The Grace and Horror of Eternal Life

I’m twelve. But I’ve been twelve for a long time. 

I recently watched “Let the Right One In,” a 2008 Swedish horror film that involves vampires. But this is not your typical vampire lore – not the like the classic “Nosferatu” nor the inexplicable cultural phenomena “Twilight” – for it has hints of despair and sweetness that are strangely nonsexual and exclusive to childhood. The girl, Eli, is a vampire perpetually trapped in the body of a 12-year-old girl; her companion, an older man named Håkan, is presumably her caretaker and harvests pints of blood for her (it is hinted that she does not enjoy a violent effort against her victims). 

She meets 12-year-old boy Oskar, and they form a friendship. What happens throughout the rest of the movie I will let you see for yourself. But what did come out of the viewing was this question: 

If you suddenly discovered you were able to live eternally (but not immortally) and essentially in the same form that you currently are that – if certain physical conditions were met – would not break down, what conditions would lead you to committing suicide or continue living on?

It must be reiterated that under such conditions you would not be immortal – that is, you would not die under normal human conditions but could perish by non-human conditions. For instance, if you suddenly became a vampire, you could theoretically live on forever if you stayed out of the sunlight, drank blood, and so on; failing to meet these non-human conditions will end if your peril and death. Let’s assume your new form is supernatural – not immortal, but not human. 

First there’s the religion aspect. I’m not here to discuss what’s right or wrong, but it’s an important consideration in this hypothetical situation. For instance, if someone who was raised in a religion that deems suicide immoral, if suddenly they find themselves a non-human with living conditions they find insufferable – what then? Does the morality of a human-based religion still apply to the individual? For the token, what if the now supernatural individual becomes shunned by the same religion they were raised up in? Arguably, if their supernatural form is considered blasphemous, the individual is now at a moral dilemma: kill themselves, and they go against the morality of the religion; stay alive, and they go against the acceptability of the same religion. Either way, if the conditions I’ve presented apply, hypothetically a supernatural person is doomed by virtue of the described religion they adhere to.  

Now assuming one’s prior religion does not establish any sort of stigma against suicide – if you were in a position to kill yourself after transforming into a supernatural individual, would you do it? This stems from one’s definition of life and the experiences prior to such a pivotal change. For instance, Eli was twelve years old when she turned into a vampire; with relatively little human life experience up until this point, we can assume that she chose to continue living as a vampire rather than offing herself early, and at the time we see her in “Let the Right One In” she has garnered enough years and experience as a vampire to be ok living as one, regardless of the conditions otherwise discomforting and inconvenient.

On the other hand, one of Eli’s failed victims, Virginia, turns into a vampire, and eventually manages to kill herself in the hospital by asking the residing doctor to let sunlight into the room. Contrasting to Eli’s time of transforming, Virginia’s point of change takes place at a much, much later time in her life where she has garnered enough experience and years to appreciate her life as a human, so to suddenly transform into a supernatural being – one who’s living conditions are strikingly different from the conditions of a human – accepting and coping with such terms is maddening. To live as a vampire would be to abandon her spouse and companions or risk killing them to sustain herself, and it’s a circumstance that drives her to commit suicide (arguably, it would have been much more merciful if Eli had killed Virginia to begin with, but alas how a meal ends interrupted). 

As a supernatural being, are you living with a particular purpose beyond sustaining yourself? Assuming the condition applies, this question boils down to distinguishing two types of supernatural beings: those who take the opportunity of their own existence to engage in some goal, and those who simply maintain their own existence. Presumably, most are more inclined to view the first type in the positive (unless their goals were destructive) and the second type in the negative (unless the self-maintenance does not infringe upon anyone). This also calls into question when one becomes indifferent to their supernatural existence: if they suddenly stopped having a purpose or desire to exist, where do they go from there? 

In second to the above question, are you living at the expense of others? This particular condition is tricky since it calls upon the ethics and guilt of one’s supernatural existence. For one, is it right for one to live off the life of others such as a vampire? Strictly from a biological point of view, yes – this is not unfair. Generally omnivores worldwide, we humans have killed animals to sustain ourselves, so a vampire preying on a human is no different from this practice. To restate, this is strictly a biological argument. The associated guilt and blasphemy of living off another being leaves to be determined by said supernatural individual: if the need to survive is great enough, supposedly this would overcome all barriers of guilt and consciousness. 

