The World of the Unborn

The Erewhonians say that we are drawn through life backwards; or again, that we go onwards into the future as into a dark corridor. Time walks beside us and flings back shutters as we advance; but the light thus given often dazzles us, and deepens the darkness which is in front. We can see but little at a time, and heed that little far less than our apprehension of what we shall see next; ever peering curiously through the glare of the present into the gloom of the future, we presage the leading lines of that which is before us, by faintly reflected lights from dull mirrors that are behind, and stumble on as we may till the trap-door opens beneath us and we are gone.

The Erewhonians say that we are pulled backward through life. Or, they say, we move forward into the future as if entering a dark corridor. Time walks beside us, throwing open shutters as we advance. But the light often dazzles us and makes the darkness ahead seem deeper. We can see only a little at a time. We pay far less attention to that little than to our fear of what we will see next. We keep peering through the glare of the present into the gloom of the future. By the faint light reflected from dull mirrors behind us, we guess the outlines of what lies ahead. We stumble on as best we can until the trapdoor opens beneath us and we are gone.

They say at other times that the future and the past are as a panorama upon two rollers; that which is on the roller of the future unwraps itself on to the roller of the past; we cannot hasten it, and we may not stay it; we must see all that is unfolded to us whether it be good or ill; and what we have seen once we may see again no more. It is ever unwinding and being wound; we catch it in transition for a moment, and call it present; our flustered senses gather what impression they can, and we guess at what is coming by the tenor of that which we have seen. The same hand has painted the whole picture, and the incidents vary little—rivers, woods, plains, mountains, towns and peoples, love, sorrow, and death: yet the interest never flags, and we look hopefully for some good fortune, or fearfully lest our own faces be shown us as figuring in something terrible. When the scene is past we think we know it, though there is so much to see, and so little time to see it, that our conceit of knowledge as regards the past is for the most part poorly founded; neither do we care about it greatly, save in so far as it may affect the future, wherein our interest mainly lies.

At other times, they say that the future and the past are like a panorama stretched between two rollers. The picture unwinds from the roller of the future onto the roller of the past. We cannot speed it up or stop it. We must see everything that unfolds before us, whether good or bad. And what we have seen once, we can never see again. The picture is always unwinding from one roller and winding onto the other. We catch it in passing for a moment and call it the present. Our flustered senses take in what they can. Then we guess what is coming from the course of what we have seen. The same hand has painted the whole picture, and the scenes vary little. There are rivers, woods, plains, mountains, towns and peoples, love, sorrow, and death. Yet our interest never fades. We look on hopefully for some good fortune. Or we watch fearfully, afraid that we will see our own faces in some terrible scene. Once a scene has passed, we think we know it. But there is so much to see, and so little time to see it. So our belief that we know the past is mostly poorly founded. Nor do we care much about the past, except as it may affect the future. The future is where our interest mainly lies.

The Erewhonians say it was by chance only that the earth and stars and all the heavenly worlds began to roll from east to west, and not from west to east, and in like manner they say it is by chance that man is drawn through life with his face to the past instead of to the future. For the future is there as much as the past, only that we may not see it. Is it not in the loins of the past, and must not the past alter before the future can do so?

The Erewhonians say that it was only by chance that the earth, stars, and all the heavenly worlds began to roll from east to west rather than from west to east. In the same way, they say it is by chance that we are drawn through life facing the past instead of the future. For the future exists just as much as the past does. We simply cannot see it. Is the future not in the loins of the past? And must the past not change before the future can change?

Sometimes, again, they say that there was a race of men tried upon the earth once, who knew the future better than the past, but that they died in a twelvemonth from the misery which their knowledge caused them; and if any were to be born too prescient now, he would be culled out by natural selection, before he had time to transmit so peace-destroying a faculty to his descendants.

Sometimes, too, they say that a race of men once lived on earth who knew the future better than the past. But they died within a year because their knowledge made them miserable. And if anyone were born with too much knowledge of the future now, natural selection would weed him out. It would do so before he could pass such a peace-destroying ability on to his descendants.

Strange fate for man! He must perish if he get that, which he must perish if he strive not after. If he strive not after it he is no better than the brutes, if he get it he is more miserable than the devils.

