At the Polar Bear Hotel

 Photo: Xinhua / Rex / Shutterstock

 

 

I wouldn't go so far as Morrissey, who once described the Chinese as a subspecies of human being due to their absolutely horrific record on animal welfare, but, really, do the owners, staff, and guests of the new Harbin Polar Land Hotel feel no shame?

 

It's bad enough how the Chinese treat their own native bears - with the exception of the panda, which is regarded as a national treasure and thus afforded some degree of protection - but do they really need to import members of a threatened species all the way from the Arctic, just to make a sad spectacle of them for the amusement of tourists? 

 

The hotel, in the frozen north-east province of Heilongjiang, resembles a giant igloo and is built in a reverse panopticon manner around a brightly lit central enclosure, complete with fake rocks and icicles and a white painted floor, housing a pair of live polar bears. Guests can thus gawp out of their windows and watch or photograph the animals 24/7. 

 

To be fair, even some Chinese commentators are raising voices of concern. But the fact is that businesses are allowed to exploit animals in any manner they may wish without having to worry about infringing any laws. 

 

I suppose the best that can be said is that at least these snow-white bears are not being milked of their bile like their Asiatic cousins and that, push comes to shove, an air-conditioned enclosure is better than being kept in a cage that is not large enough even to stand up in or turn around. 

 

What's more, if those who bang on about melting sea ice are correct, then polar bears may be heading for extinction by the end of this century. So perhaps those individuals that find sanctuary of sorts - and a life in showbiz - at a theme park hotel might one day be regarded as the fortunate ones ... 

 

 

Picture This: In Praise of the Photo Booth

 

Although we might trace the history of the photo booth back to the late 19th-century, I think it's fair to say that what most people understand to be a photo booth - coin-operated and complete with curtain - didn't debut until September 1925, on Broadway, in NYC. 

Known as the Photomaton, it was the patented invention of a Jewish immigrant from Russia, Anatol Josepho, which would take, develop, and print a strip of eight snaps in under 10 minutes for just 25¢. 

 

In the first six months of operation, the Photomaton captured the images of 280,000 people and soon booths were being placed across the United States. So popular was the Photomaton, that white-gloved attendants stood by the machine during hours of operation in order to control the crowds (and provide any necessary maintenance).

 

In 1928, Josepho - who had arrived in America only five years earlier - sold the rights to his invention for $1,000,000 and guaranteed future royalties. 

 

The new master of the Photomaton, Henry Morgenthau Sr. - a lawyer and businessman who amassed a fortune from real estate and once served as the US ambassador to the Ottoman Empire - told The New York Times that the Photomaton would enable him to do in the field of photography what Henry Ford had accomplished in the automobile industry.

 

When, in 1929, the Photomaton was introduced into the European market, many notable figures were keen to have their pictures taken, including the artists André Breton and Salvador Dalí. 

 

So perhaps it's not really surprising that Andy Warhol would later reveal himself to be a big fan of the photo booth, for whom the latter represented "a quintessentially modern intersection of mass entertainment and private self-contemplation" [1].  

 

I'm sure Warhol also recognised the erotic nature of such an intimate space; once squeezed inside a photo booth with someone on your knee, it's almost impossible not to cop a feel or snatch a kiss. 

 

But for him, as an artist, the real fascination was with the actual strip of single frame images produced: "The serial, mechanical nature of the strips provided Warhol with an ideal model for his aesthetic of passivity, detachment, and instant celebrity." [2]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I'm quoting from a text posted on the website of The Metropolitan Museum of Art to accompany a Photobooth Self-Portrait produced by Andy Warhol (c. 1963): click here. 

 

[2] Ibid.

 

See also: Jason Fate, 'The New Warhol Photobooth!' (2 August 2013), on the behind the scenes blog of The Andy Warhol Museum: click here.  

The 4-frame strip of images used to illustrate this post - featuring an anonymous young couple - was found in a photo booth in Ramsgate, in November 1986.

Only an Astronaut Can Save Us: Notes on the Overview Effect and Overview Institute

The famous Blue Marble photo of the Earth taken by 

the crew of Apollo 17 on their way to the Moon (1972)

 

 

I. 

 

When it comes to seeing the big picture, astronauts obviously have an edge over the rest of us. Indeed, there is even a term for their cosmic perspective and the cognitive shift that it sometimes triggers: the overview effect ...

