Life, Death, and Dirty Dishes

Escaping our apathy toward life’s struggles.

This article is part of the Claritas fall 2022 issue, Mystery. Read the full print release here.

By David Johnson

I maneuvered through the dense crowd in Barton Hall, barely managing to reach my group of friends at the front of the stage. Although I had never heard of lovelytheband or Indigo De Souza, I resolved to make the most of my first-ever Cornell homecoming concert. The lights came up, and De Souza began to play.

“Dirty the dishes, stack them higher

We're not gonna wash them, we'll throw them away”

Okay—I get it. Who likes doing the dishes, anyway? But then the song continued:

“Kill me, slowly, outside that diner

That we like to go to

When things were okay” [1]

These lyrics from “Kill Me” illustrate what emerged as a recurring theme in De Souza’s music. In other numbers, such as “Home Team,” “Sick in the Head,” and “How I Get Myself Killed,” she struggles with the inevitability of death and the seeming emptiness of life.

Now, perhaps struggle isn’t quite the right word as De Souza doesn’t seem to fear or resist death. On the contrary, she invites it (“Kill me, slowly”). However, her acceptance of death is detached from any meaningful journey or story.

As a counterexample, consider the words of Bilbo’s Last Song, published by J.R.R. Tolkien to imagine the thoughts of Bilbo Baggins, the protagonist of The Hobbit, when he is facing death: 

“Day is ended, dim my eyes, 

but journey long before me lies.” [2]

In contrast to Bilbo, who welcomes death as the next step in a purposeful journey, De Souza’s acceptance of death is more aptly described as a resignation, grounded in the meaninglessness of this life and whatever lies beyond it. But give her credit for innovation–her reluctant resignation stands in stark contrast to the sentiments of the vast majority of literature throughout human history.

What does literature say about death?

The history of literature shows humans have always been scared to die, being full of stories that illustrate intense and painful emotions associated with mortality. We are afraid, and we do mind. In the 2100 BC Epic of Gilgamesh, the protagonist goes on a failed journey to achieve immortality after losing his close companion. In the same spirit, Sir Galahad’s quest for the holy grail, which became popular legend in the 13th Century AD, was a quest for immortality. For a more recent example, consider Voldemort in the Harry Potter series, who splits his very soul into seven pieces, attempting to become immortal after the death of his mother. Gilgamesh, Galahad, and Voldemort cast their lot with English poet William Blake:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” [3]

This is what is so curious about De Souza. In contrast to this rage against death, she responds with a Laodicean “lukewarmness.” [4] And this is what was so bizarre about the concert–it was as if students drew together to collectively relinquish the fight against suffering.

What does literature say about us?

Arguably, attempting to avoid death is an act of faithlessness. The characters–Gilgamesh, Galahad, and Voldemort–all experienced loss and hardship in their lives. They did not believe that God or anything outside themselves had cared for them during their life or would care for them in death. So, they took their mortality into their own hands. This impulse to not trust God’s hand in death is a perennial struggle, and one that C.S. Lewis articulates in A Grief Observed:

“They tell me H. [Lewis’s deceased wife] is happy now, they tell me she is at peace. What makes them so sure of this?….

‘Because she is in God’s Hands.’ But if so, she was in God’s hands all the time, and I have seen what they did to her here. Do they suddenly become gentler to us the moment we are out of the body? And if so, why? If God’s goodness is inconsistent with hurting us, then either God is not good or there is no God: for in the life we know He hurts us beyond our worst fears and beyond all we can imagine. If it is consistent with hurting us, then He may hurt us after death as unendurably as before it.” 

Lewis takes the characters’ philosophy to the logical extreme, even blaming God for suffering, before eventually finding catharsis:

“Sometimes it is hard not to say, ‘God forgive God.’ Sometimes it is hard to say so much. 

But if our faith is true, He didn’t. He crucified him.” [5]

In the end, Lewis arrives at the conviction that we do not need to resist death. Because God  himself preceded us in death, he proved that he will care for us in death. However, the testimony of literature is that, for millennia, people have feared death and, therefore, frantically tried to secure their own future.

So, perhaps De Souza’s philosophy is not as novel as it initially appeared but is simply the logical extension of older ideas. Previously, we asked the question, if death is mysterious, why allow ourselves to die? While we lacked faith that we would be cared for in death, we had hope that we could find reward in continued living. 

Now, we ask the hopeless question, as an anonymous post in the Cornell subreddit put it: “Why bother to live?” [6] The problem of the avoidance of death has been supplanted—or rather supplemented—by the avoidance of life.

Carefully with the plates!

De Souza is right about this much: Dirty dishes stink. They beckon us to perform a monotonous and unrewarding task. Indeed, caring for “tomorrow” often entails suffering. But there is a better way to approach our plates than simply discarding them.

Perhaps rolling up our sleeves and leaning into the messiness of life is an act of faith, or at least an act of hope, grounded in the conviction that the sun will rise, and that we will be invited to live another day. In the Hebrew Scriptures, even God is described as setting a table for his people, and to have done so in the very presence of enemies. A set table is a symbol of hope.

This logic can be extended. When the shingles on our house are in disarray and in need of repair, they remind us that we have been given shelter. When we lament inclement weather, we are reminded of the gift of seasons, sky, and sun. Lewis, despite facing bullying in school, losing his mother to cancer, and experiencing the horrors of the second world war, was able to be “Surprised by Joy.” At Cornell, when we struggle to get our desired classes during pre-enroll, we are reminded of our daily opportunity to study far above Cayuga’s waters. 

Sustaining hope amidst suffering is an urgent task, even as a matter of policy. Beginning in March, 2023 Canada will expand access to “assisted dying” (formerly known as assisted suicide) to those suffering from mental illness. [7] This is a politics of resignation—“Kill me, slowly” enshrined in law—not compassion. Compassion is telling a friend or family member who is suffering or has lost hope that we value them, we affirm their dignity, and we need them—no matter their circumstances.

When we are tempted to despair, Bilbo Baggins’ faith in the future is the wisdom that we need:

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates!

…

That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!

So, carefully! Carefully with the plates!”

Even when life stinks, we always have choices. Resisting resignation is no simple task, but those who believe our world belongs to God can care for today and fearlessly face the future, for tomorrow already has been made secure.

This article appeared in Claritas’ Fall 2023 Mystery Issue.

SOURCES

[1] de Souza, Indigo, “Kill Me”

[2] Tolkein, J.R.R., “Bilbo’s Last Song,” 1990.

[3] Thomas, Dylan, “Do not go gentle into that good night,” 1947.

[4] Revelation 3:14-16

[5] C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

[6] “What’s the point of life”, r/cornell, Reddit, 2021. https://www.reddit.com/r/Cornell/comments/qu7gio/whats_the_point_of_life/utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

[7] Carnahan, Ashley, “Canada expanding assisted suicide law to the mentally ill,” 2022, New York Post.

[8] ‘Album art for “Any Shape You Take” (2021) by Indigo de Souza’, indigodesouza.com/home, accessed 12/4/2022.

[9] Tolkien, J.R.R., “The Hobbit: Bilbo comes to the Huts of the Raft-elves” 1937, The Tolkien Estate.