What Is It Like to Be Dead?

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What Is It Like to Be Dead?
 oxford studies in western esotericism
Series Editor
Henrik Bogdan, University of Gothenburg

CHILDREN OF LUCIFER
The Origins of Modern Religious Satanism
Ruben van Luijk

SATANIC FEMINISM
Lucifer as the Liberator of Woman in Nineteenth-Century Culture
Per Faxneld

THE SIBLYS OF LONDON

A Family on the Esoteric Fringes of Gregorian England
Susan Sommers

WHAT IS IT LIKE TO BE DEAD?

Near-Death Experiences, Christianity, and the Occult
Jens Schlieter

AMONG THE SCIENTOLOGISTS

History, Theology, and Praxis
Donald A. Westbrook
i

What Is It Like to Be Dead?

Near- Death Experiences, Christianity,
and the Occult

Jens Schlieter

1
1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
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CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress

ISBN 978–0–19–088884–8

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Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
i

Contents

Preface vii
Acknowledgments xiii
Introduction xv
Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method xxvii

Part one | Near- Death Experiences as Religious Discourse

1.1. Introduction 3

1.2. Experiences of Dying and Death 11

1.3. The Formation of Near-Death Experiences: Moody, Ritchie, and Hampe 17

1.4. Near-Death Experiences and the Religious Metacultures of Western Modernity 33

Part two | The Different Strands of Death: Western Discourse

on Experiences Near Death (1580– 1975)
2.1. Introduction 45

2.2. Currents of Early Modern Near-Death Discourse 53

2.3. The Integration of Theosophical Narratives on Travels of the

“Spiritual Body” (ca. 1860–1905) 117

2.4. The Advent of Parapsychology and the Figuration of “Out-of-the-Body Experiences”

(1880–1930) 135

2.5. The Theosophical Discovery of the Tibetan Book of the Dead (1927) 153

2.6. Consolidation of Near-Death Discourse (1930–1960) 167

2.7. The Final Configuration of Near-Death Experiences (1960–1975) 185

v
vi i Contents
Part three | “Near- Death Experiences” as Religious Protest
Against Materialism and Modern Medicine in the 1960s and 1970s
3.1. Introduction 227

3.2. Pushing Near-Death Experiences (I): Privatized Death 231

3.3. Pushing Near-Death Experiences (II): Reanimation, “Coma,” and “Brain

Death” 237

3.4. Pushing Near-Death Experiences (III): LSD- and Other Drug-Induced

Experiences 245

3.5. The Imperative of “Individual Experience”: Institutional Change of Religion in the

1960s and 1970s 251

Part four | Wish- Fulfilling Expectations, Experiences,

Retroactive Imputations: In Search of Hermeneutics
for Near- Death Experiences
4.1. Introduction 257

4.2. Excursus: The “Death-x-Pulse,” or: How to Imagine the Unimaginable? 267

4.3. The Survival Value of Narratives? 279

Part five | The Significance of Near- Death Experiences for

Religious Discourse
5.1. The Presence of Religious Metacultures in Near-Death Discourse (1580–1975) 285

5.2. The Religious Functions of Near-Death Experiences 293

Bibliography 313
Name Index 337
Subject Index 341
 Preface

An overwhelming majority of recent reports or studies on near-death experiences

argue that—in one way or the other—the “experience” provides a foothold for the belief
that there is survival of death. Having experienced the proximity of death transforms, it
seems, both the view of “death” and of “life” as expressed by Augustinian monk Abraham
a Sancta Clara: “Who dies before he dies, does not die when he dies.”1 Consequently,
“the experience” amounts not only to a new certainty of postmortem survival—it is a call
for fundamental change in life itself. For a substantial group of persons concerned, but
also for academics studying near-death experiences, the life-changing potential is cru-
cial. Reported aftereffects encompass fundamental changes in attitudes, beliefs, and life
orientation. Communicated through various channels, it is claimed that persons who
experienced states near or after death lost their fear of death, found their purpose in life,
or became “more spiritual” (and either less “religious” or less “materialistic”). The expe-
rience itself—often declared to be indescribable, inexplicable, or ineffable—is held by
many to be the most important in their lives, and, moreover, as such the best proof avail-
able for matters transcendent.
For the study of recent religiosity, near-death experiences and their narrative
embeddings are of crucial importance, but, from that perspective, still an understudied
phenomenon. Beyond question, experiences near death can be emotionally extremely

1
“Denn wer stirbt, ehe er stirbt, der stirbt nicht, wann er stirbt” (Abraham a Sancta Clara 1710, 244).

vii
viii i Preface
intense, disruptive, irritating, but also ecstatic and overwhelming. Especially in the late
decades of the 20th century, the institutionalization of self-help groups and networks
such as the “International Association for Near-Death Studies, Inc.” (IANDS) founded
in 1977, shows that “experiencers,” as they are now called, feel the need to share their
enlightening or disturbing experiences in these secure milieus, and, not to forget, to en-
dorse each other in handling the spiritual and social aftereffects. At the same time, the
at times depreciative and disenchanting reactions, or psychopathological explanations of
medical doctors, psychologists, priests, or society at large, have led some “experiencers” to
become cautious in disclosing their experience.
Near-death experiences are, for sure, in many cases dramatic and existential. At the
same time, descriptions of these experiences are instrumental in articulating “spiritual”
life orientations—especially in modern, secular societies. Memoirs of such experiences
may, however, encounter a fundamental paradox: to re-present an experience that was
nothing less but “pure presence.” Sometimes, it may be a pure presence that is later felt
intensely as absence: A crucial element of some reports consists of a praise of the “experi-
ence” and the unwillingness to return to the body and into the life lived. In sum, personal
memoirs of what the individual experienced while being (or expecting to be) close to
death form a structural compound, together with narratives of how the experience has
changed the respective individual’s life, and, finally, of how the experiences were often
rejected, medicalized, or even ridiculed. It is the latter quality, the experiences near death
as “rejected knowledge” (Hanegraaff ), that fits very well to their often esoteric content.
These testimonies of near-death experiences, their aftereffects, and the appearance of
organized groups of witnesses and believers, such as the IANDS chapters, deserve serious
attention as a significant development of recent, late modern society. Nevertheless, for a
broader understanding of recent testimonies of near-death experiences, it is essential to
become aware of the historical tradition in which reports of near-death experiences and
their religious corollaries were communicated and handed down in scores of newspapers,
journals, and books. Astonishingly, no study published so far covered the last four
centuries, and especially the “long 19th century” (Hobsbawm), in which almost innu-
merable individuals reported such experiences. Only occasionally mentioned in recent
studies of near-death experiences, collections of such testimonies have been published
for more than 150 years, accompanied by attempts of how to classify and interpret such
experiences.
Two major obstacles in current research were especially inhibitive for a historical
survey. On the one hand, it is the opinion of transcultural and transhistorical universals
expressed in near-death experiences often to be found in near-death research. Such an
essentialism of assumed transcultural constants disposes of any incentives to analyze
the phenomena more thoroughly. Usually, substantialist presuppositions undermine
attempts to outline phenomena in their historical development. More specifically, ex-
tant studies were more engaged in uncovering the “common core” of modern near-death
experiences and, say, ancient Greek, Egyptian, or Early Christian and medieval accounts
 Preface j ix
of journeys into the beyond and afterlife conceptions, respectively. On the other hand,
and in close interaction with the aforementioned, the majority of scholars were above
all interested in establishing near-death experiences as authentic visions of, or into, an
afterlife—spontaneously generated, authentic, and unconditional. For that matter, nei-
ther these experiences nor their reports will be in any way dependent on tradition. As
these studies were especially eager to campaign for the acceptance of these experiences as
veridical testimonies in the medical system (and other branches of modern society), they
saw no need to uncover the pivotal strands of Western spiritualism, occultism, and esoter-
icism that, for the historian of religion, obviously influenced—together with Christian
metaculture—a large number of more recent accounts of near-death experiences. To put
it more sharply: Since the invention of the generic term “near-death experiences” in the
1970s, we can witness a strong avoidance of disclosing the prominent precursors in the
19th and 20th centuries. Actually, the latter had already reported a large number of vi-
sionary and ecstatic experiences “near death,” yet, simply as only one of several situations
in which those experiences may emerge. In other words, these forerunners could still, and
straightforwardly, testify and communicate experiences near death as homogeneously
embedded in larger religious and spiritual cosmovisions. In consequence, they saw no
need to bundle various different experiences under a new umbrella term of “near-death
experiences.”
Viewed in this way, it is the changing environment that contributed its share to the
coming-together of near-death experiences: the largely successful institutionalization of
biomedicine and the process of functional differentiation in modern societies that led to
an increasingly autonomous subsystem of “religion” with clear demarcations. Modern
biomedicine, secular and empirical psychology, psychoanalysis, positivist philosophy, be-
haviorism, and other voices joined the polyphonic chorus praising scientific explanations
of religion in general, and the brain’s “hallucinations near death” in particular. Exactly
this environment, together with a decline of church-based religiosity and the ongoing
trend toward privatized dying in hospitals, led to an even stronger emphasis of individual
personal experience, of which experiences near death, “glimpses into the afterlife,” may
probably be the most meaningful.
Yet, to repeat, the experiences offered as suggestive evidence for a convincing answer
to the question “what is it like to be dead?” are still an integral part of Western religious
history. Although this study will confine itself to documenting and analyzing the gen-
esis and genealogy of near-death experiences up to the 1970s, here I will provide only
one more recent example. After having been comatose for several days and in very crit-
ical health in 2008, neurosurgeon Eben Alexander published a highly successful book-
length treatise of his near-death experience, “Proof of Heaven” (2012).2 A central element

2
On Alexander’s narrative, cf. Fischer and Mitchell-Yellin 2016, 34–7, 75–7, 174–5; quoting the reluctant recep-
tion by the current Dalai Lama (cf. 177–8).
xi Preface
in his highly stylized narrative pertains to a vision of a butterfly, depicted also on the
cover the book—a symbol that has now become almost emblematic in circles dealing
with near-death experiences. Alexander reports that after experiencing an almost hellish
state of being a worm in a giant, dark, and muddy earthen “womb”—a state he called
“Realm of the Earthworm’s-Eye View,” he passed through a gate into the light. “Born”
(and not: “born again,” or “reborn”) into a paradisiacal environment, he flew over a
green, lush, earthlike summerland, and finally realized himself as sitting on a large but-
terfly, with millions of other butterflies all around him (see Alexander 2013, 40–1). Next
to him on the butterfly wing, Alexander disclosed, there was a girl, a guardian angel,
communicating to him without words that he is loved, can do no wrong, has nothing to
fear, and will finally “go back.”
Having recovered, however, he realizes a month later, looking at a photo of his de-
ceased sister Betsy whom he had “never met in this world,” that it was exactly her whom
he had seen on the butterfly. Without being able to interpret the narrative of Alexander
and its religious significance (being, of course, avowedly “beyond religion”) more in
depth here, I may, for the time being, only pick the worm—that is, the butterfly imagery.
The butterfly has a long-standing history serving as a metaphor, or allegory, for the met-
amorphosis of the soul. By saying “I had sloughed off that earthly style of thought like a
butterfly breaking from a chrysalis” (82), Alexander connects to a rich narrative tradition.
A programmatic framing is provided in William Blake’s famous poem “The Marriage of
Heaven and Hell” (1793),3 where he writes, “If the doors of perception were cleansed eve-
rything would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees
all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” In the same year, he had illustrated a picture
book for children, The Gates of Paradise, showing on the frontispiece a caterpillar and,
below that, a chrysalis with a human face, signifying the transformation of the human
soul at death. Building on the metamorphosis of the butterfly, Alexander does not only
sit on the butterfly wing in his after-death vision—he also sits, I may say, on the wings
of religious tradition. It is worth mentioning in passing that such traditions include not
only European ones, but also the Western reception of Asian traditions, as a closer look at
Alexander’s book will quickly reveal. Of the innumerable instances in which the butterfly
illustrates, especially in occult and esoteric literature, the human potential for transfor-
mation at the moment of death, and the postmortem life of the soul, we quote a beautiful
example from the work Is Spiritualism True? (1871), written by American Spiritualist
William Denton. He invites us to imagine two worms, folded in their cocoons, and de-
bating whether there is to be any future life for them: “ ‘I have an idea,’ says one, ‘that
I shall fly when I have eaten my way out of this case in which I am enclosed.’—‘You fly!’
says the other: ‘that is all nonsense [ . . . ]. Whoever saw worms fly? Worms we are, and
worms we must ever be, and are now shut up in what must, in the nature of things, be our