Apparently, when viewing the Earth from space, some astronauts experience a kind of epiphany; they suddenly realise the fragile beauty of the small blue planet they have left behind and how rare and precious the life that it supports. All borders and boundaries become meaningless and all divisions between people seem arbitrary if not irrelevant and absurd; the need to create a planetary system that acknowledges the brotherhood of man becomes imperative if we are to safeguard the Earth and survive as a species.

 

 

II.

 

I have to say, I'm highly suspicious of this cosmic euphoria ...

 

More precisely, whilst I'm prepared to accept that some astronauts genuinely experience a subjective feeling of awe and wonder - and that this has nothing to do with a faulty oxygen supply or even a God gene - I don't much like the way this is then articulated in the language of moral and political idealism by self-proclaimed space philosopher Frank White [1] and fellow members of the so-called Overview Institute. 

 

In their Declaration of Vision and Principles, they churn out a familiar line of what I would describe as sinister utopian bullshit: this is a critical moment in human history ... we face many challenges ... our greatest need is for a global vision of unity based on the revolutionary experience of the blessed few so that we might transform human culture, etc., etc.

 

The Overview Effect (note their use of capitals) is a fundamental perspective-altering experience which must be brought to the masses via space simulation (i.e. virtual reality and other forms of technology) and space tourism, in order to raise human consciousness to a cosmic level, so that mankind might finally fulfil the Socratic injunction to rise above the Earth.     

 

Hallelujah and amen! 

 

 

III. 

We have, of course, heard all this - or something very similar - many times before; for the will to Oneness and a desire for transcendence is depressingly common throughout human history. 

 

When will we realise that it is our monomania that is so fatally mistaken? When will we accept that the beauty of man is that his unfolding is towards infinite variety, not universal sameness? 

 

As D. H. Lawrence notes, when men finally learn how to live in touch then "the great movement of centralising into oneness will cease / and there will be a vivid recoil into separateness" [2] with all the differences given free expression.

 

Staying true to the earth means climbing down Pisgah into the nearness of the nearest - not zooming into space and thinking this gives you a god's eye view from which to judge how everyone should live.

 

 

IV.

 

Perhaps it's just me, but when I look at the above photo of the earth taken by the Apollo 17 astronauts, I don't come over all Louis Amstrong and think to myself what a wonderful world. 

 

Like Nietzsche, rather, I realise there were eternities during which the earth and the clever animal man did not exist, just as there are eternities to come after the earth and mankind are no more. And that when it's all over, when the last trace of human intelligence has long vanished from the universe, nothing will have changed, nothing will have mattered [3]. 

 

How's that for an (admittedly nihilistic) overview!

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Frank White was the writer who coined the term and first explored the concept of the overview effect. See The Overview Effect - Space Exploration and Human Evolution, (Houghton-Mifflin, 1987). 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'Future States', in Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 526. See also the related verse 'Future War', p. 527.  

 

[3] See Nietzsche, 'On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense', in Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche’s Notebooks of the Early 1870s, ed. and trans. Daniel Breazeale, (Humanities Press, 1979), p. 79.  

Dyspepsia: Notes on Nietzsche, Insomnia and Indigestion

Hans Olde: Nietzsche on his Sick-Bed (c. 1899) 

Goethe-Nationalmuseum (Weimer)

 

 

In Ecce Homo, Nietzsche defines philosophy as a seeking out of everything that has previously been exiled by morality [1]. This includes the little things that are nearest to us; things that are familiar and trusted, rather than alien and questionable, and not so much exiled as overlooked by those who concern themselves with grand ideals or what theologians think of as the first and last things. 

 

What this means in practice is that you must (a) treat your shadow with respect and (b) be concerned with everyday activities such as eating and sleeping, the latter described by Nietzsche as an art (for the sake of which one must stay awake all day). 

 

The problem - as Nietzsche was all-too-acutely aware [2] - is that it can be extremely difficult to eat well and sleep soundly; dyspepsia and insomnia are such common problems today as to be almost defining characteristics of modern life. In fact, a significant proportion of the UK population seem to regularly wash down the chalky remains of Rennie tablets with caramel flavoured liquid Nytol [3]. 

 

Perhaps that's why some religious people like to pray before mealtimes and bedtime; not because they are truly thankful for what they are about to receive or for the day that's been, but in the hope that an insincere expression of gratitude will aid digestion and ensure a solid eight hours kip.

