Death is twined filament separating like in a 3D animation.
Death is a fractal image: you dive into a mathematically generated image that multiplies infinitely.
Death is a mise en abyme, it’s the cover of Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma, you step into an image that contains the same image that contains the same image and you can never go backwards. And it smells of rotten eggs.
Instead of staring up at the sky for fear it will fall in, we should be looking at the ground beneath our feet, which will soon cleave in two. We might trip, we might fall, like Alice down a rabbit hole crammed with strange objects, clocks whose hands run backwards … into the catacombs of time.
My life was whirling around me, the departures and the arrivals. I had finally stopped aging. Death is the ultimate fountain of youth, the shores of the suspended river of time, the dawn of time standing still. My body had reached obsolescence. I was replaced by a robotic brother cerebrally connected to my alter ego.
Romy would never die; this was what I had lived for. I had finally proved myself useful. Why prolong our physical presence? Dying doesn’t mean giving up. I was immortalized in the cloud. My looks had long since faded, I engaged with the world through my physical alter-robot. The only downside of “Bodily Extinction” was losing all contact with Léonore and Lou, who still refused to buy an iMind digital brain on Applezon (created by the merger of Apple and Amazon in 2022).
A cloud without pain. A cloud of relief. I swallowed the sky. I hovered over the years as over an ocean. I spat blood every night.
Can you feel me around you?
I am not phantom, I am atom. Anthumous and posthumous.
I am a part of everything that is connected to everything.
I am dust, wave, light, air. I’m as vast as a mountain, light as a cloud, limpid as wind and water.
Before, I was virtual; during, I was real; after, I was virtual again. There you have it: I am no longer living but I lived for you. I exist. I deserve your “Likes.”
The future will be dustier, hotter, more crowded than the present. Why hang around?
The air you breathe, the sun that burns you, the night that calms you: these, too, are me. And in your memories, I will sometimes pop by to pay you a visit.
I am nothing now but once I was all. I’m the present incarnate. Ego sum qui sum (Exodus, 3:4).
Molecules are transformed. Bone becomes flower. My cells have already been recycled into compost. My soul is digitized.
The death of the body is not an event but a transition. Don’t wait for it, don’t seek it out: death is all around you, it has always been. Dying is a scheduled appointment. You are finally rid of yourself. The ultimate orgasm beyond all words. Death requires a different language.
I contemplated the scudding clouds through my webcam. The sky was below, the ground above. I felt no pain, I felt relieved, rejuvenated.
An aftertaste of “young plasma” in my nose, my throat. A taste of disease, of the end.
Death is weighty. All other subjects seem frivolous by comparison. Since the beginning of this book, I have been talking about a subject I knew nothing about. My parents were still alive (I touched wood as I wrote that last sentence). I was unaware of this rent in my flesh, that was why I was so afraid of this transition. Death should have made me humble, instead it made me proud. I wanted to defeat it through selfishness. If my misadventure is to be useful to anyone, remember this: Pessoa was wrong when he said “life is not enough.” Oh, life is enough, believe me. Life is more than enough, take the word of a dead man.
Perhaps I simply accelerated what I wished for. I didn’t have time to found the Immortality Resistance Movement (IRM), but I found time to euthanize myself. The first involuntary euthanasia. That’s the kicker: I inadvertently committed suicide.
Death is wretched, but non-death is worse.
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FACED WITH MY declining health, the clinic summoned a Catholic priest to my bedside. A seminarian: Father Thomas Julien. He sweated in his black cassock as he listened to my lamentations. He is probably the person I should have met when I first came back from Jerusalem.
To the drone of those who chant Om, I intoned, “Where is He? Where is He? Where is your fucking God?”
“Don’t you understand that Léonore, Romy, and Lou are your Holy Trinity? That it is God who sent these three women to you, so that you could not abandon humanity? It’s something you should mention in your posthumous broadcasts.”
“But God is dead!”
“Yes: he died on the cross. But his corpse is still moving. That’s the reason for your presence here on earth. I gave up a physical fatherhood for spiritual fatherhood. When you finally accept the gift of life, you will no longer be afraid to leave.”
“I know that, Father. But that’s no reason to spout dialogue from a Marvel movie.”
“It’s not from a Marvel movie, it’s from the Bible. You remember Christ’s encounter with the rich young man in the New Testament? The rich man asked Christ how he might have eternal life. And Jesus said, ‘Sell all thou hast and come follow me.’”
“I do not see the connection.”
“Yes, you do: rich transhumanists are trying to compete with Christ. These are two opposing religions: one of money, the other of man.”
“The Mount of Olives versus Silicon Valley …”
“Precisely: the response to transhumanism (Man made God) is Christ (God made Man). You have to set down your story!”
