turned from the vision and addressed my companion with a smile.
"I hope to behave at that hour of death as I do at the beach. I feel my children hesitate, and look at me ,
wordlessly, for guidance. I gather my strength, cast away inhibitions, and throw myself into the water."
"And do they follow you?"
"Naturally."
The philosopher searched me with a gaze I could not interpret, then asked softly and with tenderness, "How
did you ever get into such a crisis as we found you in?"
As if in response to this query the great tortoise stirred and shifted his position. In turning he revealed upon
his shell strange markings resembling the hexagrams in Fu - Hsi's "Book of Changes."
"Can anyone interpret this pattern?" I asked.
The cat scampered onto my shoulder, from where he could view the tortoise's back. Then she read,"Let your
work identify you and let it be a labor of love. Success comes through quiet efficiency, loving service and
conscientious devotion to duty."
"I guess I had lost my way," I acknowledged. "I think the purity of my goals had become compromised. And, as I
mentioned earlier, I've had a tough summer, and I'm getting older s well, seeing things differently."
I took the cat from my shoulder and placed her on the grass; she slopped away. The tortoise rose in a sign of
leave - taking, and I gathered the empty glasses onto the tray. Plotinus also stood, as if preparing to depart,
but paused on the steps and touched my arm.
"Is there something else?" he asked.
"Yes," I admitted.
"Name it."
"Inge."
"What?"
"Not what, who? - Inge. Won't you come indoors with me?"
Ponderously, my remaining guest followed me into the living room; I motioned for him to be seated on the sofa.
Then I reached behind him and took from a table three dark brown volumes. On top was his own "Enneads,"
printed in double columns with a tiny lettering incongruous with the expansive metaphysics it conveyed.
Beneath this were two slim volumes of commentary on the great treatise, composed in 1918 by William Ralph
Inge, and originally delivered at the Gifford Lectures at St, Andrews. These I handed to Plotinus for his
perusal.
"The longest chapter in this work," I informed my guest, "on the subject of 'The Immortality of the Soul'. Now
believe me, you have no deeper admirer, no more perceptive commentator, sir, than this gentleman."
"Never mind the sugar - coating," the old man shrugged, "I'm interested in his criticism - only through this can I
continue to learn. Clearly you bring this writer to my attention in the hopes of correcting what you perceive as
some error of mine."
"Not an error but an imbalance," I admitted, "and one that he traces through the whole history of your 'school'
reaching back to Plato. I refer to your excessive idealism and your insufficient appreciation for evil and sin, and
for the pain and suffering that are their consequence."
"Hmm," he breathed, and then he sat there looking at me.
"I'm in the same position as you," I stammered, "and I've found this man's insights illuminating. When we
incorporate his views into your neo - Platonic system , the picture that emerges, both for the individual and for
humanity collectively, is of an even more difficult path than I had imagined. But I'm sure you'll agree: facile
delusions lead nowhere, whereas a glimpse of truth, even difficult truth, affords hope."
"So you are now dissatisfied with the concept of Evil as the absence of Goodness? What would you then-
drag down the Perfect, the Changeless, the Transcendent One and smear him with human foibles as did the
barbarians? Goodness is only good in a world where Evil is possible, and where Evil is possible it will
sometimes be chosen."
"I know that - that is, I'm sure you're right...I mean to say that thought has occurred to me. But I'm thinking of
something else here, related to our theme of Immortality. See here: if death were simply a means to
metamorphosis, a gateway to higher life, then why wouldn't it feel good? Why does the process of
transformation involve suffering and pain? Now, Inge says suffering is a symptom, not the disease itself, and
you know very well that, with physical disease, the pain we experience can actually be beneficial insofar as it
alerts us to a condition requiring attention."
Plotinus now asked, "So are you suggesting that a spiritual illness afflicts us, and that the suffering and decay
associated with dying are intended to instruct us?"
"They are, I believe, a reminder, even a judgement, that we have failed, that we might have lived better, a harsh
lesson imposed unilaterally by nature, for who, given a choice, would willingly sacrifice his life in the interest of
self - improvement?"
"So our suffering is a punishment levied on under - achieving humanity - nay, on the entire world?"