What a strange fate for man! He must perish if he gets what he seeks, but he must also perish if he does not seek it. If he does not seek it, he is no better than the animals. If he gets it, he is more miserable than the devils.

Having waded through many chapters like the above, I came at last to the unborn themselves, and found that they were held to be souls pure and simple, having no actual bodies, but living in a sort of gaseous yet more or less anthropomorphic existence, like that of a ghost; they have thus neither flesh nor blood nor warmth. Nevertheless they are supposed to have local habitations and cities wherein they dwell, though these are as unsubstantial as their inhabitants; they are even thought to eat and drink some thin ambrosial sustenance, and generally to be capable of doing whatever mankind can do, only after a visionary ghostly fashion as in a dream. On the other hand, as long as they remain where they are they never die—the only form of death in the unborn world being the leaving it for our own. They are believed to be extremely numerous, far more so than mankind. They arrive from unknown planets, full grown, in large batches at a time; but they can only leave the unborn world by taking the steps necessary for their arrival here—which is, in fact, by suicide.

After wading through many chapters like the one above, I finally came to the unborn themselves. I found that they were believed to be pure souls, with no actual bodies. They lived in a sort of gaseous state, yet had a more or less human shape, like ghosts. Thus they had no flesh, blood, or warmth. Nevertheless, they were supposed to have homes and cities to live in, though these were as insubstantial as the unborn themselves. They were even thought to eat and drink some thin, heavenly food and drink. In general, they were thought capable of doing whatever humans can do, but in a ghostly, dreamlike way. On the other hand, as long as they remained where they were, they never died. The only kind of death in the world of the unborn was leaving it for our world. They were believed to be extremely numerous, far more so than humans. They arrived from unknown planets, fully grown, in large groups. But they could leave the world of the unborn only by taking the steps necessary to arrive here. In fact, they could leave only by suicide.

They ought to be an exceedingly happy people, for they have no extremes of good or ill fortune; never marrying, but living in a state much like that fabled by the poets as the primitive condition of mankind. In spite of this, however, they are incessantly complaining; they know that we in this world have bodies, and indeed they know everything else about us, for they move among us whithersoever they will, and can read our thoughts, as well as survey our actions at pleasure. One would think that this should be enough for them; and most of them are indeed alive to the desperate risk which they will run by indulging themselves in that body with “sensible warm motion” which they so much desire; nevertheless, there are some to whom the ennui of a disembodied existence is so intolerable that they will venture anything for a change; so they resolve to quit. The conditions which they must accept are so uncertain, that none but the most foolish of the unborn will consent to them; and it is from these, and these only, that our own ranks are recruited.

They ought to be an exceedingly happy people, because they never experience great good or bad fortune. They never marry, but live much as the poets imagined people lived in the beginning. Despite this, they complain constantly. They know that we in this world have bodies, and indeed they know everything else about us. They move among us wherever they please, and can read our thoughts and watch our actions whenever they wish. One would think this would be enough for them. Most of them are indeed aware of the terrible risk they would run by indulging their desire for a body with “sensible warm motion.” Nevertheless, some find the boredom of living without a body so unbearable that they will risk anything for a change. So they decide to leave. The conditions they must accept are so uncertain that only the most foolish of the unborn will agree to them. It is from these, and these alone, that our own ranks are filled.

When they have finally made up their minds to leave, they must go before the magistrate of the nearest town, and sign an affidavit of their desire to quit their then existence. On their having done this, the magistrate reads them the conditions which they must accept, and which are so long that I can only extract some of the principal points, which are mainly the following:-

When they have finally decided to leave, they must go before the magistrate of the nearest town. There, they must sign an affidavit stating that they wish to leave their present existence. Once they have done this, the magistrate reads them the conditions they must accept. The conditions are so long that I can only quote some of the main points, which are chiefly as follows:

First, they must take a potion which will destroy their memory and sense of identity; they must go into the world helpless, and without a will of their own; they must draw lots for their dispositions before they go, and take them, such as they are, for better or worse—neither are they to be allowed any choice in the matter of the body which they so much desire; they are simply allotted by chance, and without appeal, to two people whom it is their business to find and pester until they adopt them. Who these are to be, whether rich or poor, kind or unkind, healthy or diseased, there is no knowing; they have, in fact, to entrust themselves for many years to the care of those for whose good constitution and good sense they have no sort of guarantee.