“The story of a guy who wants to become immortal, and dies …”
“Perhaps if you publish it, the ending will change. You know better than anyone that literature can conquer time.”
The priest entrusted me with a mission. This is probably what I had been searching for, not immortality, but something to do that would be more useful than a TV talk show. It was at this moment that I decided to publish the story you now hold in your hands, under the (deceptive) title of A Life Without End.
“Father, I’ve got a question for you. If God exists, why did He make me an atheist?”
“So that you would live freely.”
“He wanted to make sure I was sincere? Is God really so unsure of Himself that He needs my faith to be unprompted?”
“What do you want Him to be? A dictator?”
“Yes, actually, I think I’d have preferred Him to assert Himself. Politically, I’m a democrat, but when it comes to religion, I’m a fascist; it would really simplify things if He could give me a tangible sign.”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
Father Julien made the sign of the cross before backing out of the room in his Matrix-style black cassock. I pressed the plunger on the morphine pump. My soul was weak but, apparently, I still had one.
I’d like to die to Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them,” scanning the horizon for the green ray as the sun sinks into the sea like a red frisbee into cherry jam.
I am prepared to die if it earns me “hugs.” That way I won’t feel anything except crushed strawberries beneath my feet. I will speak out, loud and clear until the end. My last words will be, “So be it,” or maybe, “Dibs!”
I thought about Léonore, about Romy, about Lou, the three women in my life, the one who broke my heart, the one who joined me here on my hard drive, my baby who I miss so much … and the baby yet to be born.
I thought about my father, about my mother and my brother. Who else would you want to think about when you’re dying but the people who made you?
I thought about my friends, my cousins, my nephews, my numerous families, created, blended, recomposed, decomposed or supposed, proposed or transposed.
I thought of the girls I’d loved, the women I’d married, and the ones that got away. About those who kissed me, if only for a second. I didn’t regret a single kiss.
I had lived for a girl in a denim jacket and C
onverse trainers and her little sister with her golden sandals and her gap-toothed smile staring in wonder at a snail. Were they, then, the “why” of my life, those little bundles of joy, those soft cheeks against my bristly beard, the laugh of a little girl splashing in the waves? Was this the meaning of my life—a baby that smelled of nappy cream and her older sister who painted her toenails sky-blue? Two little feet as rounded as madeleines and a long pale swan’s neck? I should have held onto those ears like little pink squid. I had created more beauty with my sperm than I had with the work of a lifetime.
I’d won the lottery and I didn’t realize.
Strangely, when you’re dying, you only think about other people.
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HERE I AM back before I was born, freed from the present. No words can express the infinite. It would take a new language to write the definitive book. If we had to transcribe the three billion letters of our DNA, assuming 3,000 letters per page, it would require a thousand thousand-page volumes.