 

Notes

 

[1] See section 3 of the Foreword to Nietzsche's Ecce Homo. See also 'The Wanderer and His Shadow', in Human, All Too Human (Vol. II Part 2), where Nietzsche introduces the notion of the nearest things and alludes to the vital importance of sleep, diet, and the creation of routines and habits by which to structure the day.      

 

[2] Nietzsche's health issues are extensively documented and well-known. As well as suffering from insomnia and gastrointestinal problems, he also experienced blinding headaches and these things combined not only resulted in chronic exhaustion, but doubtless contributed to his later physical and mental breakdown.   

 

[3] Research indicates that a majority of British adults - over 80% - have experienced some form of gastrointestinal problem in the past 12 months, including (but not limited to) bloating, indigestion, and heartburn. Usually this is due to stress, poor diet, a lack of sleep, or a combination of these and other factors. 

      Meanwhile, around 1-in-3 adults claim to suffer from insomnia and two thirds say they suffer from disrupted sleep patterns, with a quarter getting no more than five hours sleep on an average night. Of these, 13% take sleeping tablets to help them nod off, whilst another 13% use alcohol as a sleep aid (a traditional nightcap being the favoured method amongst the over 55s).  

 

The Bats Have Left the Bell Tower: Reflections on Graveyard Poetry and Post-Punk Goth

Love Among the Gravestones (1981) 

Photo by Kirk Field

 

 

La Rochefoucauld famously suggested that people never would have fallen in love if they hadn’t first learnt about it in works of art. And one wonders if something similar might also be said of the morbid and sometimes macabre fascination that many young lovers have for skulls, coffins, epitaphs and worms, i.e., all the trappings and paraphernalia of death. 

 

Would, for example, the two teens pictured above have spent so much time smooching in cemeteries were it not for the influence of the Graveyard Poets upon the erotic imagination?

 

It's doubtful. 

 

For whilst their post-punk queer gothic sensibility was primarily shaped by Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and the Sex Gang Children - along with numerous other bands from this period (early-1980s) - we can trace their love of the uncanny and the occult all the way back to these 18th-century poets, whose mournful meditations on mortality and the love that tears us apart foreshadowed the work of songwriters like Ian Curtis and Nick Cave.   

 

There is - perhaps not surprisingly - much debate within critical circles about what constitutes a graveyard poem and about which authors should be classified as belonging to the Graveyard school (and it might be noted that the term itself was not used to refer to a style of writer and their work until coined by a literary scholar in 1893). 

 

What we can say, however, is that the following four poems remain crucial to our understanding of it:

 

Night Piece on Death (1722) - Thomas Parnell

Night-Thoughts (1742-45) - Edward Young

The Grave (1743) - Robert Blair

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard  (1751) - Thomas Gray

Obviously, none of these works have the pop brilliance of songs by the above bands and artists, but readers who are interested in melancholic 18th-century poetry to do with life, death, ghosts and graveyards should certainly check them out. 

 

Be prepared, however, for a tedious amount of Christian moralising; for it's an unfortunate fact that didacticism and piety often detract from the delicious decadence and horror of these works.    

 

 

Musical bonus: Public Image Ltd., 'Graveyard', from the album Metal Box, (Virgin, 1979): click here.

 

 

Concrete Afterlife: Or How to Become Your Own Gravestone

 

The result is a unique, self-contained and virtually eternal 

concrete object that represents what the person was in life.

 

 

I. 

 

Concrete is a composite material made up of fine and coarse aggregates often bonded with cement that hardens over time into a durable stone-like substance. It is one of the most frequently used building materials in the world; we use twice more concrete (ton for ton) than we do steel, wood, or plastic combined.

 

For the Romans, who also used concrete extensively, it was a revolutionary material which allowed them to build structures that were not only more complex, but bigger and stronger than previously possible; the Colosseum is largely made of concrete and the Pantheon is sealed beneath what remains to this day the world's largest unreinforced concrete dome. 

 

It's not, as one might imagine, the kind of material likely to appeal to D. H. Lawrence; a writer who hated stone monuments intended to last for millennia and who hated Imperial Rome which "smashed nation after nation and crushed the free soul in people after people" [1]. 

 

Within his hierarchy of materials, Lawrence ranks wood way above concrete and he praises peoples like the Etruscans who built their houses and temples of the former, so that their towns and cities eventually vanished as completely as flowers: 

 

"Myself, I like to think of the little wooden temples of the early Greeks and of the Etruscans: small, dainty, fragile, and evanescent as flowers. We have reached the stage where we are weary of huge stone erections, and we begin to realise that it is better to keep life fluid and changing, than to try and hold it fast down in heavy monuments. Burdens on the face of the earth, are man's ponderous erections." [2]

      

It's the imposition of stone and concrete that Lawrence loathes; the attempt to impress with a display of wealth and power and to materially manifest the superiority of one's culture over that of one's neighbour who prefers to build in softer materials and keep things on a human scale. 

