Immortality (7 page)

“This quest was never merely the province of cranks or quacks,” wrote the historian of medicine Gerald Gruman. On the contrary, entire religions, famous philosophers and important scientists have dedicated themselves to finding the key to unlimited lifespan. Every generation has its technology of hope: at the beginning of the last century, it was the Steinach operation, named after the Austrian physiologist Eugen Steinach. This operation promised, in the words of one of Steinach’s colleagues, “indefinite prolongation of life,” and Steinach himself was nominated six times for the Nobel Prize (though he never won it). Many leading scientists and intellectuals and thousands of others underwent the procedure in the hope of rejuvenation, including Sigmund Freud and W. B. Yeats. Today, however, this operation is known simply as a vasectomy, and its rejuvenating powers have proved to be all in the mind.

The hope, however, of defeating death remains. It is fueled by the tales of super-long-lived persons who populate almost every culture. Alongside Huang Di, the First Emperor could look to plenty of other long-lived sages for inspiration, such as Peng Zu, said to have lived to eight hundred. The Roman historian Pliny also recorded cases of eight-hundred-year-olds (though noted that at this age they were so tired of life they would jump into the sea). Those in the Jewish and Christian traditions could look to the Old Testament for even longer-lived forefathers—Noah was said to have made it to 950 and Methuselah to 969. Although in our own time, better record keeping and higher standards of evidence make such tales rare, nonetheless they still circulate, such as, for example, the popular story of very long-lived Georgians in the Caucasus Mountains—a myth that inspired millions to buy yogurt after a hugely successful set of 1970s television commercials assured viewers that this was their secret elixir.

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A
S
natural as it might be to dream of staying alive, the nature of our bodies is working against us. Unaided or unrefined, they will ail, age, die and rot. Something must be done; in order to withstand the trials of time we must somehow transcend the ordinary limits of biology. We must somehow be
transformed
to be made fit for eternity. The idea of an elixir of life embodies this desire for transformation: it is the legendary substance that, when consumed, will halt the usual processes of decline and decay, elevating the imbibers above the fate of mortals, making them what the Chinese call
hsien—
transcendent, celestial, immortal.

Although we might now imagine the elixir of life to be a bubbling potion or a neat pill, the First Emperor would have had no such preconceptions: he would have been equally unsurprised to discover it was a single plant, or a set of exercises, or some arcane combination of powders and spells. Tales of life-giving objects of one kind or another were remarkably diverse and widespread: magic cups, cauldrons, fountains, springs, rivers, trees, mushrooms, fruits, vegetables, horns, hairs, animals, spirits, witches, monsters, spells, curses, rings—all have at one time or another been ascribed death-defying properties.

When aspiring to live forever, it was therefore best to keep an open mind about the means. The elixir was whatever helped to stave off aging and death for a little bit longer, and its pursuit encompassed what we would now consider to be very disparate traditions, from medicine to magic and science to religion. But despite these many strands, the quest for the elixir has come to be known by one name: alchemy.

The oldest mention of alchemy in history is in the records of the first-century
BCE
Chinese historian Sima Qian, who also recorded most of what we know of the First Emperor. He describes how the court alchemist sought to transform cinnabar, a bright red mercury
ore, into gold—and that if this was then used for eating and drinking it would ensure “you will never die.” Thus from its earliest days, alchemy has been associated with the pursuit of two goals united by the idea of transformation: the transformation of base metals into gold and of base humans into immortals.

Although now more associated with the first of these, most alchemists would have considered at the very least that they were inextricably linked, and very often, as in Sima Qian’s description, that the production of gold was merely a means to the end of indefinite life. This was equally true of Western alchemy, as the Oxford scholar Roger Bacon, an early advocate of scientific experimentation, put it in 1267: “That medicine which would remove all impurities and corruptions of a baser metal so that it should become silver and purest gold, is thought by scientists to be able to remove the corruptions of the human body to such an extent that it would prolong life for many ages.”

