The living and the dead at his command
Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand,
Till, chok’d with stench, in loath’d embraces tied,
The ling’ring wretches pin’d away and died.
—Virgil, The Aeneid, Book 8

In his article, “Face to Face with Death” (The Post, June 3, 2024), Tim Brown identifies a particularly heinous form of torture described by the poet Virgil in these lines from The Aeneid. This practice was used by the Etruscans, predecessors of the Romans, and adopted later by the Romans. Brown describes the gruesome nature of this torture:

A living man or woman was tied to a rotting corpse, face to face, mouth to mouth, limb to limb, with an obsessive exactitude in which each part of the body corresponded with its matching putrefying counterpart. Shackled to their rotting double, the man or woman was left to decay. To avoid starvation, the Etruscans continued to feed the victim appropriately. Only once the superficial difference between the corpse and the living body started to rot away through the agency of worms, which bridged the two bodies, establishing a differential continuity between them, did the Etruscans stop feeding the living. Once both the living and the dead had turned black through putrefaction, the Etruscans deemed it appropriate to unshackle the bodies.

I should’ve included a trigger warning at the start of this post, for this is stomach-turning, nightmare-inducing stuff. To be shackled to a corpse and left to decay is unimaginable.

For many, however, this practice may be a fitting—albeit awful—metaphor for the condition in which they find themselves. That is, they may feel as though they’re shackled to dying systems, ideologies, practices, or relationships, and forced to carry these corpses as they navigate their lives. Perhaps they’re shackled to systems, ideologies, practices, or relationships they desperately wish would die. Or perhaps, they’re shackled to what psychiatrist Carl Jung referred to as their shadow selves, the hidden parts of themselves they’ve repressed and denied, too ashamed to reveal them to others. In any case, being bound like this is abhorrent.

Consider the Greek myth of Sisyphus, the king condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill for eternity but never reach the summit. French writer and philosopher Albert Camus regarded Sisyphus as a metaphor for the modern condition: Our lives are meaningless, and being conscious of this meaninglessness is a form of torture. Some may argue that being bound to a boulder (and the act of forever pushing it up a hill) is certainly preferable to being bound to a rotting corpse. And this may be so. Still, by all standards, Sisyphus’ punishment was hellish and eternal.

And consider the Apostle Paul. In his Letter to the Romans, he laments his own shackles:

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it. [Romans 7: 15-20]

I empathize greatly with Paul, my good intentions shackled to my sinful nature. His words here are my words, his lament, mine. I know what I want to do, but too often I find myself doing what I hate. Like all humans, I’m a carnal, mortal creature, my spiritual self bound to a physical self with a corporeal appetite and a limited shelf life. Face-to-face with the parts of me I wish would die, like Paul, I must confront them daily.

As I said earlier, I suspect most of us find ourselves shackled to something. Regardless of our political, cultural, spiritual, or philosophical beliefs, we encounter things that are undesirable, at best, and reprehensible, at worst. We may feel chained to things we despise, corpses which others have forced upon us. And the time we’re destined to be shackled to these corpses is insufferable.

In recent years, I’ve talked with people who shared their belief the world is literally going to hell in a handbasket. They contend the conditions in which we’re living now are worse than ever. This may be true, but I suspect there were those in every age who felt much the same. I understand and empathize with them. And at this point, I confess I might’ve begun my post with this disclaimer: Regrettably, I can offer no original or simple solutions to the challenges we face and the pain we suffer. Still, I might share what others have said and written.

In Gal Beckerman’s article, “Be Like Sisyphus (The Atlantic, Jan. 22, 2025), he recalls Camus’ essay, “The Myth of Sisyphus,” and is reminded that, for Camus, Sisyphus wasn’t necessarily a tragic figure. Beckerman writes, “he has some power over his existential predicament. Once he grasps his fate—‘the wild and limited universe of man’—Sisyphus discovers a certain freedom he gets to determine whether to face the futility of it all with joy or sorrow.” In the end, Camus maintains that “the struggle itself toward heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Is the struggle towards something better enough to fill our hearts? Is the fight to unshackle ourselves enough to make us happy? Some would argue, yes. Beckerman concedes that this may be a “bleak model for those in lamentation over our current moment.” Yet, he also contends that this model may be appropriate today as we acknowledge “that sense of being cosmically screwed while knowing that finding purpose, and even some kind of hopefulness, is possible in a world that promises nothing.”

There are other models, too. In the book of John, Jesus warns his disciples of the trials they will face when he leaves. He explains that it’s for their good that he dies, so that the Holy Spirit will come, and they will not be alone. In John 16:31-33, we read:

“Do you now believe?” Jesus replied. “A time is coming and in fact has come when you will be scattered, each to your own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me. “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

For centuries, Christians, like all people, have encountered the troubles of this world. Following Christ, they’ve sought to live well in this world but not to be of this world. They’ve sought to “take heart,” holding fast to Christ’s promises of salvation and abundant life. They’ve sought to live joyfully despite their circumstances, to find peace and comfort in the midst of suffering. And they’ve found freedom, despite the shackles of their mortal lives.

Some might find the model of “hopeful pessimism” compelling. In her book Hopeful Pessimism, philosopher Mara van der Lught argues that pessimism isn’t the same thing as fatalism. That is, you might believe it’s likely a tornado will destroy your house and take your life, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that it will. According to van der Lught, pessimism is simply “a refusal to believe that progress is a given.” Today, many would argue that progress is definitely not “a given.” In politics, science, education, business, medicine, and culture, they believe we’re losing ground, moving backwards, and conceding what gains we’ve made. Still, van der Lught writes of “radical hope,” which operates in the direst situations, even those in which death seems certain. Czech dissident and later president of his country, Václav Havel, was asked about hope in a 1985 interview, and he said that hope was not a “prognostication” but “an orientation of the spirit.” He explained further by claiming that [Hope is] “not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously headed for early success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.” Both van der Lught and Havel understand the shackles of pessimism and offer “radical hope.”

Clearly, there are models from other faiths and philosophies for “those in lamentation over our current moment.” I’ve offered a few. Beckerman concludes his Atlantic article by suggesting that “[f]or those who feel dread about America and the world, hopeful pessimism might seem like a thin string to grab on to, but it offers, I think, what might otherwise be called realism without requiring that one abandon the beauty of possibility.” Camus, Christ, van der Lught, and Havel understood this realism. They also understood that though we may be shackled to all kinds of corpses (figuratively speaking), we don’t have to abandon what is good and true. We must not abandon the beautiful possibility that things will improve, and our chains will be broken.

I’ll leave you with the final lines from Dylan Thomas’ poem, “Fern Hill”:

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.