 

 

II. 

 

Now, one might have thought that Lawrence's wife, Frieda, would've been (or should've been) aware of her husband's views on this subject. Thus her decision - made five years after his death - to have his corpse exhumed and cremated, so that she might then mix the ashes into a concrete block remains puzzling and troubling [3].

 

I mean, wtf was she thinking? Lawrence would've hated the thought of a concrete overcoat. It seems, however, that some people today love the idea ...

 

Indeed, there are now businesses offering to add the cremains of your loved one to concrete and then pour the mix into a mould of your choosing. You can, for example, turn great-uncle Bertie into a concrete bird bath, or perhaps transform a hen-pecked husband into a lovely set of paving stones so that you can continue to walk all over him in death as you did in life. 

 

As Diego Belden and Arturo Acosta of project Concrete Afterlife note: 

 

"The corpse's ashes become a self-sufficient and unique statement of who he/she was in life, almost as eternal as the soul it has parted with. The flexibility of the material and process, allow this concrete avatar to blend much more easily with its surroundings. Whether it is placed among decorative items on a coffee table or shelf, stands silently in the garden, or is disguised as an odd looking rock in a remote natural location." [4]

 

Far be it from me to criticise those who want to have this done - either with their own ashes, or the ashes of a loved one - but, personally speaking, I'm not convinced. I want my remains mixed up with the wind and the rain, not confined within concrete and I have no desire to effectively become my own gravestone.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, Sketches of Etruscan Places, in Sketches of Etruscan Places and Other Italian Essays, ed. Simonetta De Filippis, (Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 9.  

[2] Ibid., p. 32. It might be noted that Lawrence doesn't just object to ancient monuments; he also complains of "new concrete villas [and] new concrete hotels" [p. 25] being built along the Roman coast in towns like Ladispoli.   

[3] I have written in an earlier post about the fate of Lawrence's ashes: click here.  

[4] To know more about Diego Belden's and Arturo Acosta's project - Concrete Afterlife - see the online magazine Designboom (19 April, 2013): click here. Note that the image and blurb used above is taken from here (the latter having been very slightly revised).  

Where There is Woman There is Swan

The Swan Maidens by Dagfin Wereskiold (1892-1977) 

Oslo City Hall, Norway
Photo: George Rex

imagesgeorgerex.blogspot.com

 

 

Who doesn't love swan maidens? Those beautiful creatures belonging to the mytho-pornographic imagination who shapeshift from human form to bird form and back again. 

 

Tales of young girls bathing in a pool of water are already sexually charged; but that these nymphs might also slip in and out of a skin (or magical robe) of pure white feathers only intensifies the erotic element and it's no wonder many a man has lost his heart to a swan maiden (though it should be noted that forced marriages rarely end well).   

 

As might be expected, variants of the swan maiden myth can be found all over the world. But whilst I don't deny the universality of the this tale - where there is woman there is swan - I do tend to think of it as having special significance within Nordic culture. Thus it is, for example, that we find the colourful relief wood carving pictured at the top of this post in the entrance courtyard of the City Hall in Oslo. 

 

The work, by Norwegian artist Dagfin Wereskiold, depicts three valkyries (Alrund, Svankvit and Alvit) who, when not flying above the battlefields and deciding the fate of fallen warriors, had a penchant for appearing in swan form. I think what I like most about the piece is the fact that the figures seem to be wearing 1950s style full circle skirts and getting ready to dance, rather than go for a swim.     

 

Still, maybe we shouldn't be surprised that swan maidens love to dance as their story is almost certainly the basis for the ballet Swan Lake (1876). 

 

Interestingly, whilst the revised 1895 version of Tchaikovsky's ballet depicted the maidens as mortal women who had been transformed into swans via the curse of an evil sorcerer, the original libretto of 1877 depicted them as actual swan maidens who could transform from human to bird and back again at will and were not the victims of magic needing to be rescued.

