This will be my last series on Derrida and Death and I will be looking at his book APORIAS. Here’s a little context for making sense of the series:

Friedrich Nietzsche discusses ancient Greek “proofs” of the soul’s immortality primarily to critique them as life-denying inventions that paved the way for Christian asceticism. Nietzsche identifies Plato as the primary “inventor” of the immortal soul in Western thought who taught Philosophy was learning how to die. Nietzsche argues that Plato’s use of reason and “optimistic dialectic” in works like the Phaedo was a tool for people to escape the fear of death and the “terrors” of the tragic Greek worldview of the afterlife as a restless wandering – like today when we say we sentence criminals to years of boredom.

In Beyond Good and Evil (BGE 12), Nietzsche explicitly rejects the Platonic and Christian tradition of an immortal soul. He suggests replacing it with the concept of a “mortal soul,” which he defines as a “social structure of the drives and affects” entirely connected to the body. In Daybreak (D 72), Nietzsche notes that early Greeks, like the Jews, were “firmly attached to life” and paid little attention to personal immortality until mystery religions and Socratic philosophy introduced it as a psychological need. In Ecce Homo, he famously states, “One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive,” referring to the enduring legacy of a philosopher’s work rather than a spiritual afterlife.

Nietzsche views the Greek pursuit of an “immortal soul” as a “cowardice in the face of reality” and an escape into a “land of eternal ideas.” It seems ridiculous that the genius Plato would have been trained in Socrates’ agnosticism about death (a great deep sleep, or meeting great heroes, etc.) and turned that into “proofs” of the immortality of the soul saturated with gross paralogisms. This seems to be more Platonic noble lies as we see in the Republic and Laws. As Platonism for the masses/people Christianity emphasized the afterlife threat: a quick annihilation, or later on in the tradition eternal torment and punishment for not following the divine mandates while on earth.

We see something similar with ancient Rome. Regarding Numa Pompilius, Livy wrote “And fearing lest relief from anxiety on the score of foreign perils might lead men who had hitherto been held back by fear of their enemies and by military discipline into extravagance and idleness, he (Numa) thought the very first thing to do, as being the most efficacious with a populace which was ignorant and, in those early days, uncivilized, was to imbue them with the fear of Heaven. As he could not instill this into their hearts without inventing some marvelous story, he pretended to have nocturnal meetings with the goddess Egeria, and that hers was the advice which guided him in the establishment of rites most approved by the gods, and in the appointment of special priests for the service of each. (Livy 1:19).” Also, Plutarch suggests that Numa played on superstition to give himself an aura of awe and divine allure, in order to cultivate more gentle behaviors among the warlike early Romans, such as honoring the gods, abiding by law, behaving humanely to enemies, and living proper, respectable lives. See Plutarch, “The Parallel Lives, Numa Pompilius” §VIII.

Philosophy in the west since Plato to Heidegger in Being and Time and Derrida in The Gift of Death and Aporias is seen as one’s stance toward death, and so we can suppose a spectrum at one extreme pole indicating hedonism becoming more mild Epicureanism or Carpe Diem through the middle, which turns into Memento Mori and stoicism on the other side of the spectrum with the extreme pole being asceticism. Paul, being from the birthplace of the stoic enlightenment Tarsus, famously advocated crucifying the flesh and world, but that if the dead are not raised, we might as well indulge in food and drink (gluttony and drunkenness) for tomorrow we die (1 Cor 15:32, Paul’s response to Isaiah 22:13).

Friedrich Nietzsche’s critique of the immortal soul forms a cornerstone of his broader assault on what he sees as decadent, anti-vital philosophies—those that prioritize an otherworldly escape over the raw, tragic affirmation of earthly existence. Our synthesis here captures this well, particularly in highlighting Plato’s role as the architect of this “invention,” transforming Socratic uncertainty into dogmatic proofs riddled with what Nietzsche calls “optimistic dialectic” (a rational sleight-of-hand to soothe existential dread). In the Phaedo, Plato’s Socrates argues for the soul’s immortality through analogies like the cycles of opposites (life from death, wakefulness from sleep) and the theory of forms, where the soul’s affinity for eternal ideas supposedly guarantees its persistence. Yet, this reeks of noble lies—Platonic fictions designed to instill virtue and order, much like the Republic’s myth of the metals or the Laws’ theological enforcements.