However, what if one’s lifespan has been increased by taking others’ lifespans for themselves? This a variation on the idea of one living at the expense of others, though it is a variation that I believe needs consideration since it cannot (or with great difficulty) be argued for from a traditional biological perspective. For instance, in “Fullmetal Alchemist” the main character’s father, Van Hohenheim, is a living philosophers stone: that is, he is able to (theoretically) live forever and accomplish amazing feats of alchemy at a devastating cost – his philosophers stone is derived from the half the souls of ancient civilization Xerxes with over a million individuals, a civilization that he grew up in. His existence is at the expense of his friends, comrades and beloved nation.

Now if the main story of Fullmetal did not exist (and it’s something I’m not going to reveal here for those interested in reading/watching), would it be more ethical for Hohenheim to continue on living and maintaining himself in hopes of discovery, research and possible reversion of the process, or is it best if he deplete his own stone and allow the souls of Xerxes to finally leave and rest in peace? In this case that does not apply to the actual story of Fullmetal, it depends on what greater good he chooses to serve and place his goals upon.  

Then there’s the living condition – is it insufferable or doable, and is the quality of life worth it? This comes down to what the individual wants and values. In asking people some questions I found that this aspect is considered the least, and only when I impressed upon them the idea did they usually reconsider their stance. For instance, I asked my mother what she thought about eternal life and found her to be enthusiastic about the prospect: from her perspective, it was an opportunity to continue learning infinite aspects of the universe, and though she would grieve at the lost of loved ones the idea of endless discovery was absolutely alluring.

When I inquired about hypothetical conditions that could potentially restrict her, she initially shrugged them off with a “I’ll just deal with them”; I then specified such conditions (eg. “What if you were like a vampire and could only go out at night… wouldn’t that would mean you’d be greatly restricted to access different institutions you’d like to look into?”) and pressed further about the quality of life that she could possibly experience as a supernatural. After using a very specific, particularly pessimistic example and condition my mum began reconsidering her position (for which she called me a bloody mood killer). 

It is inevitable that your loved ones will age and die while you, the supernatural individual, remain the same; psychologically, the stress can be immense and it is your judgement call if you’d be able to handle such. And it’s not just about losing family and friends – meeting new acquaintances, potential friends and lovers, initially heartwarming but inevitably leading to a shared despair – that the relationships you create and share are drastingly temporal since relative lifespans of people and yourself do not correlate: that is, though humans all die there is at least a finite sense shared between all relationships; a supernatural being who can live eternally does not share this same finite sense and is instead left to accept the cold truth as a observer – observers of our loved ones’ demise as their finite lives run out. There is a difference of relative time, and this leads to utter tragedy and despair. 

Herein lives another dilemma: if you had the ability to offer loved ones the same physical conditions you abide by – would you do it? More pressingly would they agree to such conditions? This dilemma assumes that you were ok with such conditions to begin with in offering others such an option. The implications, however, are dire: if the person you offer accepts, then that means you both will become observers of time, lonely companions till conditions arise that result in one or the others’ death but nonetheless you are both in the same boat; if the person you offer declines, that means they disagree with the conditions you live by, and by extension are openly judging you for who you are, what you are and how you live – in a sense, while they may not find your existence unacceptable they may find the conditions of your existence unacceptable. 

They leave. Because they should or because they find someone else. And some of them, some of them… forget me. 

…I suppose in the end, they break my heart.

Here is the most heartbreaking aspect: assuming you were unable to offer eternal life, what happens when you fall in love with somebody? You know full well that this person is mortal and that their time will run out and that you, a mere supernatural being, can do nothing to stop this process of time – so do you allow yourself to engage in these emotions or do you repress them? An additional angle is that if the person you love and who loves you back – if circumstances (besides the passage of time and aging) prevent them from being with you and there are elements that could force you both to be separated from one another – do you take this risk? Do you risk your own emotional stability by falling in love with the inevitability that it cannot be? Is the risk of eventual heartbreak enough to deter you from pursuing a simultaneously timeless and finite love? 

This last question is particular striking to me on a personal level. Philosophically, I believe in the temporality of everything, and while it is necessary to look to the past for learned lessons and to the future for dreams the most important thing that matters is what is happening here and now because in another instant here and now will have vanished and been replaced by another here and now. I make an effort to appreciate the smallest things, for when time has passed they are often the things I miss the most. The fact that I can still type quickly, breath good air, still have all my teeth, engage in physical activities, have all my appendages intact, can see, can breath, can eat – it’s amazing how easily I take things for granted, and it takes a conscious effort to break away from subconscious assumptions of permanence. 

So to fall in love despite the possibility of circumstance destroying such, that eventually all things die – is it worth it? 

Personally and paradoxically, yes. But for myself that’s all I can speak for as an ordinary human. Human or supernatural, finite or eternal life, to each their own. 

Pawns of the Dark

What is fear? 