3
Cf. http://www.gailgastfield.com/mhh/mhh14.jpg (accessed Feb. 28, 2018).
 Preface j xi
grave.’—‘But what are these wings for? I can feel wings that are growing on my sides; and
I am persuaded that they are to be used. I shall fly, and, in the summer’s sun of another
year, flit from flower to flower, and enjoy the beauty of the bright world’ ” (Denton 1874,
23).4 Of course, Denton adds, the visionary worm will after all be right. Significantly, he
provides this parable while discussing the “spiritual body” that, for him, is evident in cases
in which it finds itself “out of the body”—be it “close to death” or be it in cases in which
the soul travels in “magnetic” states at will to distant locations.
With the previous remarks, I do not aim to establish a direct connection of Eben
Alexander and the 19th-century occult. It will suffice to note that the imagery, metaphors,
and other topoi of modern near-death experiences share essential features with the
occultism of the 19th century, which, however, found an uninterrupted continuation
in the spiritualism and esotericism of the 20th century. And indeed, Alexander himself
mentions that his interest was raised for further spiritual guidance—of course, after the
experience had transformed him. So he read, in the aftermath of his experience, exten-
sively esoteric literature, or took part in exploring “deep conscious states” at the Monroe
Institute. Founding father Robert A. Monroe, whose works are referenced in Alexander’s
work, had written the influential book Journeys Out of the Body (1971). As will be shown,
Monroe’s work portrayed and transmitted an important spiritualist and esoteric practice
to a receptive 20th-century audience, namely, the “astral projection,” developed already in
occult and theosophical circles of the 19th century (cf. Deveney 1997). Astral projection,
for its part, shares an essential feature of many modern near-death experiences, namely,
being an out-of-body experience, as it will be called in the 20th century. This comes, how-
ever, with one significant and characteristic difference: In contrast to being forced out of
the body while near death, astral projection, embedded in a system of spiritual goals, will
usually be brought forth willingly and intentionally.
Although I must admit that Alexander’s report leaves several questions open, partic-
ularly about its credibility, it is, to repeat, not the aim of this study to drive unnecessary
nails into the coffin of near-death experiences. Any unilinear, causal explanation of this
complex phenomenon will surely end in a blind alley. However, presenting here for the
first time the exciting historical genealogy of such experiences as they were reported—
and how the term near-death experience became their common designation—I hope to
contribute to our understanding of the experiences themselves. In addition, analyzing
their specific functions within the religious metacultures of Western modernity will
demonstrate how these reports and experiences are relevant to the study of religion
more generally. Finally, our study may also be of interest to individuals who underwent
experiences near death and still feel a need to search for a historical contextualization of
how such experiences have been articulated.

4
Cf. the cognate parable on larvae “speculating as to their destinies” in Myers 1893, 38, or the butterfly-imagery
in John C. Lilly’s Center of the Cyclone (1972, 14), the first work to introduce the term “near-death experiences.”
 Acknowledgments

Being a project of several years, I may try to imagine the genesis of this book in the
form of a retrograde “life review” to which many have contributed. I am deeply grateful
for all the occasions I could discuss aspects relevant to the study presented here, and
I do have to apologize that I will mention only a few by name. For inspiring discussions
and for bringing relevant publications or unpublished papers to my attention, I want to
thank especially my colleagues Karl Baier (Vienna), Wouter Hanegraaff and Marco Pasi
(Amsterdam), Arindam Chakrabarti (Manoa, Hawaii), Michael Stausberg (Bergen), and
Helmut Zander (Fribourg). Günter Blamberger (Cologne) and Sudhir Kakar (Goa)
kindly invited me to present my thoughts at an inspiring conference on “Figurations
of Afterlife/Afterdeath and the Afterlife in East and West” in New Delhi; for an equal
occasion, I want to thank Enno E. Popkes (Kiel), Stephanie Gripentrog (Greifswald) and
Jens Kugele (Giessen), and the “Western Esotericism Study Group” at the AAR Annual
Meeting in San Antonio (2016).
On various long evenings, I could discuss relevant philosophical aspects with Gero
Schmidt, Andreas Hirschberg, Jens Eyding, and Thomas D. Gotthilf, whose long-lasting
friendship means a lot to me. Furthermore, I want to thank Waylon Weber, Andrea Rota,
and Moritz Klenk, who offered valuable comments. I am deeply indebted to Victoria
Danahy for her careful and dedicated copyediting, and to Cynthia Read (OUP) for her
effort in making this book a reality.
Going further back in time, I wish to extend my gratitude to my philosophical teacher
Josef Simon (Bonn) and to Jason W. Brown (New York). Finally, I want to express my

xiii
xiv i Acknowledgments
thankfulness for several valuable talks with neuroscientist Detlef B. Linke, who passed
away much too early. All of them shared their views on the significance of the so-called
wake-up dreams with me, which ignited my initial interest in near-death experiences
20 years ago. As I will suggest, these dreams are of special hermeneutical value for the
“life-review” phenomenon that reportedly takes place in certain situations either near
death or in fear of death.
Finally, my fullest gratitude is reserved for my family, my wife Natassa and my two
daughters Hannah Zoe and Julie Alexia, for their love, support, and patience.
 Introduction

In the following, I provide evidence for a central observation: From the outset,
near-death discourse is a religious discourse. Even stronger, the introduction of the new
umbrella term “near-death experience” in the 1970s followed almost exclusively a reli-
gious agenda. Namely, it was the aim to declare that visionary and ecstatic experiences,
ascribed to the soul’s glimpse into afterlife realms, can, in scientific discourse, be legiti-
mately addressed as experiences that emerge in situations near death. The introduction
of the new term was incredibly successful, and even a growing number of substantial
arguments questioning the evidence of the very definition of near-death experiences1
could not undo its use.
Significantly, no examination has been published so far that offers an intellectual and
social history of near-death discourse as religious discourse. Closing this desideratum in
research, I aim to show that the reports of near-death experiences are essentially a contin-
uation of Christian (especially Protestant), Mystic, Spiritualist– Occult, Theosophical,
and Esoteric discourses—enriched and enlarged by Parapsychology, Analytic Psychology,
and the reception of Eastern traditions, namely, Hindu traditions and Buddhism.
Undeniably, near-death discourse has become firmly established in modern culture.
Personal testimonies of near-death experiences and their interpretation as reports of a

1
In the following, I use the term “near-death experience” in cases that presuppose the meaning of the generic
term as outlined in Moody’s study. If reported experiences in broader contexts are meant, I speak of “experiences
near death.”

xv
xvi i Introduction
death-surviving soul—as a “proof of heaven” (Alexander)—are thriving and attract an
extraordinary attention. For almost five decades, “believers” and “skeptics” emphatically
claim either credibility for the reports or offer a plentitude of causal explanations for the
“phenomenon.” The first to coin the expression “near-death experience” was Raymond
A. Moody, who published Life After Life in 1975, though, as we will subsequently see,
it was actually John C. Lilly who had introduced the term already in 1972—in a book
that Moody knew. Moody, however, offered a “standard set” of these experiences that
prepared the ground for several other books to be published shortly thereafter (e.g.,
Osis and Haraldsson 1977; Ring 1980; Sabom 1982). As of 2001, over 13 million copies
of Moody’s first book had been sold. Although, however, the literature on near-death
experiences is abundant, the large majority of scientific elaborations confine themselves
to an analysis either of the significance of the experiences, or a scientific, that is, psycho-
logical or neurophysiological, explanation of their origination. Only a small number of
studies dealt with their cross-cultural prevalence or with possible ancient or medieval
“parallels” of these experiences (e.g. Zaleski 1987; Dinzelbacher 1989; or Shushan 2009).
A still smaller minority of studies explored the meaningfulness of these experiences for
theology (Fox 2003; Marsh 2010), or its prevalence as a social phenomenon (Kellehear
1996; Knoblauch 1999). The highly controversial truth claims that come along with
their interpretation, being far less than a settled dispute, have hindered the academic
study of the circumstances that led to the origination of systematic descriptions.
Authors delved into defending the truth claims of reported experiences, or offered sober
physiological, psychological, and psychoanalytic explanations of these accounts. In gen-
eral, popular as well as scientific contributions usually followed Moody, who presented
the recent near-death accounts first, and offered, in a second step, “parallels” to these
accounts in religious sources from various cultures. Being “parallels,” they offered more
plausibility to accounts of present reporters who were only occasionally asked if they
had any knowledge of these “forerunners.” Therefore, the influence of esoteric, but also
of Protestant, beliefs on the near-death narratives has been largely underestimated. To
give an example: Allan Kellehear (1996, 46), one of the few sociologists in the research
field, mentions these “unfamiliar” sources while discussing Glaser and Strauss’s theory
of death as a status passage: “There is usually no social custom and institutional pre-
scription for the NDE. There are isolated exceptions to this in the Tibetan Book of the
Dead and in similar esoteric and unfamiliar sources.” Unfamiliar—really? Far from that,
as I subsequently show.
Convinced of certain perennial and transcultural traits of near-death narrations, Carol
Zaleski (1987, 100) argued that near-death discourse may essentially emerge in times of
crisis: “Although it addresses persistent hopes and fears concerning death, otherworld
journey narration is a ‘wave’ phenomenon rather than a constant. It seems to recur when
it is needed most, that is, when the way society pictures itself and its surrounding universe
is so changed as to threaten to dislocate the human being.” Although Zaleski could trace
some important cultural influences, she is still interested in what near-death experiences
 Introduction j xvii
may reveal—on human nature, postmortem states, and spiritual transformation: “If near-
death literature is to have any prophetic value or evidential weight, it will be because it
communicates insights capable of being verified—not in medical charts, but in our own
experience. We may find no difficulty in respecting the testimony of those, whose lives
have been transformed by a near-death vision, but we can verify their discoveries only
if, in some sense, we experience them for ourselves” (205). Because of the dominance of
her personal quest and involvement, she obviously pushed specific social circumstances
that had helped the concept of near-death experiences to emerge into the background.
Therefore, we will have to tackle two still insufficiently answered questions: Which
factors enabled authors (most interestingly, in the 1970s often medical professionals
and psychologists) to direct their attention to the respective phenomena, and what
were—apart from scientific curiosity—their motives in collecting and analyzing these
experiences? So far, these questions seem not to have been pursued more thoroughly.
Combining two conceptual fields—namely, the history of medicine (including institu-
tional practices and medical ethics) and the history of Western spirituality—I aim to
show how not only certain elements of near-death experiences, but also the term itself
could emerge. The systematic cluster of near-death experiences owes, I will argue, its orig-
ination to the following six conditions: (a) the institutionalization of certain biomedical
practices, for example, hospitalization of dying, diagnosis of coma and brain death, and
the increase of successful reanimation; (b) experimentation with LSD, mescaline, and
other means aiming at psychedelic experiences—in addition to the soaring distribution
of general anesthesia; (c) the imperative of individual religious experience, especially in
the Protestant Christian metaculture of modernity—that is, the need for expressing indi-
vidual testimonies of deathbed visions—including Jesus, a Being of Light, but also uncon-
ventional, individual visions of the “beyond”; (d) the continuous current of Spiritualist,
Esoteric, Occult, and Parapsychological metacultures and their revival in the “New Age
Spirituality” of the 1960s and 1970s; (e), the study and practice of Indian yogic “ecstatic
techniques,” catalyzed, quite often, by theosophy; and finally (f ) the reception of the so-
called Tibetan Book of the Dead.
Obviously, the single factors belong to quite different classes. One may certainly sub-
sume (e) and (f ) among (d)—yet it seems helpful to separate the two reception processes
(e) and (f ) from (d) because these factors contributed to the formulation of the “uni-
versal” phenomenon of near-death experiences in their own right. For the study pursued
here, I designate those factors that are grounded in the cultural transmission of ideas
of the beyond, a death-surviving soul, or the postmoral encounter of deceased, and so
forth, as “cultural currents.” Taken together, the cultural current—factors (c), (d), (e),
and (f )—formed the individual social expectations in respect to the assumed higher
meaning of these experiences. In contrast, the remaining factors, (a) and (b), build on
specific medical and pharmacological inventions and institutions within modern society.
In a way, these factors can be conceptualized as “triggers” of those experiences, or, to
put it more cautiously, they seem to have enabled the reporting of those experiences as
xviii i Introduction
a broader phenomenon—for example, by increasing the survival rate of heart failure. In
that respect, I denote these two factors as “triggers,” assuming that both—the use of psy-
chotropic substances and the institutionalization of biomedicine—led to an increase of
near-death reports.
We may imagine the different currents as a broad river—with (c) as the main stream,
(d) as a continuous undercurrent, and (e) and (f ) as comparatively late inflows. The two
triggers, (a) and (b), on the other hand, can be envisioned as a dam, forcing the water level
to rise rapidly.
Only the coming together of these factors, I will argue, could lead to a critical intel-
lectual situation in which a larger number of testimonies of near-death experiences could
originate. This was, in consequence, the basis on which the concept itself, and its system-
atic elaboration, could appear. Therefore, I will only occasionally deal with the meaning
of death, keeping in mind the maxim of François La Rochefoucault: “Neither the sun nor
death can be looked at steadily.”2
More precisely, I will argue that among the two most influential factors there is one
trigger, namely, the large-scale institutionalization of biomedical practices such as artifi-
cial respiration and other life-supportive technologies, extending the end of life in newly
established intensive care units. As is well known, this development was accompanied by
the growing number of individuals dying—quite often alone—in hospitals, which fueled
the fear of dying a silent “social death.” The documented reluctance of doctors to disclose
prognostic information also triggered fear. In this situation, which, moreover, saw a sig-
nificant rise of organ donation from “brain-dead” patients (ca. 1960–1970), it became
a prominent issue to redefine the former criteria of death. Death is now “brain death.”
Artificial life support was, in other words, the crucial technique that not only produced
“comatose” and “brain-dead” persons but also “human material” for “harvesting” organs.
These new practices and the considerable ethical discussion that went with their intro-
duction intensified the fear of many to be declared “brain dead.” The century-old re-
sidual fear of being buried alive in a state of “apparent death” soared again. It is the fear
of becoming a powerless, yet still animated, being, if not the fear of being completely
and utterly at somebody’s mercy—be the latter driven by egoism, scientific curiosity, or
medical demand. On the other hand, with the introduction of “coma” and “brain death”
it became possible to argue that there is a state of “postdeath,” and that those affected,
who could “return” from such a state, would return from “postdeath” into life. In con-
cord, it became possible to argue that those people, who, returning from “death,” offered
accounts of their near-death experiences, were in fact presenting experiences of their “un-
bound,” “nonempirical soul,” or “consciousness” after “death.”
Of a second group of factors for the emergence of the systematic description of near-
death experiences, the probably most important is the broad interest in “altered states of

