The long walk started at noon. I didn't know it would turn into a long walk. I thought it would be a miscellaneousmeditation, Murray and Jack, half an hour's campus meander. But it became a major afternoon, a serious loopingSocratic walk, with practical consequences.

　　I met Murray after his car crash seminar and we wandered along the fringes of the campus, past the cedar-shingledcondominiums set in the trees in their familiar defensive posture—a cluster of dwellings blending so well with theenvironment that birds kept flying into the plate-glass windows.

　　"You're smoking a pipe," I said.

　　Murray smiled sneakily.

　　"It looks good. I like it. It works."He lowered his eyes, smiling. The pipe had a long narrow stem and cubical bowl. It was pale brown and resembled ahighly disciplined household implement, perhaps an Amish or Shaker antique. I wondered if he'd chosen it to matchhis somewhat severe chin whiskers. A tradition of stern virtue seemed to hover about his gestures and expressions.

　　"Why can't we be intelligent about death?" I said.

　　"It's obvious.""It is?""Ivan Ilyich screamed for three days. That's about as intelligent as we get. Tolstoy himself struggled to understand.

　　He feared it terribly.""It's almost as though our fear is what brings it on. If we could learn not to be afraid, we could live forever.""We talk ourselves into it. Is that what you mean?""I don't know what I mean. I only know I'm just going through the motions of living. I'm technically dead. My bodyis growing a nebulous mass. They track these things like satellites. All this as a result of a byproduct of insecticide.

　　There's something artificial about my death. It's shallow, unfulfilling. I don't belong to the earth or sky. They ought tocarve an aerosol can on my tombstone.""Well said."What did he mean, well said? I vanted him to argue with me, raise my dying to a higher level, make me feel better.

　　"Do you think it's unfair?" he said.

　　"Of course I do. Or is that a trite answer?"He seemed to shrug.

　　"Look how I've lived. Has my life been a mad dash for pleasure? Have I been hellbent on self-destruction, usingillegal drugs, driving fast cars, drinking to excess? A little dry sherry at faculty parties. I eat bland foods.""No, you don't."He puffed seriously on his pipe, his cheeks going hollow. We walked in silence for a while.

　　"Do you think your death is premature?" he said.

　　"Every death is premature. There's no scientific reason why we can't live a hundred and fifty years. Some peopleactually do it, according to a headline I saw at the supermarket.""Do you think it's a sense of incompleteness that causes you the deepest regret? There are things you still hope toaccomplish. Work to be done, intellectual challenges to be faced.""The deepest regret is death. The only thing to face is death. This is all I think about. There's only one issue here. Iwant to live.""From the Robert Wise film of the same name, with Susan Hayward as Barbara Graham, a convicted murderess.

　　Aggressive jazz score by Johnny Mandel."I looked at him.

　　"So you're saying, Jack, that death would be just as threatening even if you'd accomplished all you'd ever hoped toaccomplish in your life and work.""Are you crazy? Of course. That's an elitist idea. Would you ask a man who bags groceries if he fears death notbecause it is death but because there are still some interesting groceries he would like to bag?""Well said.""This is death. I don't want it to tarry awhile so I can write a monograph. I want it to go away for seventy or eightyyears.""Your status as a doomed man lends your words a certain prestige and authority. I like that. As the time nears, I thinkyou'll find that people will be eager to hear what you have to say. They will seek you out.""Are you saying this is a wonderful opportunity for me to win friends?""I'm saying you can't let down the living by slipping into self-pity and despair. People will depend on you to be brave.

　　What people look for in a dying friend is a stubborn kind of gravel-voiced nobility, a refusal to give in, with momentsof indomitable humor. You're growing in prestige even as we speak. You're creating a hazy light about your ownbody. I have to like it."We walked down the middle of a steep and winding street. There was no one around. The houses here were old andlooming, set above narrow stone stairways in partial disrepair.

　　"Do you believe love is stronger than death?""Not in a million years.""Good," he said. "Nothing is stronger than death. Do you believe the only people who fear death are those who areafraid of life?""That's crazy. Completely stupid.""Right. We all fear death to some extent. Those who claim otherwise are lying to themselves. Shallow people.""People with their nicknames on their license plates.""Excellent, Jack. Do you believe life without death is somehow incomplete?""How could it be incomplete? Death is what makes it incomplete.""Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?""What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing."'True. The most deeply precious things are those we feel secure about. A wife, a child. Does the specter of deathmake a child more precious?""No.""No. There is no reason to believe life is more precious because it is fleeting. Here is a statement. A person has to betold he is going to die before he can begin to live life to the fullest. True or false?""False. Once your death is established, it becomes impossible to live a satisfying life.""Would you prefer to know the exact date and time of your death?""Absolutely not. It's bad enough to fear the unknown. Faced with the unknown, we can pretend it isn't there. Exactdates would drive many to suicide, if only to beat the system."We crossed an old highway bridge, screened in, littered with sad and faded objects. We followed a footpath along acreek, approached the edge of the high school playing field. Women brought small children here to play in thelong-jump pits.

