Diana Wynne Jones, outstanding fantasy writer and Neil Gaiman’s friend, died. She lived a long life, and a good life, and left a lot of magic behind.
I found myself standing on the balcony after hearing the news, staring into the sky at the stars, and caught myself thinking, “I hope Death came for her.” Those poor, deprived people who aren’t fans of Neil Gaiman won’t understand why that’s a happy thought. Maybe this will help:
There are worse last sights than a cute, perky Gothic chick taking you on one last adventure.
Of course, I laughed at myself a little for the thought. Death exists only in the imagination. There’s no actual being who’s going to drop by and haul anybody’s arse off to the Summer Lands. There’s no afterlife. There’s life, and then there’s not. People seem to think that’s terrifying. They can’t face that death is the end, that there’s nothing beyond to look forward to. I get that. Not as much as I used to, but I understand some people desperately need to believe there’s no end to us.
I used to need that. I used to fear dying quite a lot, actually, and worried about the quality of the afterlife. But then I read Sandman, and met Death, and thought that while life was preferable to death, there wasn’t any real reason to fear Death herself. I didn’t want to meet her too soon, but it wouldn’t be so bad. She put a spring in my step. She dispelled the shadows.
Still. I worried. What if I didn’t accomplish everything I’d set out to do? That’d be me, moping around the Summer Lands, regretting the things I hadn’t done. I’d get what everyone gets: a lifetime. But would it be enough?
Then I became an atheist, and suddenly, the fear was gone. Seriously, totally gone. I no more want to die now than I ever did, I still want to accomplish things and leave something of lasting value behind, but I’m no longer afraid of the fact of death. Why should I be? I won’t have regrets. I’ll know nothing about it. There will be no me left to fret or regret. The end of consciousness used to be a terror, but for some reason, a day came when I could fully accept it. I think it’s because I realized there’s no use in fearing it. And now, I could dedicate all of me to this life. It’s the only one I’ve got. No do-overs. Do I really want to spend it in perpetual panic? No. So. Live a good life, and a full life, as long as I can, and enjoy it. One day at a time, with no eternity staring me accusingly in the face.
There’s a chance that, at the end, I’ll see Death. Near death experience, y’see. Got to thinking about those tonight. The last imaginings of the hypoxic brain. Some people see Jesus. Some people see – well, whatever their culture’s conditioned them to see. So it’s quite possible that the last fitful firings of my synapses will present me with a tunnel, and a cute perky Gothic chick, and with the last instant of consciousness, I’ll be able to take her hand and let her walk me off the stage. It won’t matter a bit that it’s not real, or that it won’t be remembered. It’s still a hell of a nice way to go.
A last instant of happiness. Don’t know. Could be. A last, delightful little hallucination as the grand finale.
I hope that Diana Wynne Jones’s brain did that for her. I hope that the last synapse fired off a happy ending, a fitting tribute to a wonderful life richly lived.