2
“Le soleil ni la mort ne se peuvent regarder en face” (maxim 26); cf., arguing against the maxim, Yalom 2008, 275.
 Introduction j xix
consciousness” (cf. Tart 1969). Individuals reached ecstatic states beyond the “immanent
frame”—if I may use an expression by Charles Taylor (2007) here. For such “paranormal”
experiences, induced by psychoactive substances such as LSD, by “trance,” or by “sensory
deprivation” as offered by John C. Lilly’s “isolation tanks,” the neologism “psychedelic” as
introduced by psychiatrist Humphrey Osmond and the influential writer Aldous Huxley
flourished. In close interaction with this interest, the practice of spiritual techniques
drawn from various religious traditions such as Buddhism (e.g., the “Tibetan Book of
the Dead”), Hindu traditions (e.g., “Transcendental Meditation”), or “Shamanism” (e.g.,
Carlos Castañeda’s appropriation) became widely popular. Moreover, as early as 1935,
Carl Gustav Jung wrote an important psychological commentary to the Tibetan Book of
the Dead, which became most crucial in the 1960s. Well versed in these teachings, Jung
(1963) could relate to this imagery in his own near-death experience avant la lettre.
This background discourse was especially important for introducing “out-of-[the]
body experiences”—a technical term coined in the wake of the 20th century (Hill
1918)—emerging with the theosophical reception of Indian doctrines of yoga in the
second half of the 19th century (cf. Albanese 2007, 357–64). Yet again, the term became
popular in the early 1970s by the works of “consciousness researcher” Robert A. Monroe
in the context of esoteric “second body” and “astral travels” of the soul; it attracted
attention in parapsychological research (e.g. Charles Tart), and finally found its place in
the systematic description of near-death experiences by Raymond Moody in 1975. The
emergence of his all-encompassing concept allowed the fusion of narrative elements that
had until then been reported and discussed in different, largely unconnected settings—
either within the traditional religious, predominantly Christian metaculture (e.g., the
postmortal vision of Jesus or final judgment), or in Spiritualistic, Parapsychological, and
Theosophical settings (e.g., out-of-body experiences). At that time, naturalist circles
were only occasionally occupied with some elements of these experiences, for example,
the “life-review” feature, laying the foundation of a biological and psychological theory
of dreams, illusions, and hallucinations. If the preconditions of intellectual history and
the introduction of new medical techniques are taken into consideration, it may lead us
to new conclusions in respect to the experiences, too. According to the perspective put
forward here, these phenomena are primarily phenomena of consciousness, approach-
able only through individual reporting that can build, in principle, on various different
sources (e.g., other literary reports). The individual consciousness, formed in social inter-
action, is confronted with death from early on. A famous example of this confrontation
is the autobiographical narrative of the young Siddhārtha Gautama, the Buddha-to-be.
Consciousness is always threatened by the idea of its own nonexistence (the “fear-of-
death experience”). The radical contingency of what may happen in the next moment
(e.g., a cardiac infarction, a stroke, an aneurysm, or a fatal accident) is, therefore, always a
possibility to contend with. In philosophical terms, Martin Heidegger coined the phrase
of Vorlaufen zum Tode [running forward toward death] as a general description of human
existence (“being-toward-death”).
xx i Introduction
For the experiences near death, I propose, therefore, the following interpretative
framework: Although triggered in certain fear-of-death or near-death situations, the
content of these experiences—which are brought to light only through the respective
individual’s communication—cannot be separated from the individual’s former con-
scious (or unconscious) reflection on death, the afterlife, and the soul. Essentially, it
is the whole life lived before and even after the experience, that frames and configures
personal expectations and reports of “what it is like to be dead.” This includes, of course,
the individual religious background. In fact, Franz Splittgerber, a Protestant minister of
the 19th century, had already concluded in his treatment of the “psychological meaning
of apparent death” that

those visions describe the afterlife and the exhilarating or shattering procedures of
it in essentially the same pictures and symbols, which were used by the seers for
representing them while awake—in other words: precisely according to the religious
standpoint which was taken by them in ordinary life; even the confession-specific
differences of their religious mindset influence unmistakably their portrayals of
heaven or hell. (Splittgerber 1866, 337–8; trans. mine)

Half a century later, in 1927, the same idea is expressed by Walter Y. Evans-Wentz
(2000, 33–4) in his description of the after-death experience in the Tibetan Book of the
Dead: “Accordingly [ . . . ], for a Hindu, or a Moslem, or a Christian, the Bardo experiences
would be appropriately different: the Buddhist’s or the Hindu’s thought-forms, as in a
dream state, would give rise to corresponding visions of the deities of the Buddhist or
Hindu pantheon; a Moslem’s, to visions of the Moslem Paradise; a Christian’s, to visions
of the Christian Heaven, or an American Indian’s to visions of the Happy Hunting
Ground.” In conclusion, “this psychology scientifically explains why devout Christians,
for example, have had [ . . . ] visions (in a trance or dream state, or in the after-death state)
of God the Father seated on a throne in the New Jerusalem, and of the Son at His side,
[ . . . ], or of Purgatory and Hell” (34).3 On the petitio-principii basis that there is an af-
terlife to be experienced, Evans-Wentz can add in a complacent and patronizing manner
that, along these lines, “the materialist will experience after-death visions as negative and
as empty and as deityless as any he ever dreamt while in the human body” (34). Moody
therefore could build on this tradition in his observation that the identification of a
“Being of Light” will vary according to the interviewed person’s religious background.

3
This opinion has been variously voiced about Tibetan teachings, e.g. by Alexandra David-Néel. She narrates
([1961] 1978, 85–6) that she got as answer by a Tibetan lama that Christians, too, will certainly enter the bardo,
but instead of Buddhist emanations “they will see Issou [ Jesus], the angels, the demons, paradise, hell, etc.” In the
same vein, Sogyal Rinpoche (1992, 284), answers the question if the Tibetan deities may also appear to Western
persons as follows: manifestations of the Tibetan “bardo” experience emerge depending on “our conditioning,”
and they “take on forms we are most familiar with in our lives. For example, for Christian practitioners, the
deities might take the form of Christ or the Virgin Mary” (cf. Rawlings 1978, 86; Fox 2003, 94).
 Introduction j xxi
That is, all will see the bright light invariably as “the Light”—but Christians as Christ,
Jews as an “angel,” whereas an individual who “had no religious beliefs or training at all
prior to his experience simply identified what he saw as ‘a being of light’ ” (Moody [1975]
1976, 59).
Hence this claim corresponds to the idea of an ontologically real, but, at the same
time, subjective nature of the experience of the beyond. However, we assume that
if such personalized expectations are formulated, they will guide the respective in-
terpretation by the individual, and, finally, structure their narrative report. In many
cases, near-death and fear-of-death situations can be regarded as a trigger—a trigger
that I suggest in a later chapter naming “death-x-pulse.” This trigger, I will argue,
induces the conscious mind to draw from memory a quintessence of all these former
reflections, experiences, and expectations. However, not all narratives of experiences
near death occur in dependency of a distinct, sudden trigger; we must therefore ab-
stain from overemphasizing the “death-x-pulse,” which can highlight only certain
aspects of those reports.
Additionally, to these expectations that may unconsciously structure the reported
experiences, there is another, now conscious, expectation strategy at work, which we
may term the “Pascal’s Wager” argument of the assumed truth of near-death accounts.
In short, Blaise Pascal argued in his Pensées that a person will be better off if he or
she assumes that God exists, and acts accordingly. Only then there will be an infinite
gain if this turns out to be true in the afterlife. If it turns out to be wrong, nothing is
lost; disbelief, however, may lead to an infinite loss. In sum, this is an argument for an
“induced faith”—if one does not believe, Pascal (1660 [1910] §§ 231–241), argues, one
should simply follow conventional religious practice. A famous ancestor of this idea
has been Plato’s Socrates—a fact that has, in the context of near-death experiences,
been outlined by no less than Raymond Moody himself. In the Phaedo, Socrates,
aware of his imminent death by poison, presents the “myth” (at that time, a term
without any negative association of “phantasy”) about the afterlife, encompassing the
judgment of the departed souls and their journey to the underworld (cf. 107d–108c).
Socrates is not afraid of death, he says, because he knows his soul to be immortal, and
expects a punishment of the bad, but a reward of the philosophers in the beyond (cf.
113d–114c). And then he articulates a “noble risk”:

No sensible man would insist that these things are as I have described them, but
I think it is fitting for a man to risk the belief—for the risk is a noble one—that this,
or something like this, is true about our souls and their dwelling places, since the
soul is evidently immortal, and a man should repeat this to himself as if it were an
incantation, which is why I have been prolonging my tale. That is the reason why a
man should be of good cheer about his own soul, if during life he has ignored the
pleasures of the body [ . . . ], but has seriously concerned himself with the pleasures
of learning, and adorned his soul not with alien but with its own ornaments,
xxii i Introduction
namely, moderation, righteousness [ . . . ], and truth, and in that state awaits his
journey to the underworld. (114d–115a; Grube 2002, 150–1)

In other words, Socrates recommends his followers to “risk the belief,” to repeat the
story of the assumed postmortem existence of the soul to ourselves as though it were,
in Plato’s word, an “incantation”—even though literary details of the story, or of the
tale, may be otherwise—which means: The afterworld may look different. Doing so will
“charm away the fears of death” (cf. 77e),4 keep the soul on a moral track, as is the case
in Pascal’s wager. Moody (2012, 83) points to exactly these “charms” of repeating stories
of the afterlife, arguing that Plato makes two important points: First, that there “always
has to be a narrative element in studying the afterlife because that is how people connect
with concepts of living beyond physical death,” second, that there is a logic, a conceptual
means, for the “truth seeker” to get “beyond just stories and into the stream of objective
truth” (84). Moody comments that “talking about the afterlife is a form of incantation
or ‘magic words,’ ” because Plato had already advised that “we ought to repeat them to
ourselves over and over to arm ourselves against the vicissitudes of life” (84). Actually,
I could not express better the workings of general expectations regarding near-death
experiences. Because of their convincing storylines, the reports of those experiences are
easy to grasp, to memorize and to reproduce, and may internalize, configure, and sta-
bilize one’s own “high” expectations. It is important to acknowledge that the content
of expectations, however, cannot simply be judged as mistaken and false or as true and
real. The relationship of expectations and subsequent experiences is more complex, be-
cause expectations form experiences (cf., in respect to mystical experiences, Proudfoot
1985, 121–3). As such, they exert a stronger influence than the well-known “confirma-
tion bias,” that is, to ignore countervailing information (cf. Fischer and Mitchell-Yellin
2016, 149–56). Any attempt to verify the “reliability” of near-death testimonies from
a neutral, external point of view builds on the idea that sources of individual error can
be identified. Yet, if expectations, experiences, and the reporting are self-stabilizing
processes, such a verification attempt will usually be of no avail. Therefore, in the main
part of the book, I focus on the narratives of these experiences, and, in the final part, on
the experiences as narratives.
In addition to more general prefigured expectations that may be triggered in situations
near death, we even meet reports that openheartedly admit examples of self-suggestion—
especially of one of the most prominent elements of near-death experiences, the out-of-
body experience. To quote a characteristic account, reported in the 1930s of a certain
Prof. M. B. in Ledeč (Bohemia; communicated by Karel Kuchynka 1931, 171–2): “In the