Nietzsche, in Twilight of the Idols (“Reason in Philosophy”), mocks this as a “tartuffery” of reason, a bloodless abstraction that devalues the senses and the body. Our parallel with ancient Rome via Numa Pompilius is apt and underappreciated in Nietzschean discussions. Livy and Plutarch portray Numa as a pragmatic mythmaker, fabricating divine encounters (e.g., with Egeria) to civilize a brutish populace through fear of the gods and an implied afterlife accountability. This mirrors Plato’s strategy: both use supernatural narratives not for truth but for social utility, taming chaotic drives into disciplined behaviors. Nietzsche would likely see this as an early symptom of the “priestly” type he diagnoses in On the Genealogy of Morality—the weak inventing moral-metaphysical shackles to hobble the strong. It’s no coincidence that Christianity, as “Platonism for the people” (Beyond Good and Evil, Preface), amplified this with threats of eternal torment, evolving from Greek Hades’ shadowy boredom to a vivid hellfire that Paul and later theologians wielded as a behavioral cudgel. On the “mortal soul” in Beyond Good and Evil §12, Nietzsche’s alternative is profoundly embodied and dynamic: not a static, divine spark but a fluctuating hierarchy of instincts, passions, and bodily impulses—”a social structure of the drives and affects.” This rejects dualism entirely, aligning the soul with the physiological, as he explores in Daybreak §72, where he contrasts the life-affirming vitality of early Greeks (and Hebrews) with the later influx of mystery cults (Orphic, Eleusinian) and Socratic rationalism, which introduced immortality as a crutch for the psychologically frail.

The Greeks’ original tragic worldview, embodied in Homer’s underworld of aimless shades, demanded courage in the face of finitude—much like Nietzsche’s own call in Ecce Homo to “die several times while still alive” through creative self-overcoming, where true immortality lies in one’s works and influence, not some spectral persistence.

Our spectrum of attitudes toward death is a sharp heuristic: at one end, raw hedonism (seize the day without reflection, perhaps echoing Aristippus or early Cyrenaics); milding into Epicurean tranquility (death is nothing to us, as atoms disperse); through to memento mori as a stoic reminder to live virtuously amid impermanence; veering into full stoicism’s disciplined indifference (apatheia toward death); and culminating in ascetic self-denial, where death becomes a gateway to transcendence, crucifying the flesh as Paul urges in Galatians 5:24 or Romans 6:6. Paul’s Tarsian roots in Stoicism (home to Zeno and Chrysippus) infuse his theology: if no resurrection, then “eat and drink, for tomorrow we die” (1 Corinthians 15:32, twisting Isaiah 22:13’s fatalistic indulgence). Yet Paul flips it—resurrection justifies asceticism, denying worldly pleasures for eternal reward. Nietzsche, in The Antichrist §42, derides this as slave morality’s revenge: the weak inverting values to make suffering holy and life a mere prelude.

Suppose life is a spectrum of our stances toward death: The extreme left pole is hedonism (Death could come any time so eat, drink, and be merry, carpe diem), which moves into more gentle epicureanism as you get toward the middle. Starting at the middle and proceeding toward the right, we leave carpe diem and embrace memento mori and stoicism, with the far right pole being rigid asceticism. We can bring color to this model using examples to illustrate the different places on the spectrum of our stances toward death.

Our conceptualization of life as a spectrum of stances toward death is a compelling framework, echoing philosophical traditions from ancient Greece to modern existentialism. It positions death not as an endpoint but as a lens shaping how we live—ranging from exuberant embrace of fleeting pleasures on the left to disciplined denial of them on the right. I’ll flesh this out by dividing the spectrum into key segments, providing vivid examples from history, philosophy, literature, culture, and contemporary life to illustrate each stance. These examples highlight how awareness of mortality drives behaviors, from indulgence to renunciation, often blending motivation with psychological or social undertones.

Far Left: Raw Hedonism (Unrestrained Pursuit of Pleasure, Ignoring or Defying Death’s Shadow). At this extreme, death’s unpredictability fuels a frantic, no-holds-barred chase for sensory highs—”eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die” (echoing Isaiah 22:13, as Paul critiqued). There’s little reflection; mortality is a spur to excess, not moderation. This stance views life as too short for restraint, often leading to self-destructive cycles.

