existential anxiety Archives

But You Mustn’t Be

Orpheus and Eurydice, by Edward Poynter — Orpheus and Eurydice seeking to flee the Underworld.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

In 1970, the philosopher Thomas Nagel published a short paper entitled Death, in which he asked: If death is the permanent end of our existence, is it an evil?

There are, at least to the non-believer, only two possible answers to this question: either death is an evil because it deprives us of life, or it is a mere blank because there is no one left to suffer this deprivation.

Thus, if death is an evil, this is not in virtue of any unpleasant attribute that it has (such as eternal torment), but only in virtue of what it deprives us of, namely, life. For Nagel, the bare experience of life is intrinsically valuable, regardless of the balance of its good and bad elements.

The longer we live, the more we ‘accumulate’ life. In contrast, death cannot be accumulated—it is not, as Nagel puts it, ‘an evil of which Shakespeare has so far received a larger portion than Proust’. Most people would not regard the infinitely long period before they were born, or the temporary suspension of life, as an evil. Therefore, if death is an evil, this is not because it involves a more or less lengthy period of non-existence, but because it deprives us of life.

Nagel’s Straw Men

Nagel raises three objections to this view, but only so as to later overturn them:

It is doubtful whether anything can be an evil unless it causes pain or displeasure.
In the case of death, there is no subject left to suffer an evil. So long as we live, we have not yet died; and as soon as we are dead, we are no longer alive. So there seems to be no time at which the evil of death might occur. (This is a formulation of the ancient ‘no subject of harm’ argument.)
If we do not regard the infinitely long period before we were born as an evil, then why should we regard the period after we are dead any differently? (This is a formulation of the ancient ‘symmetry’ argument.)

All three of these ‘objections’—really, arguments for why we should not fear death—were made already by Epicurus (d. 270 BCE). Nagel addresses them in toto by arguing that the good or evil that befalls us depends on our history and possibilities rather than our momentary state, such that an evil can befall us even if we are no longer here to experience it. For instance, if an intelligent person suffers a brain injury that reduces his mental condition to that of a contented infant, this should be regarded as a serious evil even if the person himself (in his current state) is oblivious to his fate.

In essence, if the three objections are invalid, it is because they ignore the direction of time—that is, the shape of a human life. Even though we do not materially survive our death, we can still suffer evil; and even though we do not exist in the time before our birth and in the time after our death, the time after our death is time of which we have been deprived, time in which we could have continued to enjoy the good of living.

The Problem for Nagel

The question remains as to whether the non-realisation of further life is an absolute evil or whether this depends on what can naturally be hoped for: the death of John Keats at 24 is commonly regarded as tragic, but that of Leo Tolstoy at 82 is not (even though Tolstoy died in a freezing cold train station while running away from his wife). ‘The trouble,’ says Nagel, ‘is that life familiarises us with the goods of which death deprives us … Death, no matter how inevitable, is an abrupt cancellation of indefinitely extensive goods.’

Notice that, although Nagel’s conclusion is impeccably arrived at, it rests on an initial assumption which the casual reader may have taken for granted, namely, that ‘the bare experience of life is intrinsically valuable, regardless of the balance of its good and bad elements’. We might agree or disagree, but Nagel has not proved this. Perhaps it is too fundamental to require proof—or to be provable.

Bernard Williams and the Shape of a Human Life

Three years later (1973), the philosopher Bernard Williams took up the problem where Nagel had left off. If life is intrinsically valuable, does it follow that more is always better? Williams concluded, apparently contra Nagel, that immortality would not be desirable. What gives us reason to go on living, he argued, is not bare existence, but our desires, attachments, and projects—which must necessarily assume the shape of a human life.

Death Kills Us Twice

Fascinating as this may be, my topic here is the fear of death, not the desirability of immortality—which I discuss in another essay. If we grant Nagel his premise, death is an evil insofar as it deprives us of indefinitely extensive goods.

No surprise, given the sheer horror of this conclusion, that theologians down the ages have sought to blunt it. But it gets worse, much worse. Death not only deprives us of life, but also compels us to spend the very life that it deprives us of in the mostly unconscious fear of this deprivation. As I have argued, much of our anxiety and the baggage that comes with it stems from our fear of death. Thus, death not only cuts us short, but prevents us from making the most of whatever it leaves us.

If death is an evil, it is not only because it deprives us of life, but also because it mars whatever little life we do have. While we may be able to postpone death by a few years, there is nothing we can do to avoid it. In the words of Epicurus, ‘It is possible to provide security against other ills, but as far as death is concerned, we men live in a city without walls.’ All that we can do is to come to terms with death in the hope of preventing it from preventing us from making the most of our lives.