First, they must take a potion that will destroy their memory and sense of identity. They must go into the world helpless and without a will of their own. Before they go, they must draw lots for their dispositions and accept them, for better or worse. Nor are they allowed any choice about the body they desire so much. They are simply assigned by chance to two people, with no right to appeal. They must find these people and pester them until they adopt them. There is no way of knowing who these people will be, whether rich or poor, kind or unkind, healthy or diseased. In fact, they must entrust themselves for many years to people whose health and good sense are in no way guaranteed.

It is curious to read the lectures which the wiser heads give to those who are meditating a change. They talk with them as we talk with a spendthrift, and with about as much success.

It is curious to read the lectures that wiser people give to those considering a change. They talk to them as we talk to someone who spends too freely, and with about as much success.

“To be born,” they say, “is a felony—it is a capital crime, for which sentence may be executed at any moment after the commission of the offence. You may perhaps happen to live for some seventy or eighty years, but what is that, compared with the eternity you now enjoy? And even though the sentence were commuted, and you were allowed to live on for ever, you would in time become so terribly weary of life that execution would be the greatest mercy to you.

“To be born,” they say, “is a felony. It is a capital crime, and the sentence may be carried out at any time after the crime. You may perhaps live for seventy or eighty years, but what is that compared with the eternity you now enjoy? And even if your sentence were reduced and you were allowed to live forever, you would eventually grow terribly tired of life. Then execution would be the greatest mercy for you.

“Consider the infinite risk; to be born of wicked parents and trained in vice! to be born of silly parents, and trained to unrealities! of parents who regard you as a sort of chattel or property, belonging more to them than to yourself! Again, you may draw utterly unsympathetic parents, who will never be able to understand you, and who will do their best to thwart you (as a hen when she has hatched a duckling), and then call you ungrateful because you do not love them; or, again, you may draw parents who look upon you as a thing to be cowed while it is still young, lest it should give them trouble hereafter by having wishes and feelings of its own.

“Think of the enormous risk. You might be born to wicked parents and taught vice! Or to foolish parents and raised on illusions! Or to parents who treat you as property, belonging more to them than to yourself! You might also get parents who have no sympathy for you and will never be able to understand you. They will do their best to frustrate you (like a hen that has hatched a duckling). Then they will call you ungrateful because you do not love them. Or you might get parents who think a child must be cowed while still young. Otherwise, the child might cause them trouble later by having wishes and feelings of its own.

“In later life, when you have been finally allowed to pass muster as a full member of the world, you will yourself become liable to the pesterings of the unborn—and a very happy life you may be led in consequence! For we solicit so strongly that a few only—nor these the best—can refuse us; and yet not to refuse is much the same as going into partnership with half-a-dozen different people about whom one can know absolutely nothing beforehand—not even whether one is going into partnership with men or women, nor with how many of either. Delude not yourself with thinking that you will be wiser than your parents. You may be an age in advance of those whom you have pestered, but unless you are one of the great ones you will still be an age behind those who will in their turn pester you.

“Later in life, when you have finally been accepted as a full member of the world, the unborn will pester you too. And what a happy life they may give you as a result! For we plead so insistently that only a few can refuse us, and they are not the best. Yet saying yes is much like going into partnership with half a dozen people you can know nothing about beforehand. You cannot even know whether your partners will be men or women, or how many of each. Do not fool yourself into thinking you will be wiser than your parents. You may be an age ahead of the people you have pestered. But unless you are one of the great ones, you will still be an age behind those who will pester you in turn.

“Imagine what it must be to have an unborn quartered upon you, who is of an entirely different temperament and disposition to your own; nay, half-a-dozen such, who will not love you though you have stinted yourself in a thousand ways to provide for their comfort and well-being,—who will forget all your self-sacrifice, and of whom you may never be sure that they are not bearing a grudge against you for errors of judgement into which you may have fallen, though you had hoped that such had been long since atoned for. Ingratitude such as this is not uncommon, yet fancy what it must be to bear! It is hard upon the duckling to have been hatched by a hen, but is it not also hard upon the hen to have hatched the duckling?

