So you want to live forever. Well, join the crowd. Cheating death has been on humanity’s wish list since we first discovered that bodies come with expiration dates. As Groucho Marx quipped, “I plan to live forever or die trying.” 

The desire for immortality is as old as civilization itself, fueling everything from ancient myths to modern medicine and inspiring quests for fountains of youth, tales of resurrection, and dreams of leaving a lasting legacy. Yet, as philosopher Stephen Cave observes, our relentless pursuit of eternal life may be more of a distraction than a destination—a noble mountain we begin to climb that we later discover is only a Stairmaster.

In his book, Immortality: The Quest to Live Forever and How It Drives Civilization, Cave takes the desire for immortality very seriously. He argues that it is not merely a personal preoccupation, but a major driver of civilization. He examines why we humans so dreadfully fear death and how we handle our terror management.

Cave posits four paths up the mountain to immortality that have existed throughout recorded human history, all of them flawed. The first is the “Elixir Story”: since death is so frightening, people seek any avenue to avoid it altogether. In earlier times, this resulted in searches for a “fountain of youth” or magic potions. Oscar Wilde invented the portrait of Dorian Gray that aged while its subject retained youth. 

Today, cheating death relies upon medical advancements (stem cells, gene editing, etc.) that could keep us around until an ultimate cure for all ills eliminates the threat altogether. Yet modern medicine’s quest for immortality often feels like a subscription service: just when you think you’ve paid for eternal youth, they hit you with another co-pay and an impossible diet and exercise program.

The next path is the “Resurrection Story”— we may pass from this earth, but we will live again. Life after death is a staple of many religions, with the anticipation of a bodily resurrection on tap at some future juncture. Among the hordes of the faithful trudging up this path trusting in an omnipotent god are newcomers trusting in an omnipotent science. 

Cryonic preservation of one’s head or whole body allows a pause, hoping that future scientists will not only cure all diseases, but also figure out what to do about a freezer-burned noggin. Counting on a future energization seems a bit like leaving your leftovers in the fridge: you’re optimistic that you’ll want them later, but deep down, you know they’re destined for the trash.

The remaining paths take license with literal immortality. The “Soul Story” posits that we shed our bodies but not our spirits. Whether consciously in a heaven or hell, or less coherently as a reincarnated animal, our souls keep on ticking. I’ve heard many sermons on this theme.

For the irreligious, this might simply take the form of uploading our minds and essences into a computer for myriad posthumous applications. Just think, we could finally exist as pure thought—plus banner ads. This would keep us close to home in the new QTS Data Center on Highway 54. But what good would it be to live forever in the cloud when I never can remember my password?

The “Legacy Story” permeates literature as that noble self-sacrifice that inspires humankind to greatness and wonder. Hikers up this path calculate how their heroic efforts will enrich posterity and garner immortal fame. Less ambitious, legacy-motivated people merely plow their energies into their children and bolster the next generation of themselves. For most of us, a happy legacy would be naming a park bench in our honor and hoping the pigeons show restraint. The ordinary guy agrees with Woody Allen: “I don’t want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.”

If the mountain metaphor doesn’t work for you, Cave also offers a literary one. Life is a book with birth and death as the initial and final pages respectively. The great stories that should be pursued within these covers are often thwarted by the distractions of the final page or an anticipated sequel. He views the immortality mountain as a time- and energy-sapping detour to quell thanatophobic fear. Admitting the obvious—that mortality is part of the human experience—allows us to fill life’s pages with meaning and joy. But let’s be real, some days our books feel like novels, and other days like DMV instructional manuals.

Cave’s skepticism is clear, but I find his conclusions less dire. Why must imagining a story beyond life’s covers prevent us from writing a compelling one now? I understand the constraints of immobilizing fear of death that might circumscribe every action, but most of us can consider two stories simultaneously. Indeed, imagining events outside our book boundaries can enhance our experiences. We read great literature to broaden our world view, not to anesthetize us from reality. Certainly, obsessive preoccupation with the immortality mountain may be dysfunctional, but sampling these pathways provides just another chapter to our stories.

Creeping age finds me in the latter chapters of my book. Some days I feel like I’m penning a sweeping novel or a lively memoir; on others, it reads more like a short story with a questionable plot twist. I have no faith in magical elixirs, nor do I contemplate freezing my brain like a science experiment. If my soul outlives my body, I hope it finds adventure. I don’t expect my likeness to grace any future monuments, but I do hope my granddaughters remember me with a smile. So, I guess I’m done with mountain climbing, but I still have a few pages left—and I intend to make them count.