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The Deepest Cure for Fear and Anxiety—No Prescription Required

A man standing on top of a pyramid, which represents Maslow's pyramid — Maslow’s hierarchy of needs culminates in self-actualization. But the journey does not end there.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

In his influential paper of 1943, A Theory of Human Motivation, the psychologist Abraham Maslow proposed that healthy human beings have a certain number of needs, and that these needs can be arranged in a hierarchy, with some needs (such as physiological and safety needs) being more primitive or basic than others (such as social and ego needs).

Maslow’s ‘hierarchy of needs’ is often represented as a five-level pyramid (Figure 1), with higher needs coming into focus only once lower, more basic ones have been met. Maslow called the bottom four levels ‘deficiency needs’ because we do not feel anything if they are met but become anxious or distressed if they are not. Thus, physiological needs such as eating, drinking, and sleeping are deficiency needs, as are safety needs, social needs such as friendship and intimacy, and ego needs such as self-esteem, status, and recognition.

In contrast, he called the fifth and highest level of the pyramid a ‘growth need’ insofar as the drive to self-actualize requires that we move beyond the pursuit of comfort and security to fulfil our deepest potential as human beings.

Once we have met our deficiency needs, the focus of our anxiety shifts to self-actualization, and we begin, even if only dimly, to contemplate our bigger picture. However, only a minority of people ever truly self-actualize, because self-actualization requires unusual qualities such as independence, awareness, creativity, originality, and, above all, courage. Many people who have satisfied all their deficiency needs remain unable to self-actualize, instead inventing more deficiency needs for themselves, because to contemplate the meaning of life would lead them to entertain the possibility of its meaninglessness and the prospect of their own death and annihilation.

Existential Anxiety

A person who begins to contemplate their bigger picture may come to fear that life is meaningless and death inescapable, while at the same time clinging to the comforting belief that they are somehow immortal, important, or at least significant. This inner conflict gives rise to existential anxiety. Whereas fear and anxiety and their pathological forms (such as phobias or panic disorder) are grounded in threats to life, existential anxiety is rooted in the brevity and apparent insignificance, or absurdity, of life.

Existential anxiety is so disturbing that most people avoid it at all costs, instead constructing a false reality out of goals, ambitions, routines, relationships, customs, values, culture, and religion in a bid to deceive themselves that their lives are meaningful and that death is distant or delusory.

Unfortunately, such self-deception comes at a heavy price. According to the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, those who refuse to face up to ‘non-being’ are acting in ‘bad faith’ and living out a life that is inauthentic and unfulfilling. Facing up to non-being can bring insecurity, loneliness, responsibility, and, with them, anxiety, but, beyond that, it can also bring a profound sense of calm, freedom, even nobility. Far from being pathological, existential anxiety is a necessary transitional phase—a sign of health, strength, and courage, and a harbinger of greater things to come.

The Courage to Be

The theologian and philosopher Paul Tillich took this idea a step further. In The Courage to Be, he argued that refusing to confront non-being leads not only to inauthenticity, as Sartre had argued, but also to pathological—or neurotic—anxiety.

He wrote:

He who does not succeed in taking his anxiety courageously upon himself can succeed in avoiding the extreme situation of despair by escaping into neurosis. He still affirms himself but on a limited scale. Neurosis is the way of avoiding nonbeing by avoiding being.

According to this striking outlook, pathological anxiety, although seemingly grounded in threats to life, in fact arises from repressed existential anxiety, which itself arises from our uniquely human capacity for self-consciousness.

Squaring up to non-being enables us to put our life into perspective, see it in its entirety, and thereby lend it a sense of direction and unity. If the ultimate source of anxiety is fear of the future, the future ends in death; and if the ultimate source of anxiety is uncertainty, death is the only certainty. It is only by facing up to death, accepting its inevitability, and integrating it into a life that we can escape from the pettiness and paralysis of anxiety, and, in so doing, free ourselves to make—and get—the most out of our lives.

This, I believe, is the philosophical cure for fear and anxiety.

Some philosophers have gone further still in asserting that the very purpose of life is none other than to prepare for death. In Plato’s Phaedo, Socrates, who is about to face the executioner, tells his friends that absolute justice, beauty, and goodness cannot be apprehended by the senses, but only by pure thought, that is, by the mind or soul. Thus, the philosopher seeks as far as possible to separate soul from body. As death is the complete separation of soul and body, the philosopher aims at death—and can be said to be almost dead.

Only a true philosopher who no longer fears death truly possesses courage and the other virtues. Those who remain in fear of death can only have, at best, the appearance of virtue; but behind the facade, they are forever trading one fear against another.