The name “alchemy” itself reflects the art’s mysterious origins. We have inherited the word from the Arabic
al-kimia
, as it was the Islamic world that did most to keep its practice alive during the early Middle Ages. But the Arabs took the word from the Greek word
chemeia
when they occupied Alexandria in the seventh century. And
chemeia
, which is also the origin of the word “chemistry,” meant “those who have knowledge of the Egyptian arts.” As usual with the quest for immortality, all roads lead back to the Nile.

In China at the time of the First Emperor, alchemy was a vital part of the prevalent religious-philosophical system: Taoism. Its practitioners developed life-extension techniques that are now, over two thousand years later, continuing to prosper: meditation, breathing exercises, the gentle gymnastics of tai chi and qigong, and the consumption of tea, ginseng and many other herbs and minerals. One of its core texts, known as
The Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon
, remains the central source for Chinese traditional medicine.

Until well into the Renaissance in Europe, there was no
distinction between chemistry and alchemy or scientist and wizard. What we now see as the rigors of the scientific method, the antithesis of all superstition, emerged only slowly from the alchemical quest for immortality. Many of the great figures at the dawn of the scientific age, such as Robert Boyle and even Sir Isaac Newton, were steeped in alchemical teachings—Newton himself saw his contributions to alchemy as more important than his discoveries in physics.

As the successes of the new evidence-based methods rapidly grew, faith in ancient wisdom and the occult eventually declined. If nature’s secrets were to be unlocked, it was through testing new theories against methodically acquired experimental data—not through deciphering old hieroglyphs. But although methods and cultures have evolved, the idea of an elixir survives, keeping countless researchers busy, and is being used to sell us everything from margarine to face cream.

But the modern, scientific versions of this quest, in abandoning their mythic past, have also lost a crucial aspect of the elixir legend: that it is not intended for everyone. Rather, like the Holy Grail, which was also credited with powers of healing and resurrection, it was available only to the wise and virtuous. Everlasting life had to be earned through hard work and good behavior: that was the deal, as it was these qualities that prevented civilization from collapsing into barbarism. In the very same legends that put immortality at the heart of advanced society, there are therefore also warnings that it is not for the foolish or fainthearted.

T
HE
Japanese tale of Xu Fu does not end with his ascension to the peaks of Mount Fuji; as guardian of the elixir, he could hardly expect to enjoy his peace undisturbed.

One day, a rich, idle young man called Sentaro decided to seek the elixir for himself, so he sought out a shrine to Xu Fu and prayed.
At midnight on the seventh day, Xu Fu appeared to the young man. He judged him a selfish fool and so decided to set a test. He presented Sentaro with a tiny crane made of paper and announced that it would bring him to the land of perpetual life. When Sentaro mounted the crane it expanded to an enormous size, flapped its wings and lifted him into the air. They flew out to sea for thousands of miles before eventually landing on a remote island. The crane then folded itself up until it was once again tiny and flew into Sentaro’s pocket.

To the young man’s astonishment, the inhabitants of this island told him that no one ever died there and sickness was unknown. How blessed they must be, he thought. But to his greater surprise, the islanders begged Sentaro for some clue as to how they might find death. They were tired of their long, long lives. They had tried all the known poisons, but to no avail—the very deadliest of them had become wildly popular on the island simply because it turned their hair slightly gray and caused mild bellyache. Death, however, eluded them.

Sentaro could not begin to understand these people’s unhappiness. He started a little business and settled down to live forever on this magical island. But after three hundred years, he too was growing weary of life’s monotonies—the frustrations of work, the arguments with the neighbors. It all seemed dull and pointless. Finally, having once prayed to Xu Fu to make him immortal, he prayed to him once again to bring him back to the land of mortality. Instantly the paper crane flew out of his pocket and unfolded to its giant size. Sentaro climbed onto its back, and they took off.

But on the way a terrible storm struck: the paper crane crumpled and fell into the sea. As Sentaro struggled to stay afloat, he saw a great shark coming toward him, its terrible jaws open—he screamed for Xu Fu to return and rescue him.

