A flower, a skull, and an hourglass symbolize life, death, and time in this 17th-century Vanitas painting by Philippe de Champaigne.
Reflections on my brother Richard’s recent death led me to the philosopher Luc Boven’s book Coping. The chapter on death in that book is largely adopted from his essay, “Secular hopes in the face of death.”
In that essay, Bovens suggests that some might not hope for eternal life either because they believe it to be impossible or because they don’t desire it. He then turns to four broad types of secular hopes that secularists may have in the face of death.
1. Hopes about one’s life. – They may hope that their life lived up to certain ideals or made a mark. In other words, that their lives were intrinsically valuable or brought about some extrinsic good.
2. Hopes about one’s death. They may hope to die well, in a way that expresses their ideals and values. These hopes relate to policy questions about, for example, euthanasia and organ donation.
3. Hopes about attitudes of others. They may hope to be missed, remembered, and respected. They may hope to be missed, but that others are still not marred by grief. They may hope to be remembered because of having made an enduring mark. They may hope to be respected by dying as they want.
4. Hopes about the future. They may be comforted that posthumous calamities won’t affect them, and/or that future generations will survive and flourish.
This is but a brief overview, but I was disappointed with Boven’s analysis. While I emphasize hope in my own thinking about life’s meaning, I don’t find the hopes articulated by Bovens very comforting. While on my deathbed, I would want to think I lived well, had a good death, that others thought well of me, and that the future would be better for those left behind, but none of that sufficiently ameliorates the injustice of death—hence my claim that death should be optional.
However, I found the last chapter of Boven’s book to be a good practical guide to coping with loss. He counsels us to a) count our blessings; b) help our neighbors; c) not cry over spilled milk; d) express ourselves; and e) eat well. While this may seem trite, I admire a philosopher willing to state the (almost) obvious. Perhaps these familiar ways of coping are the best we can do.
I especially found the section on expression to be insightful. As a writer like myself, he focuses primarily on writing. Bovens says that migrant writers who have been uprooted from their native communities say “they write out of pain.” But why does pain often compel us to write? What solace does writing provide, especially given that writing is hard? Writing seems to be a curious response to suffering. To explain, Bovens offers the following,
Writing is a solitary activity. One can create a space of tranquillity
far away from the troubled world outside …
Writing can also be like talking to a friend. One comes to see things
clearer. A jumble of feelings, memories, and conversations is clouding
up one’s head. Writing helps place things in pigeonholes so that one can
remember without obsessing. And even if one’s inner goings-on don’t
gain clarity, there is at least displacement. What ails cannot be both in
our heads and on the paper—or so it seems.
… Writing is rebellion against being singled out by misfortune. Why me?
In reaching out to others, one learns that nobody is spared.
Writing helps break through a vicious cycle. Being focused on the
futility of life feeds self-centeredness. Self-centeredness stands in the
way of contributing. And being unable to contribute reinforces the
belief that life is indeed futile. And so the wheel turns. But writing is
contributing—it is letting other people know that they are not alone…
There are many forms of pain, many kinds of writings, and many
therapeutic routes. Some of these benefits also come with other art
forms—there is a sense of seclusion in the pottery studio as well. Some of
them are specific to the narrative arts—one finds solace in sharing one’s
story, but of course, music and painting also have narrative elements.
For some people it is sufficient to write—their diary is a private matter,
not to be shared. For others, being read, being heard, being seen is
crucial—it is the sharing itself that is healing
I thank Professor Bovens for reminding me that writing helps us cope with loss. And I thank my readers for their kind words.
May the world become a better place,
JGM , Seattle WA 2026
My own brother– also named Richard– recently died as well. Since then, a couple ideas from my book, “Wellsprings of Work: Surprising Sources of Meaning and Motivation” have been much on my mind– ideas intertwined with your latest blog.
First, are insights from Israeli practical philosopher, Avishai Margalit that revolve around the strong human urge to be remembered. As “Wellsprings” explains,
“If I expect you to remember me, it’s because I feel you SHOULD remember me, at least if you value our relationship as I hope you do. I want the type of reputation and bond w you now that deserves recognition beyond my death.” And as Margalit put it, “The horror of falling into utter oblivion is not necessarily the fear of what will happen to us after death, but of what it says about our relationships now. It is the fear of not amounting to much in our present relationship with others.” ….and I certainly know that I greatly valued my relationship with my own brother, Richard, and he valued it as well.
A second chapter of “Wellsprings” explores another source of meaning and motivation in the face of inevitable death: namely, building for a brighter future. It’s at the center of parenting, mentoring, and many careers, including working to address climate change. As “Wellsprings” puts it, “This is Moses leading his people to the edge of the Promised Land but never himself entering it. This is taking steps now to achieve political solutions or social improvements for coming generations…” During his lifetime, “my” Richard did that as well and as his survivor, I find that comforting.