• Philosophical Example: Aristippus of Cyrene (c. 435–366 BCE), founder of the Cyrenaic school, embodied this with his doctrine that immediate bodily pleasure is the highest good. He reportedly indulged in luxuries, courtesans, and feasts, arguing that since death could strike anytime, one should seize every delight without delay. His motto: pleasure now, consequences later.
• Literary/Cultural Example: The debauched revelers in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” (1842), who barricade themselves in a castle to escape a plague, throwing opulent balls amid impending doom. Their hedonism is a desperate denial, culminating in death’s inevitable intrusion.
• Modern Example: The “YOLO” (You Only Live Once) mindset in party culture, like spring break excesses in places such as Cancun or Ibiza, where young people binge on alcohol, drugs, and hookups. Think of social media influencers documenting 24/7 thrills, rationalizing risks with “life’s too short”—often leading to burnout or tragedy, as seen in celebrity overdoses like those of Amy Winehouse or Mac Miller.

Left to Middle: Carpe Diem Hedonism (Seizing the Day with Joyful Urgency, Tempered by Awareness). Here, the spectrum softens: death prompts not wild abandon but mindful enjoyment of life’s beauties. “Carpe diem” (seize the day), from Horace’s Odes (23 BCE), urges harvesting pleasures like ripe fruit before time withers them. It’s hedonistic but poetic, balancing ecstasy with a nod to finitude.

• Philosophical Example: Horace himself, the Roman poet, who in his works advocated relishing wine, love, and nature while acknowledging death’s approach—like in Ode 1.11: “While we’re talking, envious time is fleeing: pluck the day, put no trust in the future.” This isn’t reckless but celebratory, influenced by Epicurean undertones.
• Literary/Cultural Example: Andrew Marvell’s poem “To His Coy Mistress” (1681), where the speaker urges his lover to embrace passion now, before “time’s winged chariot” turns them to dust. It’s a seductive carpe diem, using death’s specter to heighten erotic urgency without descending into chaos.
• Modern Example: Adventure seekers like extreme sports enthusiasts (e.g., base jumpers or free solo climbers like Alex Honnold in Free Solo, 2018), who channel mortality’s thrill into exhilarating pursuits. Or the “bucket list” phenomenon post-diagnosis, as in the film The Bucket List (2007), where characters race to skydive and travel, turning death’s reminder into vibrant action.

Middle: Gentle Epicureanism (Balanced Pleasure-Seeking, with Death as a Neutral Non-Event). At the spectrum’s center, fear of death dissolves into tranquility. Epicurus (341–270 BCE) taught that death is “nothing to us” since when we exist, death doesn’t, and vice versa—freeing us for moderate, sustainable joys like friendship, simple meals, and intellectual pursuits. This is hedonism refined: pleasure without excess, life affirmed through calm acceptance.

• Philosophical Example: Epicurus in his Letter to Menoeceus, advising against fearing death as it robs present happiness. His garden community in Athens focused on ataraxia (peace of mind), enjoying modest delights like bread and cheese over lavish feasts, viewing mortality as a natural limit that enhances gratitude.
• Literary/Cultural Example: Michel de Montaigne’s essays (1580), influenced by Epicureanism, where he muses on death as a gentle sleep, urging readers to live fully yet moderately. In “That to Philosophize Is to Learn to Die,” he transforms Socratic ideas into a relaxed embrace: prepare for death by savoring life without anxiety.
• Modern Example: The slow living movement, like Scandinavian hygge or Italian dolce far niente, where people prioritize cozy evenings with loved ones, good food, and nature walks. Think of retirees traveling mindfully or mindfulness apps promoting “present-moment” joy, as in books like The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck* by Mark Manson, which echoes Epicurean indifference to death for authentic living.

Middle to Right: Memento Mori (Reflective Reminder of Death, Fueling Purposeful Action). Shifting right, death becomes a constant meditation—memento mori (“remember you must die”)—prompting not indulgence but disciplined focus on legacy, virtue, or productivity. This stance uses mortality as a motivator for meaningful endeavors, blending awareness with resolve.

