I’ve finally reached a point where I have to set a boundary with Montaigne. In this essay, he once again takes on the matter of suicide, and I’ve had enough. The way Montaigne addresses the subject lacks compassion. He views it purely through the privileged lens of people facing illness or who have lived long, fulfilling lives and think it is time to end. If this was the first time Montaigne had made this argument, I could have tolerated it, but it repeats arguments in previous pieces.
I know Montaigne mourned many people in his life, including his own children, his father and his best friend. If any of those people had died from suicide, perhaps he would have had a different perspective. Yes, I could supplement Montaigne’s thoughts by sharing my own experiences with and about suicide, and I did a little of that 12 years ago.
But I don’t think Montaigne’s opinions about the matter are worthy of sharing the stage with my own thoughts, and so I’m going to not take up this topic myself. The vast majority of people who die by suicide these days are living in anguish and need help. Whether what they did makes up an act of murder is the furthest thing from my mind, and I see no reason to turn over and examine that thought.
Fortunately, tomorrow’s essay from Montaigne is one of my favorites and one I’ve enjoyed tossing around for years … so consider this a brief rest stop on our journey.
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