“Imagine having an unborn person foisted upon you whose temperament and disposition are entirely different from your own. Or even half a dozen such people. They will not love you, though you have gone without in a thousand ways to provide for their comfort and well-being. They will forget all your sacrifices. And you can never be sure they are not holding a grudge against you for errors of judgment. You may have hoped that those errors had long since been atoned for. Such ingratitude is not uncommon, yet imagine what it must be like to bear it! It is hard on the duckling to have been hatched by a hen, but is it not also hard on the hen to have hatched the duckling?

“Consider it again, we pray you, not for our sake but for your own. Your initial character you must draw by lot; but whatever it is, it can only come to a tolerably successful development after long training; remember that over that training you will have no control. It is possible, and even probable, that whatever you may get in after life which is of real pleasure and service to you, will have to be won in spite of, rather than by the help of, those whom you are now about to pester, and that you will only win your freedom after years of a painful struggle in which it will be hard to say whether you have suffered most injury, or inflicted it.

“Please think about it again, not for our sake but for your own. You must draw your initial character by lot. But whatever character you get, it can develop reasonably well only after long training. Remember, you will have no control over that training. Later in life, you may gain things that give you real pleasure and help you. But it is possible, even likely, that you will have to win them despite the people you are about to bother, rather than with their help. And you will win your freedom only after years of painful struggle. It will be hard to say whether you have suffered more harm or caused it.

“Remember also, that if you go into the world you will have free will; that you will be obliged to have it; that there is no escaping it; that you will be fettered to it during your whole life, and must on every occasion do that which on the whole seems best to you at any given time, no matter whether you are right or wrong in choosing it. Your mind will be a balance for considerations, and your action will go with the heavier scale. How it shall fall will depend upon the kind of scales which you may have drawn at birth, the bias which they will have obtained by use, and the weight of the immediate considerations. If the scales were good to start with, and if they have not been outrageously tampered with in childhood, and if the combinations into which you enter are average ones, you may come off well; but there are too many ‘ifs’ in this, and with the failure of any one of them your misery is assured. Reflect on this, and remember that should the ill come upon you, you will have yourself to thank, for it is your own choice to be born, and there is no compulsion in the matter.

“Remember also that if you enter the world, you will have free will. You will be forced to have it. There is no escaping it. You will be chained to free will all your life. On every occasion, you must do whatever seems best to you at the time, whether your choice is right or wrong. Your mind will be a set of scales for weighing considerations, and you will act according to the heavier side. How the scales tip will depend on the kind you were born with, how use has tilted them, and the weight of the immediate considerations. If your scales were good to begin with, and if they were not badly tampered with in childhood, you may fare well. But you must also find yourself in average circumstances. There are too many ‘ifs’ here, and if any one of these conditions fails, your misery is certain. Think about this, and remember that if misfortune comes upon you, you will have only yourself to thank. Being born is your own choice, and no one is forcing you.

“Not that we deny the existence of pleasures among mankind; there is a certain show of sundry phases of contentment which may even amount to very considerable happiness; but mark how they are distributed over a man’s life, belonging, all the keenest of them, to the fore part, and few indeed to the after. Can there be any pleasure worth purchasing with the miseries of a decrepit age? If you are good, strong, and handsome, you have a fine fortune indeed at twenty, but how much of it will be left at sixty? For you must live on your capital; there is no investing your powers so that you may get a small annuity of life for ever: you must eat up your principal bit by bit, and be tortured by seeing it grow continually smaller and smaller, even though you happen to escape being rudely robbed of it by crime or casualty.

“We do not deny that people have pleasures. There are various kinds of contentment that may even amount to considerable happiness. But notice how these pleasures are distributed over a man’s life. All the keenest come early, and very few come later. Can any pleasure be worth buying at the price of a miserable, decrepit old age? If you are good, strong, and handsome, you have a fine fortune at twenty. But how much of it will be left at sixty? You must live on your capital. You cannot invest your powers to earn a small income of life forever. You must eat up your principal bit by bit. And you must suffer as you watch it grow steadily smaller. This is true even if you escape being robbed of it by crime or accident.

“Remember, too, that there never yet was a man of forty who would not come back into the world of the unborn if he could do so with decency and honour. Being in the world he will as a general rule stay till he is forced to go; but do you think that he would consent to be born again, and re-live his life, if he had the offer of doing so? Do not think it. If he could so alter the past as that he should never have come into being at all, do you not think that he would do it very gladly?