4
Earlier in Phaedo (77e), the interlocutors, being afraid, urge Socrates to change their minds: “perhaps there is
a child in us who has these fears; try to persuade him not to fear death like a bogey,” and Socrates answers, they
should “sing a charm over him every day until you have charmed away his fears” (Grube 2002, 116).
 Introduction j xxiii
year 1912 I had to study late at night, while in my atelier, material that I needed for my
work on ancient oriental art. [ . . . ] Accidentally [sic!], a work on ‘Yogism’ came into my
hands. Included was an instruction on how to get out of one’s body. In that respect I am
a great skeptic and I never encountered any phenomenon that could not be explained
by the natural or physical laws known. Following an adventorious inspiration, and for
proving to myself the voidness of such phantastic talk, I practiced very diligently the
prescribed exercises. Of course, without success.” He therefore put the book aside and
resorted to the bedroom, where, reading an “insignificant” book, he fell “presumably”
asleep. And Prof. M. B. continues:

In the next moment, I awoke as if from a bad dream, but my eyes shut. I felt,
however, that I was no longer in the same position, that is, on my back, but that
I hovered horizontally with my face downwards. [ . . . ]. As if I had seen it today,
I remember the following picture: [ . . . ] on the bed, my own face with closed eyes,
with the features of a corpse and with teeth clenched in death struggle. [ . . . ] This
feeling, that I would not even be able to die, stirred a boundless shudder in me, of
a kind that I never experienced ever before or thereafter. The thought came to me,
how my body would be found and buried, but I am not yet dead and unable to com-
municate this to anybody!5

The following morning, he awoke, still being able to remember his elevated perspective.
The description is a perfect example of a longed-for experience, raised and motivated by a
literary account—in this case, a “yogic” instruction, probably of Western origin, and most
likely dealing with “astral travel.” To provide here just one illustrative example of such a
lesson on how to develop “psychic powers” and undertake “astral travels,”6 I may cite Yogi
Ramacharaka (William W. Atkinson),7 whose very successful book Fourteen Lessons in
Yogi Philosophy and Oriental Occultism (1903; some 60 reprints up to 2017) gives the
following instruction for a “trip” of the disembodied soul:

Are you ready for your trip? Well, here is your guide. You have gone into the si-
lence, and suddenly become aware of having passed out of your body, and to be
now occupying only your astral body. You stand beside your physical body, and
see it sleeping on the couch, but you realize that you are connected with it by a
bright silvery thread, looking something like a large bit of bright spider-web. You

5
Trans. mine. Quoted also in Mattiesen 1931, 321–2.
6
Ramacharaka (1905, 192) explains that it is possible for a person “to project his astral body” and to travel with
it “to any point within the limits of the earth’s attraction, and the trained occultist may do so at will, under the
proper conditions.”
7
Ramacharaka is a good example of a multiple religious identity, combining Theosophy, occultism, mysticism,
Christianity, and Indian Yoga.
xxiv i Introduction
are conscious of the presence of your guide, who is to conduct you on your journey.
He also has left his physical body, and is in his astral form [ . . . ] which can move
through solid objects at will. Your guide takes your hand in his and says, ‘Come,’
and in an instant you have left your room and are over the city in which you dwell,
floating along as does a summer cloud. (Ramacharaka 1905, 195)8

For many researchers of near-death experiences, these Indian yogic ideas do not attest
to processes of transcultural reception, but point to the culture-transcending experience.
Walker and Serdahely (1990, 107), for example, hold that “within the Indian culture, yoga
has served as an important tradition whereby we are aware of the possible separateness
of body and consciousness” (italics mine). Nevertheless, Ramacharaka’s description is far
less than a “Yogic” account—it offers distinct elements of Western esotericism, for ex-
ample, the astral lifeline cord, or silver thread, that connects the astral body to the phys-
ical body. Especially in the theosophical discourse of the early 20th century, the silver
cord is a significant element of both—intentional travels of the astral soul and dying.
A spiritual “umbilical cord” (H. P. Blavatsky), it reassures, so it seems, practitioners even-
tually to return to the body. A rupture of the cord, then, would mean for the astral body
to be irreversibly set free. Although there are attempts in Theosophy to connect this
“silver cord” also to Indian sources, it is a significant Western topos shared by Jewish,
Christian, and Spiritualist–Occult writers. Mentioned already in Ecclesiastes 12:6–7,9
the silver cord shaped Western imagination of the after-death relation of the body and
soul over many centuries, especially in mysticism. We return to the Spiritualist–Occult
narratives on out-of-body travels in later chapters. Here, it may suffice to note that it was
probably this book, or a cognate kind of yogism guide that the Bohemian professor “M.
B.” had read and followed.10 Furthermore, his report displays a strategy to downplay the
direct relation, and even more, denies that any general interest in out-of-body experiences
were already at play. Emphasizing the universality of these experiences, researchers argue,
of course, that “spontaneity” and “inadvertent activation” are characteristics of near-death
experiences. Shushan (2009, 193), for example, holds, that the “very existence of the cross-
cultural similarities indicates that experience preceded conception. To argue the reverse
does not explain how a set of thematically similar ideas could be independently invented,
or how it could influence/create spontaneous, unsought NDEs.” Of course, one can
never invalidate the argument of a historical independent emergence of such experiences,
if the argument rests on a successfully established “precomparative,” universal experience

8
A significant move in Ramacharaka’s description (1905, 195–205) of his trip that includes many reminiscences
of near-death discourse, is the concept of the “guide”—first, the “guide” is the lesson that follows, and later, it
is the disembodied soul’s company.
9
“Or ever the silver cord be loosed [ . . . ]. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall
return unto God who gave it” (KJV).
10
On Yogi Ramacharaka’s significance for the (Eastern) European “orientalist” reception of Yoga cf. Stasulane
2013, 200–1.
 Introduction j xxv
that emanates into “similar” historical commonalities. Although I may remain skeptical
in respect to such claims, it is equally important to counter the opposite temptation,
namely, to deny the possibility entirely that near-death experiences were exactly expe-
rienced in the way they are reported. A common trope, however, is to report that the
experience had been much “richer;” or that any attempt to convey in words what had
been experienced must fail. Some reports, as we will see later, argue that the experience
is utterly indescribable, or that communication with a divine presence had taken place
without words, and so forth. But still, this is communicated, and therefore—in a certain
sense—not completely beyond words. In sum, important meanings are conveyed in the
way the “indescribable” quality is contextualized. If someone, for example, reports that
his or her “beautiful” experience was “indescribable,” it means something very different
than to report that a “revelatory” experience was “indescribable.” Later, I will argue that
even the experiencing individual is in principle confronted with the same methodolog-
ical problem, namely, the lack of intersubjective criteria for the experienced, even though
the conviction of certainty usually overrules the need to provide additional criteria. In
addition, those experiences, being phenomena of consciousness, cannot be causally re-
lated to a fixed set of circumstances, or a set of factors, that will lead without exception to
only one effect. This is not tenable, because so far, no experimental setting could be set
up that would prove the causal relation between these hypothetical triggers (physiolog-
ical, psychological, etc.) and the conscious content of these experiences (claimed, again,
in first-person narrative accounts). Such arguments suffer from behavioristic and deter-
ministic shortcomings. On the other hand, they suggest a scheme of explanation that
does not consider that the postecstatic report of the experiencers necessarily articulates
itself through language—a language that encompasses metaphors, images, and so forth.
For example, the conveyed experience of a tunnel: As a cognitive metaphor, the “tunnel
experience” is not only dependent on the worldly experience of walking or driving
through a tunnel. Moreover, it resorts to a large cultural reservoir of images, narratives,
and concepts that are at hand—in the case of the tunnel, for example the well-known
painting of Hieronymus Bosch (cf. Kellehear 1996, 41). For sure, it is very difficult to
ascertain whether individuals were already accustomed to certain afterlife ideas at the
time of their experience. But it is highly likely that the reporting individuals, very often
raised in religious families, were usually accustomed to at least some narrative topoi of
the “life to come.” There is a multitude of ways in which these ideas are communicated
within cultures: novels, poems, song lyrics; documentaries, movies; paintings; comics
and the like; and, most important, personal communications. Moody, it seems, was in-
itially aware of these influences. Yet, taking the various ways of cultural prefiguration
into consideration, the problem will not be solved by merely asking “have you ever read
the Tibetan Book of the Dead prior to your near-death experience?” or “Could Emanuel
Swedenborg possibly had been influenced by Tibetan ideas?” (cf. Moody 1976, 126–8).
To summarize, the relationship among (i) situations identified as the trigger of the
experience, (ii) the experiences themselves, and (iii) their subsequent verbalization may
xxvi i Introduction
at best be described in terms of conditional relation, naming a group of factors and
circumstances that seem to contribute to conditioned effects, but not in causal depend-
ence. In addition, we may follow Jacques Lacan in his reformulation of Freudian concepts
that the discourse of others highly influences a subject’s subconsciousness. Narrations of
ecstatic experiences, of which most near-death reports are an example, are in principle
accessible only by means of postecstatic, first-person reports, are accordingly finalized
(if not construed) in the moment of their narration, yet, they are formed in numerous
ways by the discourse of others. Finally, reports of experience generate a new, discursive
reality—in other words, they will become, if repeated and enriched by reports of others,
a social institution.
What is more, we do find self-referential comments within the near-death reports: From
early on, the reporting individuals, for example, Montaigne or Admiral Beaufort, suggest
how to “read” their testimonies. In more modern collections of reports, we must count
with a cognate tendency: Because many reports go back to interview surveys (from
Moody up to the present day), it is crucial to consider what the interviewees assumed as
motives of the interviewers. They suggested reading them as experiences with death, but
also as experiences of a disembodied soul, or of the beyond, and afterlife, and so forth.
However, I understand any state of unconsciousness (coma) that is reversible—that is,
which is followed by another state of consciousness—not as death, but as a continuation
of life. Yet, this does not mean that we are—from an epistemological point of view—
able to decide with final certainty that there is no afterlife. According to my premises,
however, all human experience is bound to consciousness. Various philosophers, ranging
from Immanuel Kant to Peter Strawson, argued that a concept of “unbound” conscious-
ness would disable any kind of individual existence, of sense perception, or personal ex-
perience. Reviewing these arguments, I will refrain from any materialist reductionism
about near-death experiences. Following Thomas Nagel and others, I will argue that
the descriptive frame of “consciousness,” the non-objectifiable first-person perspective,
does not allow for conscious content to be reduced on a one-to-one basis to brain states.
Although these phenomena are bound to human consciousness, I will occasionally point
to current research in neuroscience that seems to offer additional evidence as to why cer-
tain elements of the reported experiences tend to show up in the “dying brain.”
 Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method

