An Essay for I Wrote for Class You May Enjoy

What Gives Life Value: Neil Gaiman's Death and Secular Humanism

Whether one agrees or not with the above cartoon, fear of death, and desire to know if anything comes after - and if so what - is one of the primary attractions of religious belief. Most mythological and theological systems put forth some sort of theory, often one used to shape desired behavior. Atheists abound in contemporary society, by definition having to deal with their feelings towards both mortality and morality on their own terms without a set path to guide them. One possible solution to this conundrum is chosen by secular humanists, who according to http://www.secularhumanism.org/ "see themselves as undesigned, unintended beings who arose through evolution, possessing unique attributes of self-awareness and moral agency...[they] hold that ethics is consequential, to be judged by results. This is in contrast to so-called command ethics, in which right and wrong are defined in advance and attributed to divine authority...Secular humanists seek to develop and improve their ethical principles by examining the results they yield in the lives of real [people]." This essay chooses to argue that the character Death, an anthropomorphic personification of the ultimate End as portrayed in Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels and various spinoff comics, is in herself an argument for the "lifestance" of secular humanism as a valid, morally sound, and spiritually fulfilling mode of thought.

Death is first introduced in the eighth issue of the original run of Sandman (Preludes and Nocturnes, "The Sound of Her Wings"), where she runs into her younger brother Dream and offers to let him tag along while she goes on her appointed rounds that afternoon. There is nothing grim about this young woman in Goth-type clothes with a distinctly sunny attitude, the Eye of Horus as part of her makeup and the Ankh around her neck both signifiers of eternity, echoing her other role in giving all living things their first breath of existence. She greets her charges with warmth and sympathy, reaching out a hand to them as she does to this man here, even as she gently refuses to let him know what happens next until he discovers it for themselves:

Click here for full image.

This scene with Death illustrates two opinions that are in keeping with secular humanism. One is that we do not need to be frightened about our inevitable demise, even if we have no real way of knowing what it will be like. Another is that saying prayers may help to comfort, but though there is no guarantee of a blissful afterlife no matter what we do, being composed and serene in the face of death is the real valuable attribute. In collecting the souls of other characters as the series goes on, Death makes such statements as "You get what anyone gets...you got a lifetime, (Brief Lives)" and "Everything ends. That's what gives it value (Death: The High Cost of Living)." As Stephen Rauch says in Neil Gaiman's Sandman and Joseph Campbell: In Search of the Modern Myth, Gaiman repeatedly underscores Death's gentleness, and eventually "we see Death as someone not to be feared, but revered as the mediator between this life and whatever lies beyond it. The point here is that death is part of the natural process, and far from being someone we should fear, it (she) can be seen as a blessed function, and a friendly face (65)." We do not need some divine power to ameliorate death, this version of Death seems to be saying, because she accepts us as we are, and we should do the same to her.

Fair Use Statement:

All quotes and images included in the essay are used for non-profit educational purposes only. I claim no rights whatsoever to them. The YouTube video embedded above was assembled by myself from a collection of both canonical and fan-created images of Death, originally for the non-profit purpose of entertainment and homage. Neil Gaiman has stated in a variety of interviews and blog posts that he considers such use fair and has no objection to them. The song "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Cutie is included under YouTube terms, which by providing a "to-buy" link on the original site is considered free advertising rather than copyright infringement. The Endless own themselves.

Bibliography:

Anonymous, "RELIGION", http://pokato.net/719,RELIGION---A-really-complicated-and-illogical-way-of-saying-Im-scared-of-death

Council for Secular Humanism, http://www.secularhumanism.org/

Gaiman, Neil, The Sandman, DC Comics, New York NY, 1988-1996.

Rauch, Stephen, Neil Gaiman's The Sandman and Joseph Campbell: In Search of the Modern Myth, Holicong, PA, 2003.

Creative Nonfiction Piece #1

Mind the Gap

You grew up loving nights like this, your Khun Yai, your maternal grandmother, lying in bed next to you and your favorite cousin close by to talk and giggle. But you are now in your teens and so is he, your Nong (term of endearment for younger person) Bom growing tall and quiet and out of that nickname. You will never call him anything but Bom to his face. It would be too much of a break from the children you were, nestling in a cave under Grandma's desk with a pillow barrier and a blanket stuffed partially into the drawers to hold the makeshift curtain in place, chasing one another with Super Soakers to celebrate the Thai New Near where everyone splashes and pours on each other, nationwide all-out water fight for three days. You still call him Bom, an initially meaningless syllable, combining his parents' nicknames of "Burm" and "Om" into a portmanteau that is for you a symbol of fitful communication but slow and steady love. He is getting to be Jakrapon Sanguansook, though, on university entrance exams and military draft forms and a driver's license. You are not sure how you feel about that.

The hotel room is clean and chilled by overly aggressive air conditioning, you and Khun Yai on the large bed and Bom on the unfolded wheeled cot. There was a time when it was acceptable (and realistic) for all three of you to lie in bed together, or just you and Bom, poking each other and whispering jokes long after you were supposed to be asleep. You remember the last time you took a bath together, like the fall of Paradise and coming of original sin: suddenly, the naked bodies that had been so comfortable and easy, even if they were slightly different shape, had become shameful, and you had to hide from one another under bubbles and foam, fig leaves being in short supply in a Bangkok bathtub. American kids mocked you for innocently sharing such memories, differences in culture another reason why you have generally measured your social life in amounts of isolation, but that does not take away from your wishing sometimes that you and he were small again and could fit under the desk, in the bathtub, in the bed.

He's awake. You don't know why you didn't see it before. Khun Yai is doing her usual impression of a gentle chainsaw, so you shouldn't speak; she gets up at three each morning for some bizarre reason and needs her sleep now. It was always her job to reprimand you for telling riddles and stories too late into the night. Not much of a problem anymore.

You have so little time together these days. You live in America now, instead of closer like Laos or China. Your school holidays never synchronize, and his schedule is crammed with tutoring, special lessons, the army reserve training mandatory for all Thai boys and optional for all Thai girls. He is so quiet, now, too, reserved in his smiles. He might even have a girlfriend - he certainly does look appropriately hip with his skinny jeans and graphic tees, fingernails on his right hand grown long so he can strum the guitar with them. You don't know how much you mean to him anymore. He's one of the most important people to you in all your life and you spend perhaps twenty days out of the year with even a chance at glimpsing him.

So you reach across the gap between your beds with a tentative hand. He reaches also and takes it. The air conditioning tries to punish you for going beyond the crisp linens and fluffy comforter, but this is not important. The time is not important. You were allies against his parents and sister - she was always their favorite - and you were each other's anomaly, someone so far removed from everything else in your life and yet a great constant. A friend. His hand is warm. The fingernails press lightly into your palm, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that they are there.

Finally, you whisper, "You know you are my brother, right?"

And he says, "You are my big sister."

You are not sure how long you hold hands. The crickets and geckos continue their noise, but you do not say anything else. In the morning your hand is back by your side. You never speak of this to each other.