I first came across the phrase that titles this post many years ago, whilst reading a hoary old conspiracy theory book called The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail. Readers of a certain age may recall this opus, which – to cut a very long story, very short – promotes the notion that the bloodline of Jesus Christ and his supposed wife Mary Magdalen, perpetuates to this day via the machinations of a shadowy group called the ‘Priory of Sion’, who are plotting to rule over a theocratic and neo-chivalric European super-state. Wow, good job Britain just left the European Union then, they cried and who knows, yes, maybe.
Since its publication in 1982, HBHG has sold squillions of copies, been the subject of much controversy and head-scratching and, most notoriously perhaps, served as the urtext for Dan Brown’s mega-busting novel and associated movie, The Da Vinci Code. When I say ‘urtext’, I mean Brown pretty much lifted the entire idea wholesale, scribbled it into his wretched book, changed the title, became the richest man on Earth and won the subsequent plagiarism court case. The guy’s a winner, what can I say. But I digress.
At some convoluted point in what is a very long and convoluted book, the authors of HBHG introduce a very welcome image, in the form of French artist Nicolas Poussin’s beautiful painting, Et in Arcadia ego (see title pic). Known also by its French name, Les Bergers d’Arcadie (The Shepherds of Arcadia), this Baroque masterpiece depicts four figures gathered around a large tomb, which they contemplate with a striking blend of curiosity and austere detachment. The Latin title that graces the painting translates as, ‘Even in Arcadia, there I am’, which has been understood as a reference to the presence and eternality of death, represented by the tomb, even in the lush settings of Arcadia itself. I can’t remember the exact context of all this in regard to the bloodline conspiracy thing, but I do know that both the title and the painting itself made a huge impression on my young mind. I guess I was about 14 when I read the book.
Winding forward many years from then, to an afternoon in Paris, I found myself reminded of all this when I actually stood in front of Poussin’s masterpiece, which is displayed in the Musée du Louvre. Things came rushing back, and I was provoked again to dwell on a subject that has long haunted me, and which I write about elsewhere, the notion of the memento mori, a reminder of our mortality. Poussin’s painting is a lavish, indeed Baroque, example of such. There’s not much of value I can add to the hymns of praise that have been sung down the ages about this mysterious and beautiful painting, except to say that it captures me too. Its elegance, its stillness, its hidden qualities, all come together in classical form to represent both Death itself, and another idea that haunts me; that of the ‘world made strange’.
You might want to say that all this dwelling on death that I do is unhealthy, but I’d disagree. In fact, I’d go so far as to say the opposite: that it’s both a good and healthy thing. The understanding that death is practically a taboo subject in Western society has become something of a cliché. And whilst I think that our fear of actually dying, as in breathing your last, is not unreasonable, it strikes me that the fear of Death as a cultural and existential artefact is emotionally limiting, harmful even. Personally, my ongoing reflections on Death have caused me to think of it more gently, almost as a soothing balm for the emotions. Which isn’t to say I wish it, on myself or anyone else. But it is, of course, Nature’s mighty crescendo to the symphony of life, with all the emotional stir that such things bring. In one of his poems, Jack Kerouac said, ‘I wish I was free of that slaving meat wheel, and safe in heaven dead’. A raging alcoholic and known miserablist, Kerouac was to go on and drink himself to death at an age not much younger than myself, so don’t pay him too much attention in this regard, but in his despair he did have a point. Death, and its counterpoint Birth, frame our lives and with the end of that cycle comes peace. The sadness surely is reserved for those we leave behind. And in saying all this, I’m aware that my poetic embrace of mortality collapses in the face of tragic, untimely death. Few people wax lyrical over the death of a child. But given its proper time and place, I think we can – slowly – learn to bring some sense of perspective, calm and emotional symmetry to the matter.
Like Poussin’s shepherds, gazing in wonder at the tomb before them, we would perhaps do well to look at Death with curiosity, eyes wide open to its deeper meaning, and our place in the great cycle of things. For Death frames us, holds us and whispers to us as we move, ‘Wherever you are, I am here’.
Nick Jordan
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