And then he woke up—in the little shrine where Xu Fu had first appeared to him. The whole adventure had been a dream to expose to Sentaro his foolishness: he had wished for eternal life but found it dull, yet wishing to return to the land of the mortals, still he was
afraid of death. Xu Fu told him to go back to his people and learn to live a virtuous and useful life.

X
U
F
U
’s message is that immortality is not for the weak and foolish. Most of us want to live on, to be free from the fear of death, yet such a wish alone does not prepare us for its consequence: being alive
forever
. It is doubtful we can even grasp what that really means. Forever is not just a long time—it is much, much more than that. A million years is a long time. A million million even longer. But if I filled this book with a million zeroes, then wrote a million more books just like it, that number would not be halfway to the length of eternity. Or even a millionth of the way there. For no matter how long you lived, how many millions or trillions of years, that would still be a tiny fraction of the infinite life still ahead of you. An infinitely tiny fraction. That is an awesome prospect.

We are all, like the First Emperor or poor Sentaro, driven to seek immortality, to somehow overcome the frailties of the flesh and just live on. This drive arises from our capacious imaginations projecting the instinctive will to survive into the unending future. But are our unique imaginations powerful enough to tell us what forever would really be
like
? As no mind can encompass the infinite, every attempt falls short. In pursuing immortality, it is as if we were compelled to journey to a promised land to which we have never been and from which no one has ever returned.

The Xu Fu story does not say living forever is bad; the sorcerer himself enjoys the immortality of the sages and shows no sign of regretting his achievements. Rather, it problematizes immortality; it says eternal life may not be for everyone, and not all immortalities are equal. The sage finds enlightenment and eternal peace; the fool is driven to distraction by the cycles of his petty life. When seeking the elixir, we must think not only of what we want to
have
but also of who we want to become. As the novelist Susan Ertz put it, “Millions
long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.”

This is an important corrective after the unquestioned pursuit of the elixir that set Xu Fu on his quest. Many stories and legends assume that more life is an unadulterated good; yet in most cultures, as in most people, there is also a small voice saying: But what immortality? Where? With whom? When being offered the elixir, we ought to ask these questions
before
we take a sip.

It is clear what we could have to gain from taking such a potion: first and foremost, freedom from our mortal fear, the dread of death in all its guises. Seekers of the elixir believe that this removal of angst alone would be enough to transform the human condition, rewriting the play of our lives from tragedy to comedy. For them, living with the certainty of death is like trying to enjoy a car ride knowing the road heads straight off a cliff, whereas to drink the elixir would be to find the turning that leads instead to endless gently rolling hills.

If we value life, it is natural to think that more of it must be good. Life is the prerequisite for everything else; only with life can we have any kind of happiness. And as immortals, we would have all the time in the world—to develop new skills, to explore every culture and corner of the earth, to become everything we can be and have ever dreamed of being. We could find ourselves spiritually, develop new ways to worship our god or become like gods ourselves. We could explore new galaxies or simply enjoy the companionship of our loved ones without the anxiety that they might be taken from us or we from them.

In theory, at least. This all depends, however, on who we are and the circumstances of our exemption from death. Sentaro grew bored after a few hundred years, but his life was that of a staid shopkeeper on a small island. In our modern culture, convinced of inevitable progress, we expect that extended life will bring the thrill of the
new; we expect to live through exciting and dramatic change. With the ever-accelerating pace of technological development, who knows where civilization will be in a hundred, a thousand or a hundred thousand years? And who would not want to be around to see it?

Sentaro was also far removed from his family and friends. To outlive everyone one knows and loves—even one’s own children—could easily be seen as a curse. This is the situation of the heroine in Karel Capek’s 1922 play
The Makropulos Affair
: she alone has the secret to the elixir of life. Like Sentaro, after three hundred years, she has had enough: nothing interests her, she has lost all passion; the men she once loved have grown old and died, and their young replacements seem absurd; she is beyond even boredom. In visions like Capek’s, the immortal is an outcast, envied and loathed and misunderstood by mortals.