 

As I think it important - from a feminist perspective - that a swan maiden is not denied her autonomy or in any way disempowered, then if we are to imagine her today it's best she keep her feathers on and look tough enough to survive within the contemporary world; look rather like the way that Alexander McQueen imagined her in his Fall 2009 ready to wear collection (The Horn of Plenty):   

Model: Sigrid Agren

 

 
Note: for an earlier post related to this one, click here. 

D. H. Lawrence and the Myth of Maternal Impression

Der det er kvinne er det svane

 

 

I. 

 

Perhaps my favourite sequence of poems by D. H. Lawrence is inspired by the Leda myth and playfully imagines the queer idea of a modern woman giving birth to a baby that is part-human, part-bird:

Won't it be strange, when the nurse brings the new-born infant 

to the proud father, and shows its little, webbed greenish feet

made to smite the waters behind it? [1]

 

That certainly would be strange: one might even think it ludicrous and quite impossible. 

 

The poet insists, however, that, far-off, at the core of space and the quick of time, swims a wild swan upon the waters of chaos. A great white bird who will one day return amongst men with a hiss of wings and a sea-touch tip of a beak in order to frighten featherless women and stamp his black marsh-feet on their white and marshy flesh [2]:

 

And in the dark unscientific I feel the drum-winds of his wings

and the drip of his cold, webbed-feet, mud-black

brush over my face as he goes

to seek the women in the dark, our women, our weird women whom he treads

with dreams and thrusts that make them cry in their sleep. [3]  

 

 

II.

 

Normally one would regard this purely as poetic fantasy. But I strongly suspect that Lawrence intends us to take his vision seriously and that he passionately believes in an occult theory of maternal impression - i.e., the belief that a powerful psycho-physiological force exerted on a pregnant woman may influence the development of the unborn baby.  

 

As a medical theory of inheritance seeking to explain the existence of birth defects and congenital disorders, maternal impression has long been discredited and should not be confused with the empirically validated genetic phenomenon of maternal effect. 

 

To be absolutely clear: the mother of Joseph Merrick was not frightened by an elephant during her pregnancy! Or, if she was, this did not leave a monstrous imprint on the gestating foetus. And just because a mother-to-be is feeling blue, this will not result in her child being marked with depressive tendencies.   

 

The fact that Lawrence believed in this sort of thing is made clear in a letter written to Bertrand Russell, in December 1915, whilst engaged in reading Sir James Frazer whom, he reported, confirmed his already established belief in blood-consciousness as something not only independent of mental consciousness, but superior to it. 

 

Via sexual intercourse, says Lawrence, he can establish a blood contact with a woman: "There is a transmission, I don't know of what, between her blood and mine, in the act of connection." And then he adds the following paragraph which is crucial to our discussion here: 

 

"Similarly in the transmission from the blood of the mother to the embryo in the womb, there goes the whole blood consciousness. And when they say a mental image is sometimes transmitted from the mother to the embryo, this is not the mental image, but the blood-image. All living things, even plants, have a blood-being. If a lizard falls on the breast of a pregnant woman, then the blood-being of the lizard passes with a shock into the blood-being of the woman, and is transferred to the foetus, probably without intervention either of nerve or brain consciousness." 

 

"And this", concludes Lawrence, "is the origin of totem: and for this reason some tribes no doubt really were kangaroos: they contained the blood-knowledge of the kangaroo" [4].

 

As one commentator notes:

 

"It is difficult of course to take such ideas any more seriously than Lawrence’s solemn pronouncements upon the importance of the solar plexus and the lumbar ganglion to the health of human blood-knowledge, or his earnest belief that tuberculosis is caused by love. Yet we must at least pay attention when Lawrence himself indicates that an idea or principle is of vital significance to him." [5]

 

That's a true and fair thing to say. It's also important: for by paying attention to what Lawrence says about maternal impression we find a new way of reading numerous scenes in his work; one wonders, for example, if Ursula might have given birth to a centaur if she hadn't miscarried ...

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Won't it be strange -?', Poems, Vol. I., ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 380.  

[2] I'm paraphrasing here from several of the poems in the Leda sequence found in Pansies, including 'Swan', 'Leda', and 'Give us gods'. See Poems, ibid., pp. 378-80. 

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Give us gods', Poems, ibid., p. 380. 

 

[4] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Bertrand Russell (8 December 1915), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence Vol. II, ed. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1981), pp. 469-71. I wish there was someway of knowing Russell's reaction when he first read this letter, or how he replied to it (if he ever did). 

