Tusculans 1 offers a multi-faceted refutation of the proposition ‘death is an evil’, accomplished in part through a detailed doxography of a wide range of philosophers of different schools. This survey is far from a jumble of contradictory views, however: Cicero avoids dogmatic insistence on the arguments of any single school and has instead crafted a minimally sectarian protreptic designed to convince readers of any philosophical persuasion that death is not an evil, an approach whose origin he traces back to Socrates’ reflections on death in Plato’s Apology. Furthermore, I argue that this approach amounts to a direct challenge to Cicero’s philosophical rivals, a group of Epicurean authors writing in Latin – including, I speculate, Lucretius – whom Cicero had criticiaed in several prefaces for their narrow-minded dogmatism. In Book 1 Cicero therefore tackles a topic of perennial interest, illustrates how philosophy can and should be written, and attempts to marginalise his Epicurean opponents.

In Tusculans 1 Cicero gives a lengthy rebuttal of the thesis that death is an evil. This raises a puzzle: how can such a one-sided presentation aspire to reveal whether it is more plausible that death is or is not an evil? Invoking the Tusculans’ practical aim – the removal of emotional disturbance – does not fully satisfy, since it is unclear how effective persuasion can be if the contrary position does not receive a fair hearing. I show that as main speaker in the book Cicero warns against over-confidence in embracing positions that one wishes to be true; and I argue that as author Cicero portrays the interlocutor of Tusculans 1 as a salutary example of how not to approach the kind of questions about death with which the work engages. We are encouraged to see the interlocutor’s failure as one not of character but of inexperience in philosophical method.

Living in a city for older adults inevitably involves facing and coping with the frequent deaths of neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, serving as a constant reminder of one’s mortality. Through the stories of three individuals, this chapter offers a glimpse into the experiences of dying, caregiving for the dying, and grieving in The Villages. It also contrasts the pervasive presence of death with the relative invisibility of the "fourth age."

Joyce wrote as a kind of archaeologist: Ulysses, Henri Lefebvre wrote, marked ‘the momentous eruption of everyday life into literature’, in which Joyce’s sprawling prose ‘rescues, one after the other, each facet of the quotidian from anonymity’. Famously, Joyce even risked censorship in order to drag into view details about the career of the human body that other novelists had ignored. This chapter analyzes Joyce’s engagement with the everyday by focusing on scenes of mourning, when the everyday suddenly becomes at once visible and painfully fragile. These moments – funerals, wakes, and death rites – constitute a steady yet largely unexamined through-line running from Joyce’s first story to his last novel. Death itself is at once the most common and the most shocking of experiences, an event that rends the fabric of our everyday life as we try to readjust our habits around an often abrupt and painful absence. Seen this way, Joyce’s works become not only archaeological digs into the ever-vanishing everyday but also documents of human and cultural resilience amid the fury of modernity.

This chapter is dedicated to Bill Shankly’s sudden retirement, and the letters it inspired, as a window into a history of emotions among Liverpool supporters in the mid-1970s. These hitherto unseen letters, from the Shankly Family Archive, are written manifestations of the club’s increased ability to appeal across lines of class, gender, nationality, and race, particularly via its most beloved figure, the charismatic Scottish socialist, Shankly.

This chapter considers the event perceived as the culmination of a good religious life – the final days and hours. The analysis considers deathbed prayers and the taking of sacraments, along with the presence of a priest, minister, and other visitors of the same faith or congregation. It argues that the deathbed – as both a site and an occasion – was an important prompt for communal religion within the home. The final days, hours, and moments of an individual’s life were recognised as a significant opportunity for religious expression for those belonging to all confessions. While some scholars have argued that post-Reformation deathbeds were increasingly secular, this chapter analyses numerous descriptions of Catholic, Jewish, and Protestant deathbeds which emphasise that an individual’s piety and composure in their final hours were interpreted as a reflection of their piety in life. Dying was a process which required witnesses, participants, and visitors, both to provide spiritual comfort to the dying individual and to observe and learn from their example.

This chapter examines religious practices which took place in the home immediately after death: from the laying out, washing, and watching of the body, and domestic gatherings such as ‘wakes’, to the removal of the body from the home, its transfer to a burial place, and the attendant rituals associated with the disposal of the body and mourning for the deceased. It also identifies evidence of cases where the home itself was used as the location for the funeral rites. While the watching and disposal of the body necessarily catered to social and biological needs, religious aspects were closely intertwined with many seemingly practical decisions. The washing and laying out of the body, for example, would generally be performed by members of the parish or local religious community. This chapter makes use of wills, personal writing, burial records, and congregational records which provide an insight into the relationships between individual households and a wider congregation, including its designated burial ground. It argues that the home facilitated acts of communal religion in the hours and days after death, as it became the setting for gatherings and acts of charity to the body.

