Everything, says Spinoza, endeavors to persist in its own being. Among things with a drive for persistence we must include the ephemeral collection of electrical impulses in the flesh enclosed in the skull, the software we accumulate as our hardware meanders around.
Just as most of us negligently omit to backup important files on our computers, we also make no effort to preserve the contents of the mind so that it will survive the demise of the fragile organism that sustains it. I know I’m procrastinating the difficult task of capturing the essence of my mind in art and writing. I’m busy making things that bear not my stamp, but only the stamp of the marketplace. I never preserve the foremost virtues of my mind for the future. Why does the fiction of an afterlife persist even though I know it’s scientifically implausible? Because I can’t bear the thought that my procrastination will be fatal, that the contents of my mind will be forever lost.
But the contents of my mind will indeed be lost if I remain too lazy and timid to attempt to capture them in a form more enduring than flesh. The fiction of an afterlife is fatal to intellectual life. It gives me a ready-made excuse for my procrastination. Imagining I have infinite time, I postpone the backup indefinitely. It never gets done. And everything in my mind that might have been worth preserving is irretrievably lost.
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