　　"How do I get around it?" I said.

　　"You could put your faith in technology. It got you here, it can get you out. This is the whole point of technology. Itcreates an appetite for immortality on the one hand. It threatens universal extinction on the other. Technology is lustremoved from nature.""It is?""It's what we invented to conceal the terrible secret of our decaying bodies. But it's also life, isn't it? It prolongs life,it provides new organs for those that wear out. New devices, new techniques every day. Lasers, masers, ultrasound.

　　Give yourself up to it, Jack. Believe in it. They'll insert you in a gleaming tube, irradiate your body with the basicstuff of the universe. Light, energy, dreams. God's own goodness.""I don't think I want to see any doctors for a while, Murray, thanks.""In that case you can always get around death by concentrating on the life beyond.""How do I do that?""It's obvious. Read up on reincarnation, transmigration, hyperspace, the resurrection of the dead and so on. Somegorgeous systems have evolved from these beliefs. Study them.""Do you believe in any of these things?""Millions of people have believed for thousands of years. Throw in with them. Belief in a second birth, a second life,is practically universal. This must mean something.""But these gorgeous systems are all so different.""Pick one you like.""But you make it sound like a convenient fantasy, the worst kind of self-delusion."Again he seemed to shrug. 'Think of the great poetry, the music and dance and ritual that spring forth from ouraspiring to a life beyond death. Maybe these things are justification enough for our hopes and dreams, although Iwouldn't say that to a dying man."He poked me with an elbow. We walked toward the commercial part of town. Murray paused, raised one foot behindhim, reached back to knock some ashes from his pipe. Then he pocketed the thing expertly, inserting it bowl-first inhis corduroy jacket.

　　"Seriously, you can find a great deal of long-range solace in the idea of an afterlife.""But don't I have to believe? Don't I have to feel in my heart that there is something, genuinely, beyond this life, outthere, looming, in the dark?""What do you think the afterlife is, a body of facts just waiting to be uncovered? Do you think the U.S. Air Force issecretly gathering data on the afterlife and keeping it under wraps because we're not mature enough to accept thefindings? The findings would cause panic? No. I'll tell you what the afterlife is. It's a sweet and terribly touching idea.

　　You can take it or leave it. In the meantime what you have to do is survive an assassination attempt. That would be aninstant tonic. You would feel specially favored, you would grow in charisma.""You said earlier that death was making me grow in charisma. Besides, who would want to kill me?"Once more he shrugged. Survive a train wreck in which a hundred die. Get thrown clear when your single-engineCessna crashes on a golf course after striking a power line in heavy rain just minutes after takeoff. It doesn't have tobe assassination. The point is you're standing at the edge of a smoldering ruin where others lie inert and twisted. Thiscan counteract the effect of any number of nebulous masses, at least for a time."We window-shopped a while, then went into a shoe store. Murray looked at Weejüns, Wallabees, Hush Puppies. Wewandered out into the sun. Children in strollers squinted up at us, appearing to think we were something strange.

　　"Has your German helped?""I can't say it has.""Has it ever helped?""I can't say. I don't know. Who knows these things?""What have you been trying to do all these years?""Put myself under a spell, I guess.""Correct. Nothing to be ashamed of, Jack. It's only your fear that makes you act this way.""Only my fear? Only my death?""We shouldn't be surprised at your lack of success. How powerful did the Germans prove to be? They lost the war,after all.""That's what Denise said.""You've discussed this with the children?""Superficially.""Helpless and fearful people are drawn to magical figures, mythic figures, epic men who intimidate and darklyloom.""You're talking about Hitler, I take it.""Some people are larger than life. Hitler is larger than death. You thought he would protect you. I understandcompletely.""Do you? Because I wish I did.""It's totally obvious. You wanted to be helped and sheltered. The overwhelming horror would leave no room for yourown death. 'Submerge me,' you said. 'Absorb my fear.' On one level you wanted to conceal yourself in Hitler and hisworks. On another level you wanted to use him to grow in significance and strength.

　　I sense a confusion of means. Not that I'm criticizing. It was a daring thing you did, a daring thrust. To use him. I canadmire the attempt even as I see how totally dumb it was, although no dumber than wearing a charm or knockingwood. Six hundred million Hindus stay home from work if the signs are not favorable that morning. So I'm notsingling you out." 'The vast and terrible depth." "Of course," he said. "The inexhaustibility." "I understand."'The whole huge nameless thing." "Yes, absolutely." "The massive darkness." "Certainly, certainly." 'The wholeterrible endless hugeness." "I know exactly what you mean."He tapped the fender of a diagonally parked car, half smiling. "Why have you failed, Jack?" "A confusion of means.""Correct. There are numerous ways to get around death. You tried to employ two of them at once. You stood out onthe one hand and tried to hide on the other. What is the name we give to this attempt?" "Dumb."I followed him into the supermarket. Blasts of color, layers of oceanic sound. We walked under a bright bannerannouncing a ............