i
This book has five parts, each of which prepares the ground for the next part. In Part
I of this study, I will outline our main thesis that the discourse of near-death experiences
can be read throughout as a discourse on religious experience. As such, it has been ad-
vanced as a search for existential meaning of often incommensurable experiences, as a
reinforcement of personal survival of the soul, the “astral body,” or consciousness, and
as an evocative discourse to encourage individual expression of somehow revelatory
experiences in critical times of religious individualization. In Part II, I will show how
the different strands of religious metacultures in the West, most prominently Christian,
Gnostic–Esoteric, and Spiritualist–Occult, initiated and catalyzed the ongoing interest
in these experiences. Only occasionally, elements of the reported experiences were treated
by protagonists of a naturalist perspective aiming to explain them with neurological,
pathological, or psychological paradigms of their time. Part III will investigate more spe-
cifically the conditions that led in the 1960s and 1970s to a finalization of the concept of
“near-death experiences.” Key factors that contributed to this development were, on the
one side, the improvement in the survival rate of individuals in life-threatening situations.
On the other hand, the increase of reported experiences goes hand in hand with the use
of psychotropic substances—in medical contexts such as general anesthesia, but most
importantly, “psychedelics” such as LSD. This outcome resonates with a result of the
historical genealogy, namely, that important protagonists of near-death discourse in the
19th century had already reported similar experiences resulting from opium and hashish
consumption. A so far underrepresented aspect that led to an increase of reported near-
death experiences is the heated discussion on the criteria of “brain death.” The definition
xxvii
xxviii i Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method
of irreversible coma and brain death, installed in the late 1960s, and the emerging practice
of organ transplantation from brain-dead bodies, triggered fears, but also resistance. As
I will show, several reports of near-death experiences, often communicated by individuals
who underwent operations and intensive medical care, include comments on the “mate-
rialism” and “soullessness” of modern medicine. Especially its negligence and suppression
of dying and death—in sum, the “inhumane” nature of modern medicine—are criticized
by individuals who reported to have been granted mystical and revelatory religious
experiences before being reanimated. Finally, the impact of the institutional change of
religious practice and belief in Western countries should be acknowledged, namely, the
general crisis of the major church-based traditions in the 1960s and 1970s, the impor-
tance of the ecumenical movement, the trend toward eclecticism, and the “imperative”
of individual experience.
In Parts II and III, I exclude any possible appraisal of epistemic and ontological claims
of the “experiencers,” and will, as previously said, treat them as reports. Having accom-
plished the reconstruction of near-death discourse, I will, in Part IV, shift my focus from
the reports as narratives to the experiences themselves. Is there any way to find out if cer-
tain traits of experiences near death rest exclusively on expectations of what to experience
near death, or on retroactive imputations? Or should we grant that some traits should
be acknowledged as experiences? Although I remain skeptical toward attempts to caus-
ally “explain” near-death experiences with impaired brain states, I will explore whether
narratives of mental acceleration and the “panoramic life review” can be more properly
understood using “wake-up dreams” as a hermeneutic tool. Surely this model is no “Swiss
army knife” for understanding all narrated content of the reports. Moreover, I must
admit that the assumption of an existential “wake-up call,” which I will term “death-x-
pulse,” rests on theories of human consciousness that, in this part, guide our interpreta-
tion. I will therefore recommend reading it as an excursus.
In the concluding Part V, I will reflect on the historical and systematic findings,
pursuing to portray the different functions of near-death experiences in—and for—
religious discourse. Beginning with some observations in respect to the reports, I will
distinguish among ontological, epistemic, communicative, and ethical functions of these
experiences in the religious domain. These functions vary in the respective religious
metacultures. Crucial, however, is their instrumental value for restoring the meaning of
religious experience in an age of uncertainty. A substrategy for achieving this goal can be
seen in their psychological relevance for a reduction of existential distress—dying, we
are taught by almost all “experiencers,” is not painful, and there is, though declared with
different degrees of certainty, an afterlife.

Remarks on Method

Though the reporting of those experiences is intricately interwoven with individual

biographies, I decided not to stick to an explicitly biographical approach. Instead, it will
 Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method j xxix
be my aim to show that the reports bear witness to the fact that the individual memoirs
are—in the way they were formed and reported—embedded in social communities and
collective, communicative memory. In respect to the sources considered here, I will treat
the discourse on experiences near death in the Western world as an interconnected field
in a global arena. To put it in other words, this study will not search for the needle in
the haystack—it will try to picture the haystack itself. Accordingly, I will not indulge in
the idiosyncrasies of specific languages (reports published in English, French, German,
etc.), or the differences in national cultures—for example, the European–American di-
vide. Specific cultural backgrounds will be discussed only if problems of understanding
arise. As a method to find relevant memoirs or narratives, more recent collections of
near-death experiences were systematically searched for earlier quotations, which were
consulted. In addition, I made use of various searchable digital corpora. Interestingly,
a prominent, often reliable term for identifying relevant passages that emerged in the
course of the study was the term “body” (and its lexical synonyms in the respective lan-
guages dealt with here). This led to the hypothesis that the discourse on near-death
experiences is, in an almost dialectical manner, tied to the “soul’s other,” namely, the
“body.” However, to repeat, with this method, I may have missed reports that did not
make their way, for whatever reason, into the ongoing discourse. On the other hand,
being interested in the general picture, I hope to have been able to identify the general
strands. Yet my approach builds on sources defined, to a certain extent, on pragmatic
terms—for example, in respect to the discourse in other languages than those previ-
ously named. However, especially in Esoteric and Spiritualist discourses, decisive for
the coming-together of a systematized description of those experiences, I encountered
a highly interconnected discursive field. In the 18th century, for example, it was very
common to translate the respective works almost at once into other European lan-
guages. Devoted actors in the field traveled extensively to share their experiences and
insights, and relevant journals reprinted their memoirs and interpretations time and
again. Another decision that might meet a critical response is our focus on Western
discourse. Non-Western texts, practices, and religions will be dealt with only if they
were of influence in the Western discourse—an influence, as will be subsequently seen,
that was highly important. However, I will not expand on the question if experiences
near death are to be found within, for example, Middle Eastern, Asian, or Native
American traditions. Moreover, respective studies, often straightforwardly interested in
demonstrating the transcultural quality of the experiences themselves, are often meth-
odologically flawed. Focusing on Western discourse, I should mention explicitly that
the discourse genealogy outlined here does not imply any normative concept of Europe
or the West. Our terminus post quem will be the fully established, systematic concept of
near-death experiences that is accomplished in 1975, exemplified in Chapter 1.3 on the
decisive contributions by Ritchie, Moody, and Hampe.
As said above, Part II will encompass a historical reconstruction of the Western dis-
course ranging from 1580 to 1975. In general, the method used here will be a historical
xxx i Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method
discourse analysis, pursuing the question of how texts present these experiences and the
situations in which they occurred. Very rarely, the reports are conveyed in their raw
form, that is, as arduous struggles to communicate intensive experiences. As such, they
present themselves with fractures, sudden turns, or idiosyncratic phrases. In contrast,
and considerably more often, reports are comprehensible, concerted narratives that
leave the mark of having been told and retold over and over again, and finally of having
assumed by means of this evolutionary process a narrative structure that incorporates
the intention to evoke the best possible cognitive, emotional, and spiritual reaction by
hearers and readers alike. In other cases, reports follow closely literary models of com-
plex visions: heavens and hells, journeys to the otherworld, or blueprints of Utopian
societies.1
Of crucial importance are the self-reflective comments on the meaning of these
experiences. These comments, corollaries to the memoirs, usually introduce a larger
framework of interpretation, classifying the status of these experiences—for example, as
“dreams,” “visions,” “memories,”—or making sense of their contents, for example, as “ex-
perience of the afterlife,” or “travels of a disembodied spirit.” I assume that especially in
modernity narrated experiences contribute to the discursive construction of “death” and
the “beyond,” being themselves pathways of how death, dying and the beyond had been
conceptualized in a certain historical period. More precisely, the hypothesis pursued here
builds on the observation that even more important than the religious imagery of the
visionary content of a significant portion of reports (paradisiacal landscapes, angels, a
being of Light, meeting deceased, etc.) is the experiencer’s reaction in the aftermath of
his experience. These transformational reactions are, however, in many cases unverifiable
parts of the narratives themselves, and should be treated as such. I will define the en-
tire narrative—including the description of the life-threatening situation, the memoir of
what has been experienced, and what the individual reports as meaning of the experience,
or of changes in life orientation—as the “script” of near-death experiences. With current
narrative theory, a script functions as a scheme that triggers in the recipient an imagined,
typical sequence of events.2
There is, indeed, a continuous strand of contributions on near-death experiences—
including, of course, Moody’s seminal work—that preeminently argues with the effects
these experiences have on people’s lives. The first to theorize that the validity of religious

1
Kellehear (1996, 97) even reckons that portrayals of “ideal, Utopian societies” are a dominant element of
near-death experiences, building on the idea that though “highly personal” in experience, the message is “com-
monly social rather than religious and critical rather than affirming of present social conditions and attitudes”
(cf. 100–15). Although I follow Kellehear in his appraisal of the “social” message, we will subsequently see
that in the sources analyzed here, Utopian societies are only occasionally portrayed, and if so, obviously in a
religious frame.
2
For example, being told of attending a Sunday Mass will trigger typical elements such as entering a church for a
certain amount of time, to pray and sing in community, a sermon and readings, and further aesthetic and emo-
tional aspects that are included in the typical sequence, or script, of “attending a Sunday Mass.”
 Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method j xxxi
experience rests upon visible changes in lives—in other words, transformational effects it
produces—was the psychologist and pragmatist philosopher William James in his work
on religious experience (1902). But can those reactions truly be transformed into a way of
validating or verifying the “truth” of experienced content, as James and Moody thought?
Remaining faithful to the method chosen, I am inclined to argue that reported changes of
spiritual reorientation in life form an essential part of many narrative embeddings of near-
death experiences. By this, too, they become religious narratives. Quite often, reported
reactions do not build on the more obvious religious imagery, but on altered cognitive
perspectives reported by experiencers: namely, to get out of one’s body and to view the
“old” body from the outside and to experience a higher awareness, a mental lucidity, or
the so-called “panoramic life review.”
On a more principal level, we will also have to inquire into the relationship among
experience, verbal testimony, and the final report. The close reading of the latter will
include a special focus on the narrative structure of the reports and the metaphors used.
Metaphors are central for two reasons: First, metaphors allow delineating elements of
human life-world experience that are used as a background in near-death reports—for
example, if texts make use of artefacts such as a “film projection” or a “tunnel.” Second,
metaphors are a decisive feature of religious texts in general, since these texts often seek
to express experiences that are difficult to visualize otherwise.3 As such, a genealogical
reading of conceptual metaphors may also help to uncover the religious dimensions
within—at first glance—“secular” strands of near-death discourse. To illustrate this grasp
on metaphors and to further delineate our cognitive interests, we may take as an example
the “sheep–goat-effect” outlined by Gertrude Schmeidler. Interested in “extrasensory
perception,” Schmeidler claims to have found a psychological effect that individuals who
stated before an experiment on extrasensory perception (and other psi phenomena) that
they do believe in the existence of those phenomena score above random chance at a
statistically significant level. Self-confessed disbelievers, in contrast, scored significantly
lower. Yet the outcome, presupposing not only verifiable paranormal effects, but also a
detectable “underperformance” of skeptics, may raise doubts regarding the execution of
the experiment, including the evaluation of its results. For our purpose, it is, however,
more interesting to focus on the terms that Schmeidler introduced for classifying the two
groups. Tellingly, she called believers in the paranormal “sheep” and nonbelievers “goats”
(cf. Schmeidler and McConnell 1958, 24–5). Applying cognitive metaphor theory,
I presuppose that metaphors are not used accidentally and may not pass unnoticed. In
this case, though Schmeidler does not expand on their origin, “sheep” and “goats” may
allude to the metaphorical quality of “sheep” as somehow “naïve,” and of “goats” being
“strongminded” (though the latter are not particularly famous for being “clever”). In this
special constellation, “sheep and goats,” will unquestionably rely, if consciously or not,

3
Cf. Slingerland 2004; Blumenberg 2010; Schlieter 2013.
xxxii i Outline of the Argument and Remarks on Method
on the Christian imagery of the fate of humans in the afterlife. In the final judgment, the
well-known parable in Matthew 25:31–46 insinuates, sheep (following the Lord as “shep-
herd”) will be on His right side, the goats on His left side. The sheep shall “inherit the
kingdom prepared,” eternal life, whereas the goats are destined for eternal punishment.
Transposed on personal attitudes on paranormal phenomena reported of near-death
experiences, the conceptual metaphors used by Schmeidler uncover the still religiously
impregnated hopes dominating the parapsychological discourse on extrasensory percep-
tion. An analysis of metaphors such as the rewarded “sheep-believer” will help to uncover
the religious longing engrained in the main strands of reports on near-death experience.
In this specific case, the sheep metaphor concurs with an opinion widely shared in near-
death discourse, namely, that believers in the supernatural will likely be granted such
insights if they happen to get near death, whereas skeptics will, in similar situations, ex-
perience nothing.
Analyzing features and currents of a polyphonic discourse, I will, moreover, ask how
certain historical transformations within near-death discourse can be explained. These
transformations may sometimes emerge from intrinsic, “endogenous” alterations within
the discourse; in other cases, it becomes obvious that innovations within society, for ex-
ample, the invention of general anesthesia and surgery in operation theaters, should be
acknowledged as an almost indispensable precondition for the emergence of new discur-
sive elements within near-death reports. Reviewing these preconditions, I will neither
argue that they are “only” discourse in the most radical constructivist sense, nor that they
are objectively untouched “extradiscursive” elements. The fact that the world is construed
and perceived through language simply does not imply that everything is discourse. In
any case, I will aim to demonstrate how the strand of late medieval Christian deathbed
narratives is constantly enriched by new features—namely, the emergence of the “pano-
ramic life-review” feature, the inclusion of autoscopic perspectives “out-of-body,” theo-
sophical narratives on travels of the “spiritual body,” or the “tunnel” experience.
Part one
Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
 First our pleasures die – and then
Our hopes, and then our fears – and when
These are dead, the debt is due.
Dust claims dust – and we die too.
“Death” (stanza III)
Percy B. Shelley (1792–1822)