While Birth, Death, and Domestic Religion suggests that collective piety, sociability, and visiting were associated with the life-cycle events of childbirth and death, connections between homes were also sustained through daily preparations for death. This chapter argues that news of sickness and death was transmitted easily out of and into urban homes, and that this news had a discernible impact on the religious practices of other households in the neighbourhood, parish, or wider religious community. It is not concerned with the event or process of dying itself, but with how a community beyond the affected household responded to that fact. It argues that death made the walls of the urban home permeable. The awareness of an individual’s death, transmitted through word of mouth, or subsequently through the printing of a funeral sermon, entered the homes of others and had a perceptible influence on their daily religious practices. This chapter seeks to bridge the gap between two important functions of the home: firstly, the home as the site of most natural deaths, and secondly, the home as an important setting for daily religion.

The Conclusion sets out the key findings of the book: that the home was a significant site of communal religious practice for those of all faiths who lived and died in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century London, and that this was particularly true at occasions of childbirth and death. It suggests that domestic religion should not be equated solely with ‘everyday’ or household religion; the home was the setting of both the daily round of prayer as well as significant life events, and their attendant ceremonies, some of which, such as churching or funeral services, it had been largely assumed had taken place only in sites of public worship. It makes the case for what it terms the cyclical permeability of the urban home, demonstrating that connections between the individual household and the religious community it was part of were strengthened at moments of birth and death. This focus reveals the continued vitality of collective religious life into and throughout the eighteenth century, and the relative authority of women both within and beyond their own households.

The Introduction sets out the rationale for focusing on the home as a neglected setting within histories of London’s religious life, as well as the importance of the book’s comparative approach in bringing together the experiences of households belonging to different faiths. It establishes the parameters of the book’s scope: the focus on London in its unique religious diversity, and as a densely populated political centre, and the period 1600–1780 (roughly bookended by the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 and the Gordon Riots of 1780). It sets out the book’s interventions in key areas of scholarship, including its contributions to understandings of London lives and domestic space, complicating understandings of public and private space in the densely populated and diverse City of London. It establishes how it moves beyond existing scholarship on domestic religion, and the relationship between religion and the life cycle, which has tended to focus upon conforming Protestant and almost entirely on Christian experiences. It also surveys the broad range of sources analysed in the book, including letters, diaries, court cases, wills, and material culture.

For more than a quarter of a century, Sean O’Casey enjoyed living in what he called the ‘delightful county’ of Devon. O’Casey remained newsworthy in Ireland until his death, but he lived in relative anonymity in this English seaside area, and today the county does little to remember the writer. This chapter examines the way that O’Casey interacted with the local area of Devon, and the chapter also illustrates how his writing was shaped by the personal events that happened in this geographical location, such as the death of his son Niall from cancer in 1956, his interaction with Devon neighbours, and the contact he enjoyed with visitors who travelled to meet him, such as the Irish playwright Denis Johnston.

Heidegger’s account of death plays a crucial role in the argument of Being and Time. There is, however, no broad consensus on how best to understand this account. An adequate interpretation of Heideggerian death should, first, explain how Heidegger distinguishes death from other phenomena such as “demise,” “perishing,” and “dying.” An adequate interpretation should also explain how relating to death in the right way transforms our existence – individualizing us and enabling an authentic form of being-in-the-world. In this chapter, I critique the “existential death interpretation” of Heideggerian death, and offer an alternative account – a modal interpretation. According to the modal interpretation, the death-demise distinction should be understood as the distinction between a possibility and an event that actualizes that possibility. The import of death is found in the way death modalizes all our other possibilities.

This short epilogue concludes the book, with a brief reflection on MacCormick’s final book, Practical Reason in Law and Morality (2008), where MacCormick confronted his own impending death from cancer, and where he once again articulated a relational approach to ethics, politics, and law.

Chapter V develops the analyses of Chapters III and IV through a close reading of one of the most problematic passages of The Lord of the Rings, namely the fall of Gandalf in Moria and his following return. With the help of Tolkien’s own (elusive) exegesis of the passage, the chapter reveals that this narrative event embodies two key meta-literary motives recurrent in his mythology. First is sub-creative submission, featuring the sub-creator’s humble decision to hand over their sub-creations to the supreme “Writer of the Story” (the Godhead Eru) and affirm their “naked hope” in Him. This is followed by the direct, miraculous intervention of Eru, which interferes with the ontology of sub-creations, disrupting “the Rules” of their secondary world; in this particular, Eru’s intrusion transcends the intentions of Gandalf and his divine authorities – the Valar, the archetypical secondary sub-creators – and results in the enhancement of their plans, and their eventual integration within a higher creative project.