ATGCCGCGCGCTCCCC GCTGCCGAGCCGTGCGCTC CCTGCTGCGCAGCCAC TACCGCGAGGTGCTGC CGCTGGCCACGTTCGTGCG GCGCCTGGGGCCCCAG GGCTGGCGGCTGGTGC AGCGCGGGGACCCGGCGG CTTTCCGCGCGCTGGT GGCCCAGTGCCTGGTG TGCGTGCCCTGGGACGCA CGGCCGCCCCCCGCCGC CCCCTCCTTCCGCCAGG TGGGCCTCCCCGGGGTCG GCGTCCGGCTGGGGT TGAGGGCGGCCGGGGG GAACCAGCGACATGCGGA GAGCAGCGCAGGCGAC TCAGGGCGCTTCCCCC GCAGGTGTCCTGCCTGAA GGAGCTGGTGGCCCGAG TGCTGCAGAGGCTGTG CGAGCGCGGCGCGAAG AACGTGCTGGCCTTC GGCTTCGCGCTGCTGG ACGGGGCCCGCGGGGG CCCCCCCGAGGCCTTCA CCACCAGCTGCGCAGC TACCTGCCCAACACGG TGACCGACGCACTGCGG GGGAGCGGGGCGTGGG GGCTGCTGCTGCGCCG CGTGGGCGACGACGTGCT GGTTCACCTGCTGGCAC GCTGCGCGCTCTTTGTG CTGGTGGCTCCCAGCTG CGCCTACCAGGTGTGCG GGCCGCCGCTGTACCA GCTCGGCGCTGCCAC TCAGGCCCGGCCCCCGC CACACGCTAGTGGACC CCGAAGGCGTCTGG GATGCGAACGGGCCTGG AACCATAGCGTCAGGG AGGCCGGGGTCCCCC TGGGCCTGCCAGCCCCG GGTGCGAGGAGGCGCG GGGGCAGTGCCAG CCGAAGTCTGCCGTTG CCCAAGAGGCCCAGGCG TGGCGCTGCCCCTGA GCCGGAGCGGACGCCC GTTGGGCAGGGGTCCTG GGCCCACCCGGGCAG GACGCGTGGACCGAGT GACCGTGGTTTCTGTGT GGTGTCACCTGCCA GACCCGCCGAAGAAGC CACCTCTTTGGAGGGTG CGCTCTCTGGCACGCG CCACTCCCACCCATCC GTGGGCCGCCAGCACCA CGCGGGCCCCCCATCC ACATCGCGGCCACCAC GTCCCTGGGACACGCCT TGTCCCCCGGTGTACG CCGAGACCAAGCACTT CCTCTACTCCTCAGGCG ACAAGGAGCAGCTGCG GCCCTCCTTCCTACTCA GCTCTCTGAGGCCCAG CCTGACTGGCGCTCGGA GGCTCGTGGAGACCAT CTTTCTGGGTTCCAGGCCC TGGATGCCAGGGACT CCCCGCAGGTTGCCCC GCCTGCCCCAGCGCTAC TGGCAAATGCGGCCCC TGTTTCTGGAGCTGCTT GGGAACCACGCGCAGT GCCCCTACGGGGTGCTCC TCAAGACGCACTGCCCG CTGCGAGCTGCGGTCAC CCCAGCAGCCGGTGTC TGTGCCCGGGAGAAGC CCCAGGGCTCTGTGGCGG CCCCCGAGGAGGAGG ACACAGACCCCCGTCGC CTGGTGCAGCTGCTCCG CCAGCACAGCAGC CCCTGGCAGGTGTACGG CTTCGTGCGGGCCTGCC TGCGCCGGCTGGTG CCCCCAGGCCTCTGGGG CTCCAGGCACAACGAAC GCCGCTTCCTCAGGA ACACCAAGAAGTTCATC TCCCTGGGGAAGCATGC CAAGCTCTCGCTGCA GGAGCTGACGTGGAAGA TGAGCGTGCGGGACTG CGCTTGGCTGCGCAG GAGCCCAGGTGAGGAGG TGGTGGCCGTCGAGGG CCCAGGCCCCAGAGCT GAATGCAGTAGGGGCTCA GAAAAGGGGGCAGGC AGAGCCCTGGTCCTCC TGTCTCCATCGTCACGTG GGCACACGTGGCTTTT CGCTCAGGACGTCGAG TGGACACGGTGATCTCT GCCTCTGCTCTCCCTCCT GTCCAGTTTGCATAAAC TTACGAGGTTCACCTTCA CGTTTTGATGGACACGC GGTTTCCAGGCGCCGA GGCCAGAGCAGTGAACA GAGGAGGCTGGGCGCG GCAGTGGAGCCGGGTTG CCGGCAATGGGGAGAAG TGTCTGGAAGCACAGAC GCTCTGGCGAGGGT GCCTGCAGGTTACCTATA ATCCTCTTCGCAATTTC AAGGGTGGGAATGA GAGGTGGGGACGAGAACC CCCTCTTCCTGGGGGT GGGAGGTAAGGGTTTT GCAGGTGCACGTGGTCAG CCAATATGCAGGTTTGT GTTTAAGATTTAATTG TGTGTTGACGGCCAGGTG CGGTGGCTCACGCCGGT AATCCCAGCACTTT GGGAAGCTGAGGCAGGTG GATCACCTGAGGTCAG GAGTTTGAGACCAG CCTGACCAACATGGTGAA ACCCTATCTGTACTAAA AATACAAAAATTAGCT GGGCATGGTGGTGTGTGC CTGTAATCCCAGCTACT TGGGAGGCTGAGGCA GGAGAATCACTTGAACCC AGGAGGCGGAGGCTGCA GTGAGCTGAGATTGT GCCATTGTACT
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IN THE PYRENEES, when you shout into the mountains, the echo sends back the sound of your own voice. You hear your shout twice, three times, four times, as though the mountain was a giant parrot. But gradually, the sound fades. You have to shout louder, shout again and again. Even if you shout yourself hoarse, the echoes will eventually fade. The cry seems to come from far away, as though someone on the far side of the valley is mocking you, because an echo always mocks those who shout into the void. When I was a boy, I tired of the game after a few attempts. My shouts were stifled in the mountains. Why bother to scream at the top of your lungs for a few reverberations of your complaint. It was always the same: a recurring cry, then, after a while, nothing. In the end, silence always won.