1.1
Introduction
i

Following Moody, near- death experiences have been primarily studied as

“experiences.” In respect to the “wild beast” of experience, the imminent question that will
arise is, of course, if these experiences (or: which of these) represent an actual encounter
with “postmortem worlds” or if they are simply hallucinations, dream-like memories, and
so forth. To speak of experiences will inevitably feed the legitimate need for ontological
clarification. Whether experience is defined here as “empirical knowledge” (or “a poste-
riori knowledge,” somehow grounded in sensory experience) or as some kind of “mys-
tical experience” of transcendent insights—in both cases the question of factuality arises,
namely, if the experience-cum-experienced is real. A usual way to avoid the ontological
question in respect to the supernatural content of those experiences (e.g., encounter
with deceased, spirits, a being of “Light,” or transmortal judgment scenes) is, however,
to argue that the validity or authenticity of “first-hand experience” can be shown by the
individual’s sincere reaction, namely, the change it has brought about for the respective
individual. According to this criterion of religious or spiritual experience, one would cor-
relate experience only as a certain exposure to situations with (more or less observable)
changes, which the individual himself connects causally with this experience. This will,
however, not free us from the dilemma to answer the question if what has been “experi-
enced” can be determined as “real.”

3
4i Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
1.1.1 Near- death experiences as memoirs and reports

To take a new point of departure, instead of near-death experiences, I speak of “near-

death reports” (in the case of reported memoirs), and of the “script of near-death experi-
ence,” if the memoir is framed by descriptions of significant changes in life: orientation,
conversion, increased religious or spiritual belief, and so forth. The “near-death memoir”
is, in other words, the memorized experience of a sequence of events, represented in form
of a causal chain initiated by a near-death situation that finds its closure by the individual
regaining full conscious awareness. The script encompasses the memoir and its narrative
framing, including added autobiographical information, third-person testimonies by
relatives, friends, or doctors. Methodologically, I treat experiences near death as signifi-
cant from, and for, the effective date at which they were reported—either in oral, written,
or other media communication. Only occasionally, it has been suggested not to put
undue trust into reports of near-death experiences, but to conduct primarily research on
the reports as self-narratives (see Kastenbaum 1996, 254–8). Kastenbaum, however, turns
his attention as a psychologist to the “functional value” (cf. 261–3) of the experiences,
without being further interested in the cultural transmission of the topoi reported in
the near-death memoirs. This implies that we will have to confine ourselves to what we
have: reports of experiences, embedded in autobiographical narratives. In many, especially
premodern cases, we rely on third-person accounts—again, of those reports, and some-
times enriched by descriptions of the near-death situation from which those experiences
are said to have emerged. Given this situation, it is a methodological necessity to analyze
experiences near death primarily as near-death reports—as documents that represent the
state of affairs at the date of their final revision and publication. To focus on reports is not
be understood as a hypercritical attitude relativizing the meaning and impact of the near-
death episode. Instead, I want to lay emphasis on the fact that what we usually deal with
are the reports—and by and large only the reports. Of course, according to several near-
death reports, external observers were present and could witness first-hand the life-world
situations to which the reporting individuals attribute their experiences. Nevertheless,
even these observers can, strictly speaking, attest to only external circumstances. In some
classical cases, however, these external observers did not only report what they had heard
from the experiencers—they also corroborated “eyewitness” evidence, for example, for
the claim of a comatose patient to have been able to identify medical instruments un-
known to him or to have been able to follow conversation in the operating theater, and
so forth. The problem of all those reports (and equally of the latest experiments of Sam
Parnia and others) is the fact that these reporting parties often share the paranormal
beliefs of the experiencers. Hence these third-person verifications are often simply taken
for granted. For example, the philosophical reflection on “empirical arguments” for
postmortem survival, recently undertaken by Michael Sudduth (2016), neglects to even
question the problematic status of psychical researchers’ classical reports on near-death
and disembodied experience, that is, the general desirability of veridical accounts of
 Introduction j5
paranormal experience, shared by experiencers, reporters, and collectors of these reports.
Actually, Sudduth (cf. 47–8; 306) defines reports of near-death experiences as “empir-
ical data,” arguing that experiences were documented in which the respective individuals
were able to observe occurrences in the external world while, for example, in a comatose
state (cf. 54–5; 59–65). Sudduth takes these reports straightforwardly as veridical expe-
rience but confines himself somehow paradoxically to show that the classical “empiri-
cally based” arguments for postmortem survival fail to accomplish what they intended to
argue for (cf. 307). Although he disapproves of philosophical arguments for survival, the
individual experiential cases are still in place. Sudduth, for that matter, takes leave of the
reader by quoting an indeed unchallengeable dictum of philosopher Charlie D. Broad
(1962, 430): “one can only wait and see, or alternatively (which is no less likely) wait
and not see,” which is in a way an unconditional surrender to the “truth” of individual
experience.
Taking our departure by analyzing the reports and their corollaries will allow us
to look at the processes of literary articulation that may locate the individual’s actual
attempt to verbalize an experience in the broader field of literary prototypes and cultur-
ally transmitted expectations of what is to be experienced near death. This neither means
that we doubt that such experiences occur, nor that authentic accounts are in principle
impossible. However, a focus on the reports may allow deciphering different processes
that influence the communicated content—a so-far-neglected task. Actually, it can be
observed that in recent scientific research on near-death experiences, remarks on the lit-
erary and narrative forms have been astonishingly commonplace. In contrast, research
adopts almost exclusively, as does Kellehear (1996, 43), the perspective to “examine the
experience from the point of view of the experiencer.” The generic concept of a “near-
death experiencer,” adapted in near-death discourse in the late 1970s, reified the “expe-
riencer” as a category of persons who went through this life-transforming experience.1
Interestingly, the technical term “experiencer” had been used in the 18th century mostly
for a subject that makes scientific trials and experiments, whereas in the 19th century, it
became most popular as a term for translating certain classical passages of Indian philos-
ophy, especially the Yoga Sūtra of Patañjali, which defines the relationship among the “ex-
periencer,” the “experience,” and the “experienced” (cf. Ballantyne 1852, 9; 26; Mitra 1883,
1; 82–5). In the first half of the 20th century, the concept of an experiencer, although still
used in Indian philosophical context, had been adapted in parapsychology, mysticism,
and esotericism, which prepared the ground for the near-death experiencer.
Psychologically, near-death reports should be located in a complex network of ex-
pectation, anticipation, and confirmation of the anticipated. Nevertheless, for many

1
Kinsella notes (2016, 10) that in a more recent IANDS convention in Virginia (2013), experiencers wore spe-
cial ribbons attached to their name tags and were sought after and venerated by the more “ordinary mortals”
attending the event. Already Moody (cf. 1977a, 140–1) mentions that he had brought experiencers together in
groups to discuss and share their experiences.
6i Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
near-death researchers, the concept of experience is, for systematic reasons, an almost
indubitable category, which hinders even thinking of the creative dimension within the
reports. A typical example can be found in Hampe’s attempt to draw a distinction be-
tween “spiritualist” accounts of mediums claiming to be able to communicate even with
long-deceased persons and, on the other side, near-death testimonies more properly.
Hampe ([1975] 1979, 115) argues: “The experiences of the dying we have been consid-
ering in this book derive from people who have gone through these experiences. However
we judge them, they remain the authentic testimonies of these men and women. They
have experienced dying in their own minds or souls.” We may add that the problem of au-
thenticity, largely overlooked in scientific near-death literature, becomes apparent in re-
search on the phenomenon of “cryptomnesia,” namely, if an individual believes a certain
element (e.g., an experience, an image) to be absolutely new. The individual, however, is
merely unaware of its original source that may be a revived memory or even a report of
someone else. Cryptomnesia therefore can be categorized as unintentional plagiarism (cf.
Marsh and Bower 1993).

1.1.2 Fictional near- death reports and autobiographical

narratives

For pragmatic and methodological reasons, I exclude fictional descriptions of near-death

experiences. Surely, there are numerous instances of fictional experiences near death
depicted in literature or in movies. The latter comprise, for example, the film “Outward
Bound” (1930), the musical fantasy film classic “The Wizard of Oz” (1939), or the movie
“A Matter of Life and Death” (1946).2 I also abstain from considering paintings, although
the tunnel vision—if it is truly a tunnel—depicted in “The Ascent Into the Empyrean
or Highest Heaven” by Hieronymus Bosch (ca. 1490) may be the most famous, almost
emblematic, illustration of near-death visions. Without question, fictional accounts of
experiences near death will certainly have had a considerable influence on expectations
of what to experience near death, on the experience itself, and the final reporting. The
pragmatic reason to exclude them here is the sheer abundance of material one would have
to incorporate. Among influential literary accounts are already premodern instances such
as the “Pearl,” an English poem of the 14th century, which narrates an experience of trau-
matic loss that seemingly includes almost two-thirds of Moody’s 15 elements (cf. Gunn
1995, 135). Famous descriptions are to be found in Edgar Allan Poe, for example, in “A
Tale of the Ragged Mountains” (1844),3 Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek

2
“The Wizard of Oz,” directed by Victor Fleming (MGM); “Outward Bound,” directed by Robert Milton
(Warner); “A Matter of Life and Death” (“Stairway to Heaven” [US]), directed by Michael Powell and Emeric
Pressburger (Eagle-Lion Films, UK; Universal Studios, US).
3
Cf. Dieguez 2013, 104–7.
 Introduction j7
Bridge” (1891), or Karl May’s At the Beyond (Am Jenseits, 1899).4 I am convinced that a
closer look at fictional near-death narrations and their embellishments will reveal that in
many instances the authors had an intimate knowledge and personal interest in matters
spiritist and occult. For example, Poe—though no Spiritist—was fascinated by Andrew
J. Davis’s mesmerism lectures.5 Karl May, a declared Spiritist, visited séances and had
worked through a large number of Spiritualist–Occult books.6
In contrast, I rest my analysis on those reports that claim to be actual, autobiograph-
ical experiences, that is, on reports that presuppose a first-person perspective—defined
as the capacity to think of oneself as the actual subject of experience. In principle, accounts
must claim to be authentic reports of a certain individual’s biographical memoir of what
had happened to her or him. It should be mentioned here that the historical formation
of autobiographical writing (cf. Mascuch 1997) was, I subsequently argue, a prominent,
if not causative, condition for the coming-together of reported experiences near death,
particularly the “life review.”
Fictional and religious narratives, however, can be distinguished on the basis of the
author’s “reference ambition,” as has been convincingly argued by Markus Davidsen (cf.
2016, 528–9). Authors of fictional narratives usually lack this ambition, whereas authors
of factual narratives aim to refer to a text-external world. Fictional accounts certainly
provide important story worlds of experiences near death, including new metaphors and
topoi, innovative storylines, or plots, but also cognitive maps of the “beyond.” The latter
may offer detailed spatial and temporal frames as outlined in more recent cognitive theory
of narratives. In addition, fictional accounts probably also configure schemes for how the
biographical setting of these experiences may be depicted—including, most prominently,
the life-threatening situation. Nevertheless, the reference ambition of experiencers to re-
port of authentic experiences (autobiographical memoirs, either directly disclosed to a
broader audience by the experiencers themselves or reported of them by others)7 is an
essential precondition for their religious significance and is a requirement for including
them here.8