"I would rather avoid the term, punishment, although we can learn, indeed, from misfortune. Let me avoid a
misunderstanding here: neither Inge nor I intend to posit a direct relationship between the depth of suffering a
person is called upon to endure and the nature of his actions in the present or in some former life. Often the
best suffer most, while the worst get off easy - at least in the short term. But I'm thinking of the bigger picture:
we all end in decay, pain and death, and what I'm wondering is, can it be through this suffering that the world is
saved?"
"In the sense,as you say, that such a demise drives us ever forward toward new efforts..,."
"Or at least opens up that opportunity..."
"Whereas the alternative, a world without the instruction, the admonition, of a punishing death, might be a
complacent world that never strove for precisely that self - transcendence you have equated with immortality?"
"Yes, and these thoughts lead me back in a wondrous circle to some notions I held dear in the past, the wisdom
of which I see anew."
"You are referring, I assume, to your Catholic upbringing, your infatuation with sin and repentance, your
visions of purgatorial fire?"
"You're missing the key ingredient: Inge speaks of Christ's crucifixion as 'vicarious suffering' and this is the
central mystery of Christian theology, the senseless folly, as St. Paul puts it, in the eyes of the world."
Plotinus said,"I admit it has always been a stumbling - block for me, how the gruesome death of the god - man
produces any ameliorative effects on a unrepentant humanity."
A thought from deep in my memory surfaced. I hesitated a moment, uncertain whether to share it. But
something miraculous was happening: I was on a roll, feeling inspired, lecturing the master philosopher whom I
had, as it were, pinned to the sofa by virtue of artistic license. So I spoke.
"When I was a child I saw an episode of the science fiction series, 'Star Trek.' It's set in the future - my future , I
mean. In this show, heroic explorers travel to distant worlds..."
"Yes, yes, we snuck in and watched a little while you were getting drinks," Plotinus smiled. "Go on."
"Well," I continued, "in this particular episode, they encounter, on some planet or other, a mute woman dressed
in diaphanous folds, who is mysteriously described as an 'empath.' Her sensitivity to the pain of others is so
acute that, through touching them she is gradually able to absorb their pain, relieving their distress, taking it
voluntarily upon herself, before somehow exorcising it to oblivion. The ideas of intense identification, deep
compassion, and especially vicarious suffering impressed me permanently. I have often wondered since then, in a
world of apparently endless grief, if all of us are made to bear the same or only our alloted portion, or whether,
instead, some might feel called, at a certain time, and in a state of enlightenment, to suffer the pain of others..."
"The Buddha," Plotinus said softly, "though he found suffering as consequence of grasping after illusion and
learned to escape it, valued compassion above all other qualities, and, according to some, continually declines
the blessed temptation of nirvana in order to re - enter the world and be of continuing assistance as
Boddhisatva."
I nodded and said, "As I get older I feel the pain of the world more acutely. I see fallen birds, even insects in
agony, and I experience something like outrage. Professor Young was right: this is not the best of all possible
worlds. Remember how he spoke of Divinity emptying itself into creation? Back in catechism we were taught
that God, in his goodness, wanted to share his joy and so he made the world, but..."
"But the Evil One," Plotinus anticipated, and all the ware and enmity that seem to emanate from him and
perennially plague the planet, are in essence no more than an externalizing, a manifestation, of an inner sickness..."
"Which we may define as a deep self - hatred we all carry within us, a loathing at our failure, a disgust with our
weakness, and sometime a fatalistic indifference."
"The picture gets gloomier and more bleak," the philosopher remarked.
So we sat there with our chins cupped in our palms, amid the detritus of empty glasses, as the sun began to set,
I felt unsettled again: our conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and even Plotinus seemed confused and
tired. We were startled by the ringing of the doorbell. As I rose, Inge strode into the house.
"One of your annoying characteristics," he said, smiling at me, "is that you dabble - you fail to finish the books
you begin."
"Well," I began.
"You've probably read even less of his stuff," he interrupted, indicating Plotinus, 'than of mine!"
Plotinus stared at me. Inge continued.
"The climax of my discussion on the Immortality of the Soul in the Enneads is the moment when I invoke the
spirit of his great contemporary, the only man of his age to equal our friend here in erudition as well as in
holiness - I refer, of course, to the great Christian neo - Platonist, Origen, known to his incredulous admirers as
Adamantinus for his tireless labors."
