Immortality (6 page)

Within these bounds he instituted unprecedented reforms to
improve the economy: weights, measures and currency were unified; the written language was consolidated; government and administration were rationalized. From the many warring states, a single nation was created—one that is still widely known as China after the First Emperor’s home kingdom of Qin (pronounced “chin”).

Then infamously, in 213
BCE
he declared that all books from schools of thought that opposed his new system were to be burned. Chronicles of past times were destroyed; history was to begin afresh. Only documents thought to assist in prolonging life were spared—those on agriculture, divination and medicine. The rest were banned and their possession deemed a capital offense.

The Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges recognized both the Great Wall and the book burning in the context of the emperor’s quest to live forever: “The data suggest that the wall in space and the fire in time were magic barriers intended to halt the advance of death,” he wrote. The First Emperor was attempting to establish a new order that could perpetuate life—his life—indefinitely. This is what the distinction between civilization and barbarism represents: in Borges’s words, the magic barrier between life-sustaining order on one side and chaos, disease and disintegration on the other.

But as he grew into middle age, it became clear to the king-cum-emperor that high walls, productive fields and even new history books would not suffice to keep off aging and disease. So he surrounded himself with the very best doctors, sorcerers, alchemists and sages. Their mission was not only to cure the emperor of common ailments but to hold back the decline that comes with age—and so stave off its end result: death. This task did not strike anyone at the time as impossible; on the contrary, for a civilization that had brought peace to the land, could create architectural marvels and already had a rich tradition of medicine, it seemed only one more step down the same golden road.

So just as he believed in the possibility of orderly government and well-regulated commerce, the First Emperor believed too in the
elixir of life. Legends abounded of those who had found such a thing and been transformed into immortal beings, immune to the ravages of time. It existed, he was sure, and it had to be found: it would be the crowning glory of the civilization he had created. And so he traveled the length and breadth of his empire, performing sacrifices at the sacred mountains, consulting the shamans and scholars he met on his way and avidly consuming the cocktail of potions, pills and putative elixirs that they prescribed. Then one day he met a wise man called Xu Fu, who claimed to know where the immortals kept their secrets.

X
U
Fu lived on one of the islands off northeast China that had long been associated with the elixir. He told the emperor that there were three mountains in the Yellow Sea. Though they were not far from the coast, they were protected by magical winds that blew any boats off course that tried to reach their shores. But those lucky few sailors who managed to land had found a country where the animals and plants were all of the purest white and the palaces were made of silver and gold. Those who dwelled on these islands were the immortals, for they had discovered the true elixir of life.

In great excitement, the First Emperor commissioned Xu Fu to lead an expedition to find this elixir. The magician set off with three thousand virgin boys and girls—only the innocent, he claimed, would be granted the magic formula. They would sail to these islands and beg the immortals to share their secrets.

Several years later, the emperor’s travels once again took him to the northerly coast of his vast dominions. There he sought out Xu Fu to hear his progress in securing the true elixir—much to Xu Fu’s surprise. The magician had nothing to show for himself except an enormous bill of expenses and fewer virgins in his party. When he heard this, the emperor was furious; he had killed many a man for less.

The quick-thinking wizard reassured his ruler that he was more
certain than ever that the elixir was to be found on the spirit islands. During their many difficult and dangerous attempts, he claimed, they had even come close to mastering the terrible winds that surrounded the isles. But whenever they were within reach of their pure white shores, huge sea beasts blocked the way and chased them back to the mainland. If only they had a squad of crossbowmen, they would surely be able to defeat these beasts and secure the elixir.

Desperation had made the First Emperor credulous: his desire to find the cure for mortality was such that he gave Xu Fu the troops he asked for. That night, inspired by Xu Fu’s story, the emperor dreamed he was fighting a mighty sea spirit armed only with a crossbow. Convinced that this was an omen that an evil sea demon was blocking his route to immortality, he ordered the local sailors to catch the monster. Then he himself stood on a nearby beach and waited, crossbow in hand, for them to bring him the beast.

Xu Fu, meanwhile, set sail with his treasure, virgins and bowmen—and was never seen in China again.

W
HEN
Xu Fu left for the second time with his extraordinary entourage, he sailed off into the realm of legend. According to one tradition he landed in Japan and founded a new society, proclaiming himself king. Known there by the name of Jofuku, he has the status of a saint, even a god, in Japanese mythology. He is credited with bringing agriculture, medicine, metallurgy and silk to the previously primitive people of those islands, transforming their culture.

Remarkably, archaeological evidence suggests there was indeed a major and sudden leap forward in Japanese culture in the third century
BCE
, exactly the time Xu Fu was said to have departed on his voyage: hunting and gathering were replaced by rice farming, stone tools by metal, furs by woven clothes, cave dwelling by freestanding houses. The town of Shingu on the southeastern coast of Japan’s Honshu island still celebrates its claim to be the place where Xu Fu landed with his army of virgins and set about civilizing the land.

So as with many myths, it may well be that the tale of Xu Fu’s disappearance from China and discovery of Japan contains more than a kernel of truth. But the legend does not end there: having founded his new society, Xu Fu is said to have continued the quest for the elixir of life, traveling to the hermits who lived on Mount Fuji. There he finally found the secret he had been looking for throughout his long voyage. The reclusive sages made him their chief, and there, according to legend, Xu Fu still lives his ethereal and saintly existence, high on the cloud-topped peak.

T
HE
bringer of civilization is the bringer of better, longer life. And his reward—and the promise he holds out for his followers—is life without end. This is the message in the Japanese version of the Xu Fu story, and it is exactly the model that the First Emperor was following when he created his own empire, for it is identical to the legend on which Chinese society was based. Indeed, it is a motif we see again and again in the founding myths of cultures around the world: civilization is built on the promise of immortality.