4
On near-death experiences in literature, see Audette 1982; Dieguez 2010, 2013.
5
Cf. E.A. Poe’s “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845); for Poe’s relationship to Spiritualism cf.
Manson 2013.
6
Cf. on May’s relationship to Spiritualism and Occultism Sawicki 2002, 324–30.
7
In his extensive study on “Claiming Knowledge” in Esoteric traditions, Olav Hammer (2004, 504–5) divides
narratives of experiences in first-, second-, and third-person accounts. First-person narratives may claim “privi-
leged experience,” whereas second- and third-person narratives offer somehow more “democratic” instructions.
Experiences near death, though communicated as first-person narratives, are, however, often not privileged
experience and rather contested in their claims.
8
This statement does not exclude that fiction-based religions (e.g., “Jediism”) are possible. Yet, it seems un-
likely that fictional accounts of unique but contingent experiences near death are especially suitable for being
endowed with religious meaning.
8i Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
A certain intermediate position between fictional and autobiographical narratives
occupies those visionary accounts that still claim to be reports. For example, an anony-
mous American Christian writer, claiming to have access to the secret thoughts of other
Christians, published a Book of Visions in 1847. It included the following, rather spectac-
ular case: being at the bedside of a Christian friend dying, the author is able to see and
mind read the near- and after-death thoughts of his friend: “As I gazed steadfastly upon
his cold, pale features, once more my vision was obscured for an instant, and when sight
was restored to me, I beheld the spirit of my deceased friend, standing by my side, and
an angel holding him by the hand. We were in the world of departed spirits: the corpse
still lay before us, and the mourners were there; but there was between us and them a
transparent wall of separation” (Anonymous 1847, 127). A few feet above the heads of
the “breathing mortals,” he can, finally, accompany his friend—whose appearance mi-
raculously assumes an ethereal beauty—into a paradisiacal congregation of departed
spirits. Actually, some of these “telepathic” examples present narratives that will become
influential in the emerging near-death discourse. Wellesley Tudor Pole, a “medium” with
inclinations toward psychical research and theosophy, presents himself as capable to re-
ceive a message of a deceased per automatic writing in 1917, namely, the near-death ex-
perience of a certain Private Dowding. For the latter, however, the experience near death
ended in death proper, so that it is Pole more properly who claims to voice the former’s
experience. I do not include such visionary accounts in the genre of near-death reports
if they miss a connection to a person’s claim to render autobiographical information (of
himself or herself, or of someone else). However, it is necessary, as became obvious in
the previously mentioned case of Professor M. B., to incorporate some reports on disem-
bodied journeys to the “afterlife,” for example, on “astral travel” of the disembodied soul,
which, though not in the context of dying, are presented as true out-of-body experiences.
Surely, examples in literature, painting, and film entertain close intertextual and
intermedial relations with personal, autobiographical reports, and may on their part
be grounded in personal experiences. Nevertheless, as outlined, I confine my study to
depictions that are avowedly declared to be real experiences.
I. P. Couliano (1991, 7) rightly pointed out that “otherworldly journeys” can unde-
niably be “envisioned as a literary genre,” to be characterized by “intertextuality” that
points to “our mental tendency to cast every new experience in old expressive molds.”9
Furthermore, “every individual thinks part of a tradition and therefore is thought by
it; and in the process the individual obtains the cognitive self-assuredness that what is
thought is experienced, and whatever is experienced also has an effect on what is thought”
(11). He goes on to contrast dream interpretation and reports of visions: “The visions are

9
Fox (2003, 79), confronting Couliano with the traditional judgment of a theologian that he leaves aside
“whether any kind of common experiential core may underlie the varieties of reported experience,” oversees
that Couliano actually affirms mystical dimensions of religious experience.
 Introduction j9
more complex, in that their recipient is usually acquainted with literary precedents, and
if not soon becomes so with the help of others. Here, intertextuality can, most uncon-
sciously, interfere with the original version to the point that the visionary is convinced
that his or her experience falls into an ancient and venerable pattern illustrated by many
other visionaries” (7). Intertextuality, Fox (2003, 79) comments, visualizes an influence
of one text or narrative on another “in such a way that certain details of plot or charac-
terization in one may be accounted for by the influence of the plot and characteriza-
tion of another.” However, despite his own insights into the intertextuality at play in
otherworldly journey reports, Couliano does not read the latter as documents in their
own right. Instead, he assumes that “out-of-body” experiences, for example, were “altered
states of consciousness” and more or less within the reach of ordinary human cognitive
capabilities. In effect, near-death experiences become an ahistorical quality of the human
mind. Couliano, however, conceptualizes the intertextuality of near-death narratives as
a process of homogenization. New experiences will be adjusted to cultural expectations
that, in visionary literature, consist of a basic “mystical theme”—accordingly, they will
be fused and harmonized with an “ancient and venerable pattern illustrated by many
other visionaries” (Couliano 1991, 7), which guarantees their relative consistency and
contributes to the impression of an apparent universality.
Focusing on reports of experience, however, an objection might be raised. In cases of
interviews, conducted with the interviewee immediately after the near-death event, so it
could be argued, the reporting should be more reliable and trustworthy. Kellehear (1996,
187) argues that it was “Moody’s, Ring’s and Sabom’s in-depth interviews that gave us the
first full phenomenological accounts of the experience,” and that for “consistently sharp
details of the NDE as a personal experience, the interview has been an excellent revela-
tory tool.” Although in comparison with memoirs narrated for—or after—decades, this
assessment may be correct, we must nevertheless emphasize that, even in this case, the
contents of the experience cannot simply be construed as a “phenomenological account,”
insinuating that we are informed of what an experiencer saw, felt, or heard. We must
take into consideration that the individual’s expectations, readings, and so forth, are in-
tricately present in the experience and, likewise, in the reporting.
In terms of genre, the final constitution of near-death experiences presents itself as the
process of collecting, corroborating, and systematizing the reports. This becomes obvious
in the work of Moody, though his collection was by far not the first. For these sources,
I introduce the term “near-death report collections.” Arguably starting in the 17th cen-
tury as collections of supernatural visions and experiences, near-death report collections
slowly developed into a genre on their own (cf. Audette 1982, 31). The case collection
of Albert Heim, published in 1892 as a description and interpretation of experiences
reported from nearly fatal falls in the Alps, is usually seen as the first specimen of this
genre. These collections—of which the Christian “compilations of visions” are impor-
tant late medieval forerunners (cf. Gebauer 2013)—did (and still do) not only structure
the material. Usually, they follow cognitive interests within their metaculture—be they
10 i Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
Spiritualist, Christian, or, although quite rarely, Psychological–Naturalist. Last but not
least, collections follow criteria of inclusion and exclusion and therefore canonize the
narratives into “core experiences.” Strictly speaking, this final phase does not belong to the
configuration of near-death reports; yet the emergence of those collections encouraged
further reporting—in consequence, we add the “collection” as the concluding phase.
 1.2
Experiences of Dying and Death
i

How do reports that usually entail both an intersubjective objectifiable part (namely,
the situation being close to death or being declared “dead,” the medical records, external
third-party observations, etc.) and a solely subjective, first-person report on experience,
relate to an experienced reality? How should we respond to truth claims of these reports?
As a literary genre, near-death reports often use a unifying strategy to interweave both
perspectives in one report—for example, the parallelization of inner experiences (“then
I saw the doctor who declared me dead”) and external, intersubjective events (the localiz-
able speech act of a doctor who informs other persons that the patient must be declared
“dead”). Applying recent narrative theory here, I may call this with Markus Davidsen (see
2016, 524) an “anchoring mechanism,” which aims to link the story world of inner experi-
ence with the actual world. In fact, doctors will usually inform patients later on that they
were declared dead at a certain time.
Although I may not provide an extended discussion of the general relationship between
subjective report and experienced reality here, it seems necessary to discuss some specific
claims of near-death reports. In a large group of reports, this claim—that is, the script—is
conveyed in the following manner: “At the time I had my near-death experience, I was dead
(because I was declared dead). In my experience, I crossed the borderline of life and death,
had significant experiences in the beyond, but returned to life.” The claim is, in principle,
twofold: first, the insights or revelations gained; second, the fact of postmortem survival
itself, seen as evidence for a noncorporeal consciousness, or, for that matter, the soul’s im-
mortality. The more specific claims differ in regard to the metacultures in which they are
usually grounded—most prominently, Christian, Esoteric, or Spiritualist metacultures
11
12 i Near-Death Experiences as Religious Discourse
(as subsequently defined). Philosophers, anthropologists, and theologians will usually
argue that truth claims of first-person reports should be evaluated on two levels: in re-
gard to their subjective and their intersubjective realities. If a person claims in her first-
person account that what she experienced in a near-death situation has an intersubjective
quality—for example, that a postmortem, “otherworldly” state has been revealed—one
will of course ask for criteria that allow these claims to be validated. In contrast, if these
experiences are conveyed as a dream-like or hallucinatory quality, it will be easy to locate
them within a framework of subjective mental states that do not fulfill the criteria of
“experiences.” Yet, given that “states of affairs” in experiences near death are solely acces-
sible through later reports by the affected individuals, we are in the same situation—we
lack criteria to evaluate claims in regard to the “experienced” postmortem reality. Unless
we claim the possibility of “pure experience” as an experience without intentional rela-
tions to an experienced reality, or some kind of “self-luminosity,” or, as Zaleski holds, a
“bottom layer of actual experience” (1987, 86),1 it remains doubtful if we can conceptu-
alize the respective states of consciousness as experiences.
However, a position articulated in various Gnostic–Esoteric or Spiritualist–Occult
sources holds that there is intersubjective validity. There are known instances, it is
argued, in which two reporting individuals, while out of their bodies, met in their re-
spective near-death experiences. This claim is, of course, a well-known argument of
those traditions that do not wait for a rather unlikely situation of parallel near-death
experiences to happen, but initiate intentional travels in the after-death realm on a reg-
ular basis. Alfred P. Sinnett,2 an influential theosophist and important precursor for the
later formulation of “out-of-body experiences,” argued, for example, that the concurrent
testimony of disembodied souls, experiencing not only the same “astral plane” of exist-
ence but also experiencing each other while “being there,” will weigh more than double.
Such an abiding familiarity, Sinnett (cf. 1918 [1896], 12–13) holds, can be observed in
Indian and Western theosophists.
For psychologists such as Susan Blackmore, arguing that people in near-death situations
are in some kind of impaired or even “pathological” mental states, the question of inter-
subjective, and even of subjective, truth claims can easily be dismissed. The affected indi-
vidual may neither be consciously aware nor be able to remember that she or he had been
in an abnormal mental state, because, as Michael N. Marsh (2010, 242) explains, “halluci-
natory hypnagogic and hypnopompic dream imagery is intensely vivid and memorable.”

