Synaptic

Natasha’s persona paper as Death demonstrates her perceptive reading and creative interpretation of the texts. She began first with an exploration of Death in Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus. John Donne’s “Death be not Proud” sonnet inspired her to return to the character to add depth and dimension. Above all, Natasha’s tone surprised us as readers and commanded our attention; her voice resounded even after we had finished reading the paper.

-Mary Stark

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Death has forever been, and will forever be, me. I came into the world a stillborn child, leaving as quickly as I had entered. Mortality will forever be a mystery to me. The Almighty may have found the realm of humanity unfit for my presence, but he made up for it in my heavenly eternity. In my physical death, He provided me an opportunity. “Malachi, messenger of the Lord,” rumbled he, “the Angels will raise you to fulfill your heavenly purpose.” Out of death, as Phoenix rises, rose an Archangel. I earned my wings, my brooding Scythe, and a destiny.

Azrael am I, the Archangel of Death. I am revered by few, and feared by most. I am clad in black, as the nature of my work insists. The transportation of souls is entrusted to me. Black is a neutral color. For heaven is purer white than man could fathom, and hell is darker and more dismal than any black could accurately demonstrate. It encourages the soul, my companion in travel, with no hope of heaven and no fear of hell. My brooding Scythe is not for cutting down my “enemies,” or forcefully taking life from those who neither deserve nor expect it. I can only dream of such power. Such decisions will forever remain out of my hands. I have no enemies, I fear no man. I am but a humble messenger with a higher purpose, carrying with me my treasured, boisterous walking stick. My Scythe allows me to keep the soul safe on our excruciatingly long journey, lest it try to run from me.

Mortals, those simpletons, take little time to think of me. They lurk under the impression that life is a birthright, scouring to the ends of the Earth and polluting it with their nonexistent morals and poor excuse for a work ethic. Life is not free. It is a gift graciously bestowed upon the lowly human race as a philanthropic sentiment of the Prince of Hell and Yahweh. Such a gift has a price, and such a price must be repaid. As a messenger for these deities, I descend to Earth to collect. The human soul is the requested collateral, and I am appointed to escort it to its final resting place. My job is honorable, but my designated bounty anything but. Those beastly mammals taunt and scorn me, and claim themselves my “victims.” They aim insults under the false impression that their malice will turn me away. They falsely believe they can con their way into more time in this God forsaken domain. With the blasphemously eloquent words of John Donne, they sneer in my direction:

Though art a slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swells’t thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. (10. 9-14)

My response? “Who is the desperate one, you ungrateful fools?” I’d rather spend my days in Hell than be at the mercy those imbeciles. Must there be an attempt to wound me with words in order to feel more content with their miserable, heathen lives?

Aside from the pure idiocracy that is the “free world,” that argument is both invalid and unreasonable. I am immortal; death is of no concern to me. Fools think me indentured and enslaved? Perhaps they should spend less time catering to their vices and spending their precious time chasing futile dreams. Chastising my “swelling” and the place in which I supposedly “dwell” is a waste of breath. I go where the Spirit sends, do His bidding. I have no control over the future or the course of human life. “Fate” is nothing but the divine plan and I its designated messenger. No amount of callousness will alter the divine plan, the soul comes with me. My job description is forever stagnant: The Almighty orders, and I fetch. Humans, though you often turn a blind eye and deaf ear in my direction, I urge you to learn from the mistakes of your forefathers, dating back to Adam and Eve. Respect the God who kindly gives you life. It is he who decides when you cease to exist. But, alas, even my warning will not commence the ceaseless and worthless begging that will ensue when I arrive.

Lo, that cowardly begging, how I can bear it no longer. Even the brilliant Faustus was no match for me. He, no different from others, was forever groping for this world to remain intact for him when his time had finally come.

Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come. Fair Nature’s eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day, or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul. (13.60-65)

I have no sympathy. History repeats itself; the humans will once again find themselves surrounded by poverty, squalor, and disappointment. For Faustus even sold his soul, volunteered for indentured service, and was still unsatisfied when I arrived for him. He forgot his life would ever find its end, and that his books and knowledge would fail to sustain him in my presence. “Come not, Lucifer!” he cried, still yearning for the semblance of his pitiful life (13.112). For his sorrow, I have no pity. I lack this sympathy because not even the most pious of people deserve such a sentiment. Second chances are not worth giving. I am condemned to a life of roaming, collecting these unwilling souls; why has humanity failed to learn from its mistakes? Few are ready to come with me, and fewer still willing to do so. Have those accursed mortal not the faintest idea of life’s sanctity? Carpe diem, my peasants! The world awaits!

So, call me Death, asinine mortals, though it is not my given name. As is your destiny to take leave of the physical realm, mine is to collect thee. I will graciously allot you time to beg, to needlessly lament over your transgressions and lack of a purposeful life, but I tell you now that it will do little for your plight. The way the universe works is above both of our musings. So come with me quietly, and with dignity. Let not what could have been cloud what will be. Perhaps that makes the future less grim, as I hope I have helped you to see. For I am not death, but Death is me.

Works Cited

Donne, John. Holy Sonnet 10. Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2012. 1412. Print.

Marlowe, Christopher. Doctor Faustus. Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed.Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2012. 1128-1163. Print.