The battery of technologies that Xu Fu is credited with introducing to a still stone-age Japan genuinely would have contributed to increased lifespans for the island’s inhabitants. That, indeed, is their point, which is why it is entirely natural that the legend then seamlessly goes on to tell how Xu Fu’s genius culminated with his finding the elixir of life. The writer and futurist Arthur C. Clarke wrote that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” For a person wondering at the magical-seeming achievements of civilization, from the plow to heart bypass surgery, an elixir of life can seem an entirely plausible next step. This is as true now as it was in ancient Japan.

Just as it was also already true in ancient China when the First Emperor came to power. The title he took for himself when he
ceased to be the humble king of Qin was modeled on a legendary forebear, Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor. In taking on his new title, the king was attempting to take on some of this mythical figure’s enormous prestige. And he was also hoping to copy his career: for Huang Di was also a civilization builder who was said to have triumphed over death. It was Huang Di who had introduced the essentials of early Chinese culture—he was to the people of China what Xu Fu was to the Japanese—and his reward was immortality. When the First Emperor attempted to start a new state, founding China anew, he was consciously emulating this predecessor and hoping for the same reward.

According to legend, Huang Di ruled for a hundred years from 2697
BCE
. His reign ushered in a period of peace, unity and progress in which, according to tradition, all the fundamentals of civilization were invented: plows, animal husbandry, music, the calendar, martial arts, medicine, silk weaving and even writing. Having thus brought order and prosperity to his kingdom, Huang Di was able to dedicate himself to his true goal: the pursuit of eternal life. According to legend, he enjoyed the assistance of a goddess, who sent three handmaidens to instruct him personally in the arts of longevity; one of them even taught him how to channel sexual energy in his quest, an association of sex, semen and lifespan that survived well into modern times. Huang Di’s diligence and virtue were eventually rewarded with the elixir of life; on partaking of his discovery he was instantly transformed, becoming immune to aging and disease—whereupon a kindly dragon arrived to take him to live in the far-flung Kunlun Mountains of northern Tibet to dwell for eternity.

As in the Xu Fu story, the elixir features as the pinnacle of civilization’s achievements. After a long life spent innovating, developing and ordering, the final defeat of death was achieved. This is the real promise of civilized life: why should we give up the freedom of the nomadic hunter in order to till the soil, obey the laws, and pay the taxes that society requires of us? Because if we do, we will live
longer—and perhaps indefinitely longer. Even those who do not wear the crown—the simple citizens, the little guy—could hope to benefit from the order and safety of life within civilization’s walls. What keeps us diligently working at the drudgery of desks and production lines is that we too believe in the magic barrier.

The founding myth of ancient Egyptian civilization provided exactly the same answer to the people of the Nile, albeit in a slightly more fanciful manner. It revolves around Osiris, the god of the next world mentioned in
chapter 1
. One of the oldest deities known to humanity, like Huang Di he was considered originally a real ruler who introduced both material and symbolic aspects of civilization—including agriculture and a code of law—to his people. When Osiris was murdered and dismembered by his jealous brother, his wife, Isis, managed to mummify and resurrect him. The first mummy, he then took his place as lord of the next world. Through emulating him in leading a good life and following the ancient rites, other Egyptians could hope to join him for eternity. Once again, the founder of civilization, with all its rules and rituals, is explicitly associated with the promise of immortality.

We will see that this pattern of the founding myths of civilization repeats itself in many other cultures—including the modern and scientific just as much as the ancient and mythical. They are therefore quite different from
creation
myths, which concern the origins of the world—and very often explain instead mortality and the fact of death. In such creation myths, humans are not made immortal—this would make an elixir and indeed civilization obsolete; in Chinese mythology, for example, humans are made rather unlovingly from sprinkled blobs of clay. A transformation is required to make such beings fit for eternity—the transformation achieved by Huang Di and sought by the First Emperor.

Such myths demonstrate the extent to which the very idea of civilization is bound up with our hopes of living forever. We are created mortal, but civilization can redeem us. Many in the developed
world today might take its benefits for granted, but the people of these early civilizations knew very well how valuable was this magic barrier between them and barbarism. For these peoples, it was a simple continuum from the manifestly life-extending technologies of agriculture and medicine to an elixir of immortality.

The elixir was understood to be something real and material, yet its role was also symbolic. It represented the highest aim of civilization—the completion of the conquest of death that began when the first seeds were sown and bricks laid. Some of the most ancient documents in existence attest to its pursuit, and the search continues today.

T
HE
world’s oldest surviving epic tale, that of the Sumerian king Gilgamesh, has the hero seek a plant of rejuvenation he calls “Old Man Grown Young.” We saw too in
chapter 1
that the ancient Egyptians believed in an elixir of youth—one recipe dates back to 1600
BCE
. In the thousands of years since these texts were written, there has never been a time when the quest for such a substance has not continued. Now, at the beginning of a new millennium, the elixir industry is as busy as ever: in the decade up to 2010 the respectable science magazine
New Scientist
reported on no fewer than twelve new “elixirs” that promised to halt aging.

Lest we are tempted to think that the ancient legends were all mythical mumbo-jumbo in contrast to today’s laboratory-tested wonder drugs, it is worth noting that one of the twelve cures for aging among the dozen mooted by the
New Scientist
is extracted from the root of the astragalus, an herb of the legume family. This plant is one of the “fifty fundamental herbs” of traditional Chinese medicine and very likely was among the prescriptions given to the First Emperor. There is no stark dividing line between sorcery and science: our methods have become more rigorous, efficient and
productive over the centuries, but we are otherwise still pursuing the Staying Alive Narrative just as humans always have, since history began.