[Illustration: "But I just hate the idea of floating"]
Assuming that we are immortal, what happens to a man when he dies? It is
said by some that at first the surroundings in his new life seem
shadowy, but after a bit they grow solid; and then it is the world left
behind that seems vague. You lose touch with it and with those whom you
knew there--except when they think of you. When they think of you,
although you can see them, and feel what they're thinking, it isn't like
hearing the words that they say, or their voices; it's not like looking
over their shoulders to see what they write; it's more like sensing what
is in their thoughts.
But at first you are too bewildered to do this. You are in a new world,
and you find yourself surrounded by spirits, telling you that you're
dead. The spiritualists say that many new arrivals refuse to believe
they are dead, and look around skeptically at heaven, and think they are
dreaming. It often takes a long time to convince them. This must be
rather awkward. It's as though no one who arrived in Chicago would
believe he was there, but went stumbling around, treating citizens as
though they weren't real, and saying that he doubted whether there was
any such place as Chicago.
But if there is any truth in this picture, it explains a great deal. If
the spirits themselves cannot clearly take in their new life at first,
how can we on this side of the barrier ever understand what it's like?
And, not understanding, what wonder we don't find it attractive?
You can't describe one kind of existence to those in another.
Suppose, for example, we were describing dry land to a fish.
"We have steam-heat and sun-sets," I might tell him--just for a
beginning.
And the fish would think: "Heat? Phew! that's murderous! And oh, that
sizzling old sun!"
"We have legs," I might add.
"What are legs?"
"Things to walk on. They're like sticks, that grow right on our bodies.
We do not use fins."
"What, no fins! Why, with fins, just a flicker will shoot me in any
direction. Legs are clumsy and slow: think of tottering around on such
stumps! And you can only go on the level with them; you can't rise and
dip."
"Yes, we can. We build stairs."
"But how primitive!"
Perhaps he would ask me what drawbacks there were to earthly existence;
and how he would moan when I told him about bills and battles.
"And is it true," he might say, "that there really are beings called
dentists? Weird creatures, who pull your poor teeth out, and hammer your
mouths? Bless my gills! It sounds dreadful! Don't ask me to leave my
nice ocean!"
Then, to be fair, he might ask, "What's the other side of the picture,
old man? What pleasures have you that would tempt me? What do you do to
amuse yourselves?" And I would tell him about Charlie Chaplin, and
Geraldine Farrar, and business, and poetry--but how could I describe
Charlie Chaplin from the fish point of view? And poetry?--getting
ecstasy from little black dots on a page? "You get soulful over _that_
kind of doings?" he would ask, with a smile. "Well, all right, but it
sounds pretty crazy to a sensible fish."
"Business is the main thing here, anyhow," I'd answer.
"And what's 'business'?"
"Well, it's--er--it's like this: Suppose you, for instance, were to go
and catch a great many flies--"
[Illustration: He smiled dreamily]
The fish would look pleased and smile dreamily.
"But then not eat them, mind you."
"Not _eat_ them?"
"No, but put them all out on a bit of flat rock, for a counter, and
'sell' them to other fish: exchange them, I mean--for shells, let us
say, if you used shells as money."
[Illustration: And what would I do with shells?]
The fish would look puzzled. "But what _for_, my dear sir?" he'd
inquire. "What would I do with shells?"
"Exchange them for flies again, see?"
"O my soul! what a life!"