Plotinus seemed stirred to renewed enthusiasm. Rousing himself he said,"My silence, in the Enneads, on the
subject of Christianity, as well as other religions, terms neither from ignorance nor from disdain. A true
philosophy, deriving form eternal and universal principles, is not contingent on any specific historical character
or event. But of course I knew Origen, by his reputation and by some of his writings."
"What made him daring to the point of dubious orthodoxy is also what made him interesting and valuable," Inge
put in.
I ventured to join the conversation, timidly at first, in light of my recent chastisement.
"Origen spoke of cycles of worlds, made and unmade, and while the periodic nature of this vision would seem
static..."
"It is combined, in his ingenious, unique solution, with the dynamism and goal - orientation that typify Christian
eschatology," Inge interrupted me again.
"So that the purification and learning from suffering occur not, as it were, outside the cosmic scheme, in
Purgatory, but through the workings of the world itself, in progressively higher states, " Plotinus finished the
thought. "It is a wonderful synthesis, and I bow alike to the depth of his mind and to the warmth of Origen's
heart."
I stood up, unable to remain still in the face of the vision that was unfolding . I strode to the door and flung it
open; the evening sky was streaked orange and mauve.
"Apocatastasis!" Inge said softly behind me, with great feeling.
"A pocket of what?" I asked, turning around.
Plotinus answered for him. "Apocatastasis - the Final Restoration - Origen's doctrine, officially condemned
by the Church, teaching that God, omnipotent and omniscient, inconceivable as the author of any lasting evil,
would never rest until all beings were restored to their primal innocence, until Satan himself and his swarthy
hosts be purified, repentant, restored to Paradise."
"Then," Inge concluded,"will God be 'all in all.'"
I could contain myself no longer.
"Then we may hope, friends, one bright day, be it eons from now, for an end to striving and failing, an end to
vicariously suffering gods and mortals, an end to transmogrifying pain and sacrificial deaths, a glorious day
when the unburnt books of Adamantinus will be sung with angelic voices..."
I paused, and in the silence my laconic friends offered, felt a bit abashed at my display. So I sat back down
between them and continued in a more sober tone.
"There is much work to be done. What shall my part be, and where shall I begin?"
"Right here," Inge answered.
"And right now," Plotinus added.
"What I mean," I persisted, is exactly what should I do first?"
"Why don't you begin by finishing this book?" the philosopher winked. "Come on,Ralph," he continued,
addressing his companion,"Let's go."
"But must you leave so soon?" I asked, suddenly anxious. "Can't you stay a while longer?"
Inge looked at his wristwatch, then shook his head and replied, "We've got another meeting."
Plotinus rose, and as they exited he turned his head toward me, rolling his eyes humorously.
"Maybe one of these days," he said, "we'll let you come along with us."
For a moment a fresh wave of panic, like the one that had arrested me earlier that day, appeared in the distance,
threatening. I realized then that friends and ideas can only take a man so far: there comes a time to stand alone
and be strong. I took a deep breath. Then I strode over to my desk, and, sitting down, took pen in hand and
put it to paper.
**********************************************************
All this took place many years ago; never again was I to see any of these friends. There were times,
understandably, I think, when I doubted whether the Immortality Project continued to exist, times I even
wondered about the reality of my experience.
Then one day, a day almost too late and without warning, a beautiful woman fell into my life, like an angel from
the sky, making of my past a shambles, of my future a mockery, and transfixing me in the present with the
lightning of her deathless glance. Life's deepest lessons cannot be reasoned into us: only experience can
impart them. In love I learned that a clam on the sea floor or a human being, is a beautiful thing, though most
beautiful when unaware and striving toward the light (which is after all the condition of the lover). In love I
learned that being mortal means more than having an end, it means having a beginning as well. In love I
discovered that, if the suffering inextricable from death is useful, then the joy of procreation has its message as
well, and it is no less that the song of the universe, an affirmation of being: desire, deeper than death, older than
thought. Why, cosmologists, ask, is there something, instead of nothing at all? The answer is in that song, and
the answer is that song.
Friends, let us open our hearts and there will be nothing to fear: All that which will endure in us existed before
our birth. I have found immortality at last, in love.