[5] Chris Baldick, 'D. H. Lawrence as Noah: Redemptions of the Inhuman and «Non-Human»,' essay in L'inhumain, ed. André Topia, Carle Bonafous-Murat, and Marie-Christine Lemardeley (Presses Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2004), pp. 47-55. Click here to read online.  

 

For a sequel to this post, on swan maidens, click here.

 

 

Real Men Wear Gingham

Sean Connery as James Bond and Claudine Auger as Domino 

in Thunderball (dir. Terence Young, 1965)

 

Everyone loves gingham, don't they? 

 

The medium-weight, plain-woven cotton fabric which, although originally striped when imported into Europe in the 17th-century, is now famous for its checked pattern (often in blue and white).

 

The beauty of gingham is not only its extreme versatility, but that it seems to mean whatever people want it to mean. For example, it can signify wholesome innocence when worn by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz (1939), or it can signify stylish sophistication when worn by English mods and French sex kittens. 

 

It can even signify that one has a licence to kill - did Sean Connery's Bond ever look better than when wearing an unbuttoned camp-collared pink and white gingham short-sleeved shirt (with matching Jantzen shorts and Wayfarer-style sunglasses) on the beach in Thunderball (1965)? 

 

I don't think so ... Unless it's in the blue version of the shirt that he also wears in Thunderball, or, indeed, the long-sleeved gingham shirt that he sports on screen two years earlier in From Russia with Love (1963). 

      

This shirt, which Bond naturally wears in a casual manner - untucked and with the sleeves turned back - is also in cornflower blue and comes with two large square patch hip pockets. It's fastened with distinctive silver-toned metal buttons.   

 

It all just goes to show that real men are unafraid to wear whatever the hell they want and can make anything look masculine ...

Sean Connery as James Bond and Eunice Gayson as Sylvia Trench 

in From Russia with Love (dir. Terence Young, 1963)

 

Atomic: The D. H. Lawrence Memorial Post (2021)

 

Jo Davidson's clay bust of D. H. Lawrence made four days before the 

latter's death on 2 March 1930. Lawrence judged the result mediocre; 

others have since found it slightly macabre.

 

 

I. 

 

Tomorrow is the 92nd anniversary of the death of D. H. Lawrence. 

 

That's quite a long time ago: long enough, I'm guessing, for a fair few of his atoms to have penetrated me, you, and everybody else on the planet, making us all neo-Lawrentians at some infinitesimal level - just as, indeed, we are all the other names in history (Louis XIV didn't know the half of it).   

 

I've written elsewhere on Torpedo the Ark about atomic reincarnation and how even the dead don't rest in peace [click here]. But it's a subject that, as a thanatologist, I never tire of and which I'm always happy to resurrect given the opportunity. 

 

So, once more unto the grave dear friends ...   

 

 

II. 

 

In February 1923, Lawrence famously consoled a grieving friend: "The dead don't die. They look on and help." [1] 

 

And, for the most part, that's true ...

 

For whilst the dead don't look on - obviously - they never really die because the atoms that made them are immortal: they are in the food you eat, the water you drink, the air you breathe, etc. It's a category error to equate the personal death of the individual with non-being. 

 

And, in as much as the dead lend us their atoms, I suppose they could be said, in a very real sense, to help us. 

 

 

III.

 

Now, as Jennifer Aniston used to say, here comes the science bit - concentrate ... 

 

According to the theoretical astrophysicist Ethan Siegel, one out of every 2.1 × 10^16 hydrogen atoms and one out of every 2.6 × 10^16 oxygen atoms in your body was formerly in any dear departed individual you care to name. 

 

That maybe doesn't sound like a lot, until you remember that "there are 4.3 × 10^27 hydrogen atoms and 1.7 × 10^27 oxygen atoms in a typical human body" [2]. Which means that there are approximately 200 billion hydrogen atoms and 65 billion oxygen atoms gathered from dead souls.

 

Siegel further notes that, because atoms are so outrageously numerous, if you do the maths you'll discover that "approximately one atom in everyone's lungs, at any moment" [3], came from D. H. Lawrence on his death bed as he exhaled his final breath.

 

And you thought coronavirus was the only thing to worry about in your respiratory system ...

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, letter to John Middleton Murry (2 Feb 1923), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol IV, ed. Warren Roberts, James T. Boulton and Elizabeth Mansfield, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 375.     

[2] Ethan Siegal, 'Ask Ethan: How Many Atoms Do You Share With King Tut?', Forbes, (14 May, 2016): click here to read online.

 

[3] Ibid.