And does Charidas sleep there in death, O Stone, beneath thee?
If you speak of Arimmas’ son of Kyrene, beneath me.
O Charidas, what of the world below? – A great Dark.
O Charidas, what of resurrection? – A lie.
O Charidas, what of Pluto? – The ghost of a ghost:
We die forever.
Death is a horrible thing. It affects everyone, spares no one. How hard it must have been for the ancients to have been left all alone to themselves, free to contemplate death’s designs. Glistening under the sun with the olives, anticipating, when, why, and where would death strike again? That’s a big part of it you know, the mystery. Death would not be as frightening without the darkness that precedes it. A sadistic adversary, it leaves one lost in imagination. Yet, death is the most mundane aspect of life, so what reason is there to believe in an afterlife. Life comes and goes. No one questions the resting place of the ubiquitous road kill, yet, human is such an obnoxious creature that it cannot just let things be. No, people must mess around with the forces of nature until they leave themselves trembling in the mire of ignorance and disbelief. Because of the personal inability to come to terms with the cycle of life, we are forced to participate in this pretentious charade that human life is somehow sacred. What other animal asks who is down there below you? What other animal cares? Oh, but we like to think ourselves above and beyond our fellow creatures. We must overcomplicate our existence in order to siphon the tiniest bit of truth out of blatantly obvious reality that is glaring us right in our faces. Mother Nature says here is a jug of water. Drink it. It is here for everyone. It is water. Humans then have to ask what is water, why is there water, is water good, is water bad, and the best of them all, is water really water. Human asks all of this knowing, very well, that he will drink the water anyway. But human must brand everything as its own creation, so he drops a few leaves in a cup of water that’s been standing under the hot sun for too long and calls it tea.
At least, Kallimachos has put his god-given talent to good use – and that very tastefully. Notice how precise and to the point the poem sounds. It answers truly, not allegorically, not metaphorically, not rhetorically, not sympathetically, not biased at all. I was mesmerized by the frankness and the cold indifference of the poem. Not tantalized, mesmerized that such a short fragment of text can contain such a vast yet simple body of truth. The epitaph has summed up human life in three short responses: “forever,” “a great dark,” and “a lie.” I love how relentlessly the poem progresses never offering an avenue of hope. It closes on a reader like the escape doors on a doomed mouse starting from exit to exit. The anonymous interlocutor in the poem is that feeble mouse trying to make it out alive after stealing the master’s cheese. “What of the world below? – A great dark,” woosh, the first escape hole is sealed. “What of resurrection? – A lie,” woosh, the second escape hole is sealed before the shriveling mouse. Surely, there is one last hope, god. “What of Pluto,” asks the disoriented mouse partially sure of its doom, but partially arrogant knowing god will save him? Woosh! The final escape hole is shut. “We die for ever.”
By going to the tombstone, Kallimachos tempts death. He first asks about the state of the underworld testing the waters before going for a swim. Maybe the underworld is not as bad as it seems. No, it is confirmed. The underworld is horrible. There must be a way around it. Maybe we don’t have to stay in this great darkness forever. Maybe it is a type of training camp or a school? Spend a little time down there, and come back bigger and better than before. My uncle told me the underworld is like this. It is reasonable, right? Sorry kid, the story you have been told is a lie. Oh, now Kallimachos feels completely doomed and does not even want to hear of Charidas anymore. All he wants to hear is that there is a god out there who has the power to change laws of the universe, especially for him. That’s that human arrogance we are too familiar with. Just for me, people think the universe revolves around their whims and impulses. “The ghost of a ghost,” Pluto is as dead as you are poor uncle. Just imagine Kallimachos’s desperate face – his heart palpitating, breathing harder, pressure weighing on the eyelids as the eyes tense up – his soul in dire straits. He will be doomed if he does not get the answer he is looking for, but a glimmer of hope sparkles in his eye as he considers the indisputable truth of his lifelong education that gods overlook all life; that he as a man has been put on earth by their grace, and he shall not perish in vain. Kallimachos is asking of Pluto subconsciously believing that Pluto exists. It is better to hear that Pluto is unwilling to help than confront the abyss head on. At least, Pluto likes money; surely, they can work something out. But, why go asking questions we know we don’t want honest answers to? Does this dress make me look fat? Ask the scales; numbers don’t lie. Kallimachos, likewise, wanted to hear that life would unfold in his favour but ended up ruining his day.