“Remember, too, that every man of forty would return to the world of the unborn if he could do so decently and honorably. Once in the world, he will generally stay until he is forced to leave. But do you think he would agree to be born again and relive his life if he had the chance? Do not think so. If he could change the past so that he had never existed, don't you think he would gladly do it?

“What was it that one of their own poets meant, if it was not this, when he cried out upon the day in which he was born, and the night in which it was said there is a man child conceived? ‘For now,’ he says, ‘I should have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept; then had I been at rest with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built desolate places for themselves; or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver; or as an hidden untimely birth, I had not been; as infants which never saw light. There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’ Be very sure that the guilt of being born carries this punishment at times to all men; but how can they ask for pity, or complain of any mischief that may befall them, having entered open-eyed into the snare?

“What else could one of their own poets have meant when he cursed the day he was born? He also cursed the night when someone said a boy had been conceived. ‘For now,’ he says, ‘I would be lying still and quiet. I would be sleeping. Then I would be at rest with kings and advisers of the earth, who built deserted places for themselves. Or I would be at rest with princes who had gold and filled their houses with silver. Or I would never have existed, like a hidden stillborn child, like infants who never saw the light. There the wicked stop causing trouble, and the weary are at rest.’ Be sure that all men at times suffer this punishment for the guilt of being born. But how can they ask for pity or complain of any misfortune, when they entered the trap with open eyes?”

“One word more and we have done. If any faint remembrance, as of a dream, flit in some puzzled moment across your brain, and you shall feel that the potion which is to be given you shall not have done its work, and the memory of this existence which you are leaving endeavours vainly to return; we say in such a moment, when you clutch at the dream but it eludes your grasp, and you watch it, as Orpheus watched Eurydice, gliding back again into the twilight kingdom, fly—fly—if you can remember the advice—to the haven of your present and immediate duty, taking shelter incessantly in the work which you have in hand. This much you may perhaps recall; and this, if you will imprint it deeply upon your every faculty, will be most likely to bring you safely and honourably home through the trials that are before you.”³

“One more word, and we are done. In some puzzled moment, a faint memory may cross your mind, like a dream. You may feel that the potion you are to be given has not done its work. The memory of the existence you are leaving may try in vain to return. In such a moment, you may grasp at the dream, only to have it slip away. You may watch it glide back into the twilight kingdom, as Orpheus watched Eurydice. If you can remember our advice, flee, flee to the safety of your present and immediate duty. Take constant shelter in the work at hand. Perhaps you will remember this much. If you impress this advice deeply on every part of your mind, it will be most likely to bring you safely and honorably home through the trials ahead.”³

This is the fashion in which they reason with those who would be for leaving them, but it is seldom that they do much good, for none but the unquiet and unreasonable ever think of being born, and those who are foolish enough to think of it are generally foolish enough to do it. Finding, therefore, that they can do no more, the friends follow weeping to the courthouse of the chief magistrate, where the one who wishes to be born declares solemnly and openly that he accepts the conditions attached to his decision. On this he is presented with a potion, which immediately destroys his memory and sense of identity, and dissipates the thin gaseous tenement which he has inhabited: he becomes a bare vital principle, not to be perceived by human senses, nor to be by any chemical test appreciated. He has but one instinct, which is that he is to go to such and such a place, where he will find two persons whom he is to importune till they consent to undertake him; but whether he is to find these persons among the race of Chowbok or the Erewhonians themselves is not for him to choose.

This is how they reason with those who want to leave them. But they seldom do much good. Only restless and unreasonable people ever think of being born. And those foolish enough to think of it are usually foolish enough to do it. So, finding they can do no more, their friends follow them weeping to the chief magistrate’s courthouse. There, the person who wishes to be born solemnly and openly accepts the conditions attached to the decision. The person is then given a potion, which immediately destroys his memory and sense of identity. It also dissolves the thin gaseous dwelling he has inhabited. He becomes a bare vital principle, beyond the reach of human senses or any chemical test. He has only one instinct: to go to a particular place and find two people there. He must keep pleading with them until they agree to take him on. But he cannot choose whether to find these people among the race of Chowbok or the Erewhonians themselves.