When I was a child I used to sprint up the stairs after turning off all the lights downstairs. It was a routine: the kitchen, switch off, run to the telly area; the telly area, switch off, run to living room; the living room, switch off, sprint for dear life up those stairs. 

I believed a ghost would follow me if I stayed in the dark – in retrospect it resembled something like the pokemon Gengar – and irrational as it was, this fear held onto me strong for many years. I imagined its wide grin, spiky head and pointed fingers, round body as tall as me, simply staring with those big old eyes – always, always staring. 

I never could imagine what it would do if it caught me – I was too chicken for that. All I could muster up was that if this thing, this little devil, this ghost caught me – well that would be a very bad thing, wouldn’t it? And it was just enough to send me off sprinting, tripping on the stairs and jumping into bed as quickly as could. 

All of this drove my mother nuts, who was mostly annoyed with my shenanigans when I tussled up her bed (“you’ll break the springs the rate you’re pouncing on them!”). Now it’s all a memory, and a rather funny one too; still, to this day I habitually turn off the lights in the same manner before, and every once in awhile I’ll find myself walking up the stairs faster than usual once the lights are all out. 

So what is fear exactly?  

A good portion of our life is uncontrolled. Weather, disease, economics, death – we can map these out, react to them, possibly predict their course but ultimately we can never foresee the future. And that’s just it: what we cannot control, what is beyond us can be awe-inspiring and utterly terrifying. 

This lack of control is a slight to our own ego, our pride in existence; in a sense it makes us feel subservient to a greater force that is arguably unpredictable, a greater power per se. And that’s just it: here we are, proud humans, being tampered with with things outside of our control that essentially render us helpless. 

Of course, such things are to be expected. We can only stay in control to a certain extent – what we eat, what we wear, what we like, how we talk – but beyond that our natural instincts instruct us to expect and anticipate the unforeseeable and the unforeseen. It’s survival instinct at its finest, and it’s also how and why our fears can get the best of us – in real life and in fiction. 

Classic horror narratives and century old folklore play off these aspects of fear. From the Slit-mouth demon to the Hound of Baskerville to Sadako, these stories and their respective narrators played off our innate and subconscious characteristics, puppeteering the smallest of elements into grossly gripping disturbances to psychological peace. We know something is going to happen – just what it is is the real question, and perhaps the most maddening part. 

When we are put at suspense and dangled in wait, the built anxiety becomes stronger and stronger until suddenly it’s there – hand, a face, a cackle, a blur, a element. The element itself may not be wholly terrifying, but the wait, the anticipation is what triggers an instinctual fear. The longer it is, the more our imaginations take hold and by the time it reaches we can only pray its presence is only half as bad as we hope it to be. 

What makes the element itself additionally terrifying is subjectively personal. For Bruce Wayne, it was bats; for Hamlet, it was his father’s ghost. The manifestations that trigger fear and subsequent horror have varying meanings and implications of our own subconscious and psychology, perhaps more than we can explain ourselves. I was fearful of the Gengar-like ghost because subconsciously, I was cautious of fickle classmates who in one moment were my best friend and in another moment mischievous and plotting; the ghost was my insecurity materialized, a devilish grinner who simply antagonized my imagination with its mischievous aura. I know this now, only may years later with extreme contemplation, and even then I’m not sure if I’ve hit it quite right. 

In film, the framing, pacing and sound (or lack of) of a uncontrollable element is essential to create any effective suspense and subsequent horror. From Dutch angles to extreme close-ups, the filmmaker is in total control of what we are able to see and hear, lending them masters of our expectations and the elements that trigger our instincts of fear. In the dark of the theatre we are helpless, subjected and subservient to what is unfolding on screen. We know not of the element and its effects until it occurs, and until then we are left to calculate algorithms of possibilities to prepare for such shock, ironically resulting in more stress and anxiety before element X even appears. Arguably, the less element X is seen the more suspenseful and terrifying the narrative becomes – for we are nearly always left in the dark, vulnerable and sensitive still to the sensation of such an wild card entity. And when it actually strikes down by God is it horrifying. 

Fear is instinct, anticipation, expectation – all together. It is essential for survival and stems from the inevitably of elements beyond our control that perhaps incept in our own insecurities as well. In a sense, fear lends itself solely to sensation in which we react to it immediately, commonly in the form of horror or flight. The psychological aspect, the subconscious angle is perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of it all, and perhaps something we may never fully understand despite decades of Freudian teachings. 

So what is fear? Perhaps we are destined to never know beyond its sensation of anticipation and elementalism. It may simply be instinctual, ingrained in our own existence. And by God, it surely is a fascinating and bewitching element to manipulate and study in narratives and storytelling – something that I hope to investigate with future articles.