To Cathy in Nirvana 

More than three hundred years after William Shakespeare so aptly posed the perennial question, "To be or not to be, -- that is the question," Albert Camus wrote, "Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest-whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories-comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer."

Neither Shakespeare or Camus were philosophers in the technical or academic sense. Jose Ortega y Gasset was a philosopher in both senses. He said, "To ask why a man would rather live than die seems absurd and naive. Yet it is one of the most justified and sensible questions we can ask."

It does seem that man is a reasonable animal who wants a reason to live, whereas the life is given to other animals is reason enough for them; at least their rate of suicide is negligible. Of course man has an animal''s will to live so strong that it drags his reason around through all sorts of suffering. Still it is undeniable that man can and does choose to live and die for various reasons; he may act accordingly given the courage of his convictions, whether we think he is right or wrong. And the reason given may be quite unreasonable; for instance, to kill oneself because life is meaningless or absurd is the height of absurdity; nevertheless, it has been done.

I once stood on a height myself, peered over the edge, and posed the fundamental question, not because life seemed absurd or meaningless, but because it was all too horribly meaningful. As I stared down upon the school yard nineteen floors below, I thought, "How lonely god must be, for nobody can know him because he is greater than anybody thinks. That is: assuming that god exists; that he is human; and that he is male." "Furthermore", I wondered, "what would remain, if anything, if he was the one and only god and he committed suicide, presuming that he is omnipotent enough to bring an absolute end to the all?"

While I was engaged in my iffy theological speculations, a boy and a girl, apparently brother and sister, appeared on the playground below to fly a kite. I thought, "What a joy it must be for God to watch over children flying kites!" They were about eight- or nine-years old, he ever so seriously pulling the string, and she cavorting after the magical flying object overhead with upturned face beaming gloriously and slender arms outstretched as if to catch it in flight. It wasn''t much of a kite, but it was more than enough for them. Then it came down, bounced on the ground, and fell flat, so she picked it up and firmly upheld it while her brother pulled the string and ran again. As the kite struggled aloft, the girl pranced beneath it with wild hope, with an almost hysterical expectation of unimaginable proportions in comparison to the triangular piece of paper fluttering in the wind. Her dance seemed to make it fly at a distance by mysterious means.

Meanwhile, the boy was still seriously occupied with the mechanical logic of the situation, which dictated his running against the breeze this way and that as it shifted in a pattern traced by his sister on the grass as she ran too and fro below the kite. I reached for my binoculars and magnified my view of the boy as he manipulated the kite through the limpid air and obtained a delightful harmony of forces.

He was all intention and she abandon; together, they were a fond wish fulfilled. I marveled at the integrity of the elements at hand: the confines of the playground, the blowing breeze, the string unspooling, the dimensions of the kite, the skill of the brother, the enthusiasm of his sister as well as her physical assistance. Indeed, I was delighted by the children''s naive performance, for which no audience was known or needed by them. The spectacle had certainly relieved my former turgid state of mind, producing a welcome sanctuary within an otherwise turbid existence.

Surely this must be a poet''s fancy of beauty, love and freedom, I thought. The vision below brought me down from my formerly fatal abstractions to passionate, vital ground. As I stepped back from the window and carefully put my binoculars away, I remembered Edna St. Vincent Millay''s poem, Moriturus, read to me long before by my late friend Bob Sigman - may he be resting in peace. Poetic lines are sometimes forgotten for many years, only to be revived by feelings appropriate to their occasion. I was thereby moved by my muse to extend my observations on kite flying, just to see where the lines might lead - hopefully to even more lofty views:

Withstanding Death,
   Till Life be gone,
I shall treasure my breath,
   I shall linger on.Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna was true to her words. Frail of body but with indomitable spirit, she fostered life throughout its joys and travails until, recently bereaved of her dear husband of twenty-six years, she sat down on the landing, between her beloved birds outside and her beloved poetry upstairs, put down her glass on the step, and died of a heart attack.

Edna''s withdrawal into her heart was finally complete. She was totally isolated towards the end: with telephone disconnected, she had played and sung Christmas carols to herself on Christmas Eve. Forsaking the world and forsaken by it too, she wrote what she could; and when she could not write, there was no worse horror for her. She said that writing was her only hope. Yet on the verge of the horrible blank abyss, her spirit always came through adamantly to give us gems sparkling ever brilliant in the void. And ever defiant; in the final stanzas of Moriturus, she fought Death:
 
I shall bolt my door
   With a bolt and cable;
I shall block my door
   With a bureau and a table.

With all my might,
   My door shall be barred.
I shall put up a fight,
   I shall take it hard.

With his hand on my mouth
   He shall drag me forth,
Shrieking to the south
   And clutching at the north.

Edna Millay answered the fundamental question at an early age, and then got on with a full life. She entered into competition a poem entitled ''The Suicide'' while she was a nineteen-year old student at Vassar. The committee was almost too taken aback by the title to even consider the poem, entitled as it was by the hand of a vibrant young woman. The Suicide of whom she spoke had left "cursed" Life for "Father''s house", and found there all of her wishes immediately fulfilled save one: something to do. Terribly distraught because of that lack, she begged Father for some little task to do, but He said, "Thou hadst the task, and laidst it by."

Although Millay''s poems are seldom read today, those of us who have been touched by them are enheartened by her love of life and defiance of death - and we love the scandal of it all too. I, for one, am certainly glad she embraced the Task, for the memory of her spirit evoked by the children flying their kite has encouraged me to step back from the ledge and do the same.

Now I do not presume to say what answer any person under any circumstances should give to the fundamental question, nor do I presume to say what action should be taken after it is answered yeah or nay. But if I see those kids again, I shall ask them to go and fly a kite. In fact, I have decided to fly a few of my own, beginning with this one. Perhaps someone will care enough to join me.

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