People want to know everyone’s and everything’s business, always tempting, always meddling in alien affairs. I would like to see Kallimachos’s face at the end. He probably went to the graveyard seeking to reaffirm his idea that Charidas is somewhere in the bowels of Hades, and with a little support from the real world, he will be back sacrificing sheep in no time. All that needs to be done is somehow give Charidas the coin which he will then give to Charon who will transport him across Styx and into the land of the living. It’s been done before. I picture Kallimachos stunned and eviscerated at the realization that he soon will join Charidas in never-land. I mean, what can you expect? O Stone – right away, if someone is talking to a stone, something is terribly wrong – O Stone, let me talk to Charidas. I need to know if I die, will I go to a nice, warm beach where the sand doesn’t get caught in all the wrong cracks, where it is never too hot or never too cold, and I will get to wear clean, white linen, and enjoy the company of beautiful, young women, all virgins, and style a new look that’s entirely my own – I’m thinking a cool, yellow halo to accentuate my curls, oh, oh, and wings, thick and soft, full-sized white wings? “Yes, all of that will happen exactly as you want.” People are delirious at thought of dying. They attach too much importance to their lives to freely let it all go when the time demands it. We go around evoking stones, bushes, putting wings on virgins, mansions in the clouds, anything to help us believe that our life was not spent in vain. Egyptians were the greediest of all. They stuffed their sarcophaguses with all the gold they stole, plus a cat and a wife – you’re coming with me, but they left their guts behind. I guess there is no need for washrooms on the other side. Probably, they lacked the right guts in the first place.
We are scared shitless of death for a reason. It is this unyeilding fear of seizure that makes death a real threat. You can be scared of a puppy because of some phobia or trauma, but when everybody is delirious from the thought of dying, there is little evidence to prove that it has a pleasant outcome. Nobody is scared of a good meal, but they sure don’t want to die. To be honest, I would not want there to be an afterlife because I would be pretty pissed off at the universe. What is it, some kind of a perverted joke where you struggle all your life to survive through pain and heartache and suffering and anxiety and loss and depression while there is a perfectly good place you could have been relaxing in, sipping your favourite drink in the company of good women, no house chores – plus you can fly? How would I look like in heaven? Do I get to pick a look that will be me for the rest of eternity? I think I was happy with my body when I was twenty. I was slim, had long hair, and plenty of energy. What If I die later in life, and I am fat? Do I get to trim my waistline? What if I have a terrible accident and am left with no face? Will one be assigned to me or can I pick? And what if a person is just ugly? Can he or she pick another’s look, a supermodel’s for example? If so, can he or she be sued? I don’t suppose I will need a job in heaven, but what will I do there? Who will answer these questions for me? Imagine a person who is born handicapped. The last thing that person wants is to live forever as he is – died and went to heaven in a wheelchair, or even worse, with two disproportional appendages on the upper part of the torso and none below the waistline. God, change me entirely and send me to heaven. Sure but that wouldn’t really be you, now would it? I guess you’re right – ah, whatever, maybe next time.
Wouldn’t you be upset if you had to meet god at the end of all the trials and tribulations of life? What the fuck man! You put me through hell. Was it fun watching me mess up constantly, get kicked around, get cheated on, break my leg? Did you even care? All you did was leave an outdated manual for us to follow, half of which didn’t even make sense. Like this here, do not eat pork. I ate it. I ate plenty of it. I especially love pork kebabs. I was fine, O.K. I don’t suppose you have pork in this place – what a scam. How come you never told us that we are made up of the same stuff all the animals? Instead, you deceived us into thinking we are the divine rulers of the planet we are now destroying. People do not rule over anything, especially themselves. All they know is how to criticize and blame, which, I guess, is what I’m doing. Great work with this one, I am a real treat, aren’t I. You must be proud. And talk about mathematical soundness, the simplest explanation is the best explanation. What happened to that? You make us live a mortal life only to end up living for eternity. How about we skip the mortal part and go straight to immortality, and instead of having heaven and hell, you close down hell and just keep heaven open. It would spare a lot of people the trouble of deciding – oh, that reminds me, the freedom of choice, another great way of messing with us. If we are never meant to understand the meaning of life, then screw it. Who needs it? Just think about it. You are in a strange mansion with golden gates. You led an honest and righteous life, and for your virtues, you have been transformed into an angel. You have wings, but they are messing up your look. They don’t match your shoes. Can I exchange the wings, because the shoes were on sale? Would it be rude to even ask? You see, it’s impossible to think of alternate realities without being grounded in our world’s ethics and physics. Don’t get it twisted. Angels need wings because they are affected by gravity, but we are told wings are a symbol of virtue – yeah right.
I say, there is no reason to worry about what happens after death. We will just have to wait and see. Meanwhile, let us make the best use of our time on this planet and laugh – laugh at all things equally so the laughter is real. As far as I can tell, none of the sources have yet been credible in helping to prevent death, so until a bunch of people really get resurrected and we can fund a study to investigate the effects of death, (those will be our tax dollars well spent) there is really no reason to presume anything happens after death. In all likeliness, the final line in the poem is right. The universe is too perfect to work otherwise. Sure Kallimachos may mourn the loss of Charidas, but I doubt he gives a damn about Jeremy, Isaiah, Pablo, or even his dog. They are free to perish. In reality, everyone just cares about him or herself, so let’s skip the Febreeze and smell the manure for what it is. If I were Charidas, this is how the poem would be written:
And does Charidas sleep there in death, O Stone, beneath thee?
Stone!? I have a name, and there is no Charidas here. You got the wrong number.
O Charidas, what of the world below? – Must be nice, I haven’t seen anyone go back.
O Charidas, what of resurrection? – Ask Jesus. He’s the expert.
O Charidas, what of Pluto? – The dog of a mouse:
That’s all folks.