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EPILOGUE
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SOMEWHERE IN THE Basque Country, the laughter of the seagulls has woken a baby. The sun is not up yet, petals are weighed down with dew. A little girl calls to her mother. They hug each other. There is so much love in this room the walls might explode. The little girl eats a peach or a banana. Her blonde hair and her teeth have grown during the night. She is eighteen months old. She can walk, she can say a few words: “Maman,” “Ball,” “Come,” “More!” “Again!” “Home,” and “Meow” when the cat enters the room. The rest of her language is a personal dialect: “Bakatesh,” “Pabalk,” “Fatishk,” “Kabesh,” “Dedananon,” “Gilgamesh.” Perhaps she speaks fluent Sanskrit. She loves: rocking in the hammock, pretending to drive the car and making engine sounds, picking daisies in the garden, making shadows on the grass, finding a snail shell, taking a handful of gravel and redecorating the patio, stopping everything to stare up at a plane leaving a white streak across the blue sky, making little balls out of croissant crumbs, dancing with her mother to Joe Dassin, being given raspberries by the woman on the market stall. By way of a choreography, she raises her arms and pirouettes barefoot on the lawn until she is dizzy. Her general state of mind: wonderment. At everything. Everything is new, everything is important, there is no such thing as boredom. Mother and daughter will have lunch on the beach. It often rains in this country, which makes every sunbeam seem like a miracle. All it takes is a single ray piercing the clouds for the locals to hurriedly strip off. Lots of things will happen on the beach: filling a bucket with sand, turning the bucket over, tapping the bottom of the bucket, lifting up the bucket, admiring the sandcastle, demolishing the sandcastle, repeating the process a dozen times. She will dip her toes in the sea. Run towards the waves as they ebb, running back when the waves roll in. Shouting “Oh no!” when the tide laps at the beach towel. Eating pieces of langoustine, chipirones, corn cakes, a handful of sand. The afternoon is as boundless as the sea. Lying on her back watching the sky. In the car on the way home, the little girl will clamour for her favourite cartoon The Little Mole, a Czech cartoon from the 1960s that proves communism was not a complete failure. The highlight of the day is a warm bath. Mother and baby bathe together. The baby’s skin is softer than you. Outside on the hill, the sheep flush pink.
It is at this point that they hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. A taxi pulls up in the driveway. A lanky, long-haired, bearded man is sitting in the back seat, holding the hand of his eldest daughter who has grown several centimetres and ditched her Japanese robot. The gangly man pays the taxi and unfolds himself as he climbs out of the car. He has just returned from California, where he had signed up for a laboratory experiment, involving the transfusion of young blood. But on the day itself, he chickened out and didn’t attend his appointment. Léonore and Lou open the door of the Basque house. Léonore sets her daughter down, folds her arms over her swollen belly. She is radiant in the pink glow of the sun as it sets behind the pines.
Seeing me, Lou drops her bottle on the ground. She starts running towards me, crying “Papa!”
I kneel down and open my arms.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Farah Yarisal of The Brain Circle, who put me in touch with Doctor Yossi Buganim of the Department of Developmental Biology and Cancer Research at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
Thanks to Doctor Yossi Buganim for his instruction and his kindness.
Thanks to Tali Dowek, from the Division for Advancement and External Relations at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, for organizing a visit to the Centre and a meeting with Professor Eran Meshorer at the Edmond & Lily Safra Center for Brain Sciences.
Thanks to Professor Stylianos Antonarakis, the Professor and Chairman of Genetic Medicine at the University of Geneva Medical School.
Thanks to Doctor Frédéric Saldmann of the Departme
nt for Functional Testing and Predictive Medicine at the Georges Pompidou European Hospital.
Thanks to Dominique Nora at the Nouvel Observateur for her help.
Thanks to Doctor André Choulika, CEO of Cellectis, for his simplicity and his availability both in Paris and New York. His book Réécrire la vie (Hugo: Doc, 2016) helped me comprehend the incomprehensible.
Thanks to Professor George Church of MIT and the Wyss Institute at Harvard Medical School, for our superhumanist conversation at his Boston laboratory.
Thanks to Doctor Laurent Alexandre for our non-transgenic lunch at Guy Savoy in the Monnaie de Paris.
Apologies to Jesse Karmazin for the no-show.
Thanks to Father Thomas Julien for his spiritual contribution.
Thanks to Olivier Nora, Juliette Joste, and François Samuelson for believing in this crazy project.
May all your deaths be revoked.
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On the Design
As book design is an integral part of the reading experience, we would like to acknowledge the work of those who shaped the form in which the story is housed.
Tessa van der Waals (Netherlands) is responsible for the cover design, cover typography, and art direction of all World Editions books. She works in the internationally renowned tradition of Dutch Design. Her bright and powerful visual aesthetic maintains a harmony between image and typography and captures the unique atmosphere of each book. She works closely with internationally celebrated photographers, artists, and letter designers. Her work has frequently been awarded prizes for Best Dutch Book Design.
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