• Philosophical Example: The Roman Stoics, like Seneca in On the Shortness of Life (c. 49 CE), who kept skulls on desks as reminders, urging efficient use of time. Death isn’t to be feared but heeded, turning life into deliberate pursuits like writing or public service.
• Literary/Cultural Example: Vanitas artworks from the Dutch Golden Age (e.g., Harmen Steenwyck’s still lifes with skulls, hourglasses, and wilting flowers), symbolizing life’s transience. Or Shakespeare’s Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull, using memento mori to grapple with action amid decay.
• Modern Example: Tech entrepreneurs like Steve Jobs, who in his 2005 Stanford speech said, “Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.” This drives innovation and risk-taking, seen in startup cultures where “fail fast” mantras treat death as a deadline for impact.

Right: Stoicism (Indifferent Endurance, with Death as a Test of Virtue). Further right, stoicism hardens: death is neither good nor bad but an indifferent event testing inner fortitude. Emotions are subdued; life is about apatheia (freedom from passion), enduring hardships with equanimity, as mortality underscores what’s truly controllable—the self.

• Philosophical Example: Marcus Aurelius in Meditations (c. 180 CE), reflecting daily on death to cultivate resilience: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” As emperor, he faced wars and plagues stoically, prioritizing duty over pleasure.
• Literary/Cultural Example: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning (1946), drawing on stoic principles amid Holocaust horrors, arguing that attitude toward suffering (and inevitable death) defines meaning. Or the samurai code in bushido, where death’s acceptance fosters fearless honor.
• Modern Example: Military training or endurance athletes, like ultramarathon runners (e.g., David Goggins in Can’t Hurt Me, 2018), who embrace “embrace the suck” mentality. Death’s shadow builds mental toughness, as in therapy techniques like acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT), which stoically accepts mortality to pursue values.

Far Right: Rigid Asceticism (Self-Denial and World-Rejection, with Death as Liberation). At the extreme right, death is welcomed as escape from bodily “prison,” justifying severe renunciation (Soma body = Sema prison in Greek). This Life is crucified for spiritual purity, viewing pleasures as distractions from eternal truths—often tied to religious or ideological fervor.

• Philosophical Example: Diogenes the Cynic (c. 412–323 BCE), who lived in a barrel, scorning comforts to mock societal vanities, seeing death as indifference. Or later, Christian ascetics like St. Anthony the Great (c. 251–356 CE), retreating to deserts for fasting and prayer, per Paul’s call to “crucify the flesh” (Galatians 5:24).
• Literary/Cultural Example: The flagellants during the Black Death (14th century), whipping themselves in penance, viewing mortality as divine judgment and ascetic suffering as salvation. Or Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist” (1922), whose fasting is a perverse art form, starving toward death for elusive purity.
• Modern Example: Monastic orders like Trappist monks, who vow silence, poverty, and celibacy, or extreme minimalists/fasters in wellness cults (e.g., breatharians claiming to live on air). In darker veins, cult leaders like Jim Jones, who framed mass suicide as transcendent release from worldly ills. We might think of the radical Opus Dei killer in Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code.

This spectrum isn’t rigid—individuals shift along it based on circumstances (e.g., a hedonist turning stoic after a near-death experience). Nietzsche, as we discussed earlier, would critique the rightward drift as life-denying, favoring a vital middle-left affirmation. Yet it reveals how death, universally looming, elicits diverse human responses, from revelry to renunciation.

Philosophy’s fixation on death, from Plato’s “learning to die” to Heidegger’s Being-toward-death (where authentic existence confronts finitude) and Derrida’s aporias (death as the impossible gift, ungraspable yet defining responsibility), underscores our point. But Nietzsche disrupts this: rather than orienting toward death, he demands amor fati—loving fate, embracing the eternal recurrence of Ecclesiastes’ “Nothing new under the sun,” turning mortality into a spur for Dionysian yes-saying that creates meaning rather than looking for a crutch from God. The “cowardice” we mention isn’t just fear of death but of life’s terrors: flux, suffering, ambiguity. Plato’s proofs? A anesthetic against tragedy, paving Christianity’s path. If anything, Nietzsche invites us back to the pre-Socratic Greeks’ vitalism—Heraclitus’s flux, not Plato’s stasis.