1
Even when a vision did occur, Zaleski holds (1987, 86), it has likely “been reworked many times before being re-
corded.” The vision, she argues convincingly, is “a collaborative effort,” produced in interaction with “neighbors,
counselors, the narrator,” and others. Actual experience may be present, but their contours, she holds, “are nearly
indistinguishable from those of the superimposed images through which we discern it.” Although being aware
of the literary processes, Zaleski sticks to a pure, basic visionary experience that cannot be construed without
its “literary wrapper,” or touched upon as an “unembellished event” (86; cf. the discussion in Fox 2003, 87).
2
For biographical information on Spiritualists and Occultists, I have drawn from Melton (ed., 2001) and
Hanegraaff (ed., 2006).
Another random document with
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continued I, it may be well to ask what each of you thought of doing
with the shell, if he had obtained it?
Ernest.—I should turn it into a shield to defend myself with, if the
savages should come upon us.
Father.—Ah, there is my egotist again; this is as I expected; but let
us see in what way you would use it? You would fling it across your
shoulders no doubt, and take to your heels manfully.—I fancy I have
guessed right, my poor Ernest, have I not?—And you, Jack, what
have you to say?
Jack.—I should make a nice little boat of it, which would help to
amuse us all. I was thinking how cleverly we could fill it with
potatoes, or the other things we want to take from Tent-House to
Falcon’s Nest; it would glide along so nicely with the stream, and we
should be saved all the fatigue we now have in carrying them.
Father.—Your scheme, I grant, is not ill-imagined; but a small raft
or an old chest would do just as well for your purpose.—And now for
my little Francis; I wonder what pretty plan he had thought of?
Francis.—I thought I should build a little house, papa, and the shell
would make such a nice roof to it!
Father.—Vastly well, my lads, if we had only our amusement or
our ease to think of; but I want you all to form the habit of thinking
and acting for the general good, rather than of what will most gratify
or accommodate his single self.—Now, then, let me ask to what use
Fritz, the only rightful claimant to the shell, had intended to apply it?
Fritz.—I thought, father, of cleaning it thoroughly, and fixing it by
the side of our river, and keeping it always full of pure water for my
mother’s use, when she has to wash the linen or cook our victuals.
Father.—Excellent, excellent, my boy! all honour to the founder of
the pure water-tub! This is what I call thinking for the general good.
And we will take care to execute the idea as soon as we can prepare
some clay, as a solid foundation for its bottom.
Jack.—Hah, hah! Now then it is my turn; for I have got some clay,
which I have put by to keep for use, behind those old roots yonder.
Father.—And where did you get it, boy?
 Mother.—Oh, you may apply to me for this part of the information;
to my cost I know where the clay was got.—This morning early, my
young hero falls to digging and scrambling on the hill you see to the
right, and home he comes with the news that he has found a bed of
clay; but in so dirty a condition himself, that we were obliged to think
next of the washing-tub.
Jack.—And if I had minded a little dirt, mother, I should not have
discovered this bed of clay, which you will see will be of great use to
us. As I was returning from looking for potatoes, I thought I would
take the high path along the river, just to see how rapidly it runs and
forms those nice cascades: by and by I came to a large slope,
watered by the river; it was so slippery that I could not keep upon my
legs: so I fell, and dirtied myself all over: on looking, I saw that the
ground was all of clay, and almost liquid, so I made some of it into
balls, and brought them home.
Mother.—And boasted of your discovery as if you had made it in
consequence of the most earnest desire to be of use, while the
benefit was the result of chance alone. But I will not put you further
to the blush, my boy; you at last confess the truth, and for this
deserve our praise.
Ernest.—When the water-tub is complete, I will put the roots I
have found to soak a little in it, for they are now extremely dry. I do
not exactly know what they are; they look something like the radish
or horseradish, but the plant from which I took them was almost the
size of a bush: being ignorant, however, of its name or nature, I have
not yet ventured to taste the roots, though I saw our sow eat heartily
of them.
Father.—It was quite right to be cautious my son: but let me look
at these roots. I am always glad to hear that you observe and reflect
upon all the objects which fall in your way. How did you first discover
them?
Ernest.—I was rambling about, father, and met with the sow, who
with her snout was turning up the earth under the plant I have been
speaking of, and stopped only to chew and swallow greedily
something she seemed to find there. I drove her away; and on
looking into the place, I found a knot of roots, which I tore out and
brought home.
Father.—If my suspicion is right, you have made a beneficial
discovery, which with the assistance of our potatoes may furnish us
the means of existence as long as we may remain in this island! I am
tolerably certain that these roots are manioc, of which the natives of
the West Indies make a sort of bread or cake which they call
cassave. But if we would make this use of it, we must first carry it
through a certain preparation, without which these roots possess
pernicious properties. If you are sure of finding the same place, or
we can collect enough in any other, we will secure a sufficiently large
quantity for our first experiment, which I have great confidence will
succeed.
By the time of ending this discourse, we had also finished
unloading the sledge, and I bade the three eldest boys accompany
me to fetch another load before it should be dark. We left Francis
and his mother busy in preparing what we indeed stood much in
need of after a day of such fatigue, a refreshing meal for supper, the
tortoise having presented itself most opportunely for this effect. I
promise you, cried my wife, as we were moving off, you shall not at
your return find reason to complain.
As we walked along, Fritz asked me if this handsome shell was of
the kind so much valued in Europe for making into boxes, combs,
&c.? and if it was not a pity to use it for a water-tub?
I replied, that in our deserted situation the utility of a thing formed
its greatest, and indeed only value. According to this way of
reasoning then, were your water-tub of diamonds, it would be of no
more worth to us than the rudest stone, if in such a form as to be
able to contain water. However, dear boy, I shall inform you, for your
consolation, that our tortoise, which makes such excellent food, is
not of the species, the shells of which are so much esteemed for the
uses you have mentioned. This latter kind, which is called caret,
does not furnish a wholesome food, its flesh being no less
remarkable for its bad and unpalatable properties, than those of our
tortoise for savouriness and nourishment. The shell of the caret
tortoise is prepared for use by the action of heat, which separates
the layer that from its colour and transparency is so attractive, from
the inferior and useless parts. It is usual to preserve even the
clippings of the real tortoise shell and unite them by heat for making
articles of small price; but these are much more liable to break than
the former, and of course possess very little of their beauty.
We now reached the raft, and took from it as many effects as the
sledge could hold, or the animals draw along. The first object of my
attention was to secure two chests which contained the clothes of
my family, which I well knew would afford the highest gratification to
my exemplary wife, who had frequently lamented that they were all
compelled to wear clothes that were not their own; reminding her at
every moment, she said, how much they might be wanted by their
proper claimants. I reckoned also on finding in one of the chests
some books on interesting subjects, and principally a large
handsomely printed Bible. I added to these, four cart-wheels and a
hand-mill for grinding; which, now that we had discovered the
manioc, I considered of signal importance. These and a few other
articles completed our present load.
On our return to Falcon’s Nest, we found my wife looking
anxiously for our arrival, and ready with the welcome she had
promised, of an ample and agreeable repast; nor was her kind
humour diminished by the view of the acquisitions we now added to
her store of necessaries. Before she had well examined them, she
drew me, with one of her sweetest smiles, by the arm,—Step this
way, said she, and I too will produce something that will both refresh
and please you. And leading to the shade of a tree,—This, continued
she, is the work I performed in your absence, pointing to a cask of
tolerable size, half-sunk into the ground, and the rest covered over
with branches of trees. She then applied a small cork-screw to the
side, and filling the shell of a cocoa-nut with the contents, presented
it to me. I found the liquor equal to the best canary I had ever tasted.
—How then, said I, have you performed this new miracle? I cannot
believe the enchanted bag produced it.—Not exactly, replied she; for
this time it was an obliging white wave which threw on shore the
agreeable liquid with which I have now the pleasure to regale you. I
took a little ramble in your absence yesterday, to see what I could
find, and behold how well my trouble was rewarded! The boys ran for
the sledge, and had but little difficulty in getting it to Falcon’s Stream,
where our next care was to dig a place in the earth, to receive and
keep it cool. We guessed it must contain some sort of wine; but to be
quite sure, Ernest and Jack bored a small hole in the side, and
inserting a hollow reed, they contrived to taste it, and assured me the
cask was filled with a most delicious beverage. I now thought it was
high time to forbid their proceeding any further with the tasting,
fearing for the effect on their poor heads; and I closed up the hole
with a small piece of wood. I have nothing more to relate, but that the
boys kept the secret, as I desired them.
My wife and I agreed that we would now recompense them, by
giving each a small glass of the precious liquor; but the young
creatures took such a fancy to it, that they obtained again and again
a little more, till at last we perceived their spirits so much raised, that
we were obliged to refuse their further entreaties with gravity and
firmness; observing to them, that man is required to restrain his
appetite, and not to abuse, by excesses, the good things a bountiful
Providence allows us for the purpose of rejoicing our hearts and
strengthening our bodies when used with moderation.
By means of this little lecture I succeeded in appeasing their
turbulence, and in drawing them from the dangerous vicinity of the
cask. For my own part, the generous character of the wine had so
invigorated me, that I found myself able to complete my day’s work,
by drawing up the mattresses we had brought from the ship, to our
chamber in the tree, by means of a pulley. When I had laid them
along to advantage, they looked so inviting, that I could scarcely
resist my desire of at once committing myself to the kind relief they
seemed to offer to my exhausted strength.
But now the tortoise, through the voice of my wife, laid claim to my
attention. The savoury smell ascended to our castle; I hastened
down, and we all partook heartily of the luxurious treat. We returned
thanks to God, and speedily retired to taste the blessing of sweet
and sound repose upon our mattresses.
 CHAPTER XIX.
Another trip to the wreck.

I rose before day to go to the sea-side and inspect our two

vessels. My family did not hear me depart, and I was unwilling to
disturb their balmy sleep, that sweet restorative of strength, so
requisite for children. I therefore gently descended the ladder.
Above, the scene was all repose; below, I found every thing in life
and motion. The dogs jumped about me for joy, perceiving I was
going out; the cock and the hens flapped their wings and chuckled,
and our goats shook their long beards as they browsed; but the ass,
the only creature amongst them I was likely to want at that time, still
lay stretched at full length on the grass, and discovered no
inclination for the morning jaunt I designed for him. Taking less of the
creature’s feelings into the account than my own occasion for his
services, I quickly roused and harnessed him singly for the sledge,
not wishing to yoke the cow to it before she had been milked. It was
unnecessary to call the dogs after me. As I walked towards the
shore, animated at different moments by hope and fear, with
pleasure I saw there, that, with the help of my lead and iron bars
used as anchors, the boat and raft had resisted the tide, though it
had partially heaved them up. I got quickly on the raft, where I took a
small loading, and returned to Falcon’s Stream in time for breakfast.
Judge of my surprise when arrived, that I neither saw nor heard a
single creature of its inhabitants, though the sun had climbed high
above the horizon.—Thinking it time for our fellow-labourers to be
stirring, I gave a shout as loud as a war-whoop. My wife awoke first,
and wondered to see the day so far advanced. Really, my dear, said
she, I think it must be the magic charm of the good mattress you
brought home yesterday that has lulled me into such a long sound
sleep, and that appears to be still exerting its influence upon our
boys. In fact, though they rubbed their eyes, they could scarcely
keep them open: they yawned, stretched, turned round, and turned
back again. Come come, up, my lads, exclaimed I, once again; the
more we venture to parley with sloth, the longer she holds us in her
chains; brave youths like you, ought to awake at the first call, and
leap quick and gaily out of bed. Fritz, ashamed to have slept so long,
was dressed first; Jack soon after him, and Francis next; the ever-
slothful Ernest was the last.
Is it possible, dear boy, said I to him, that at your age you allow
even little Francis to get the start of you?
Oh! father, answered he, it is so delightful to lose oneself again
after having been awakened! one feels sleep come on afresh so
gently, ideas vanish so agreeably! I should be glad to be awakened
thus every morning, that I might have the pleasure of falling into a
new slumber.
I answer, Ernest, that this is a refinement in slothfulness I never
heard of till now! It is my duty to tell you, and that gravely, if you
acquire this habit, you will become an effeminate useless character.
A man, though not like us, in a desert, is bound to provide for his
existence, and avoid being a burthen to society; he should do what is
right with courage and promptness, without consulting convenience
or pleasure. He who indulges himself in all that flatters his senses,
will end by falling a victim to them. Nature produces, too, certain
poisons, which are grateful to the palate; yet the persons who
unguardedly taste them, fail not to suffer the death they conceal.
After this short admonition, we all came down; and prayers and
breakfast being over, we returned to the sea-side to complete the
unloading of the raft, that it might be ready for sea on the ebbing of
the tide. I was not long, with the additional assistance I had, in taking
two cargoes to Falcon’s Stream. At our last trip the tide was nearly
up to our craft. I immediately sent back my wife and three children,
and remained with Fritz waiting till we were quite afloat; when
observing Jack hovering round us and dilatory in following his
mother, I perceived his wish and assented to his embarking with us.
Shortly after, the tide was high enough for us to row off. Instead of
steering for Safety Bay to moor our vessels there securely, I was
tempted by the fineness of the weather to go out again to the wreck,
which it was with considerable difficulty we got up to, though aided
by a very fresh sea breeze. On our getting along-side, it was too late
to undertake much, and I was unwilling to cause my dear partner
uneasiness by passing another night on-board; I therefore
determined to bring away only what could be obtained with ease and
speed: in this resolution we searched hastily through the ship for any
trifling articles that might be readily removed. Jack was up and down,
every where, at a loss what to select; and when I saw him again, he
drew a wheel-barrow after him, shouting and rejoicing at having
found such a vehicle for the convenient carriage of our potatoes. But
Fritz next disclosed still better news, which was that he had
discovered behind the bulk-head amid-ship, a pinnace (i. e. a small
craft, the forepart of which is square) taken to pieces, with all its
appurtenances, and even two small guns for its defence. This
intelligence so delighted me, that I quitted every thing else to run to
the bulk-head, when I was convinced of the truth of the lad’s
assertion: but I instantly perceived, that to put it together and launch
it into the sea, would be an Herculean task, which I relinquished for
the present. I then collected some house utensils and whatever else
I thought most useful; such as a large copper boiler, some plates of
iron, tobacco graters, two grinding-stones, a small barrel of gun-
powder, and another full of flints, which I much valued. Jack’s barrow
was not forgotten; two more were afterwards found and added, with
straps belonging to them. All these articles were hurried into the
boat, without our stopping to eat, or in any manner refresh ourselves,
and we re-embarked with speed, to avoid meeting the land wind that
invariably rises in the evening. As we were safely and happily
drawing near to shore, we were struck with the appearance of an
assemblage of small figures ranged in a long line on the strand, and
that seemed to be viewing us attentively: they were dressed in black,
and all uniform, with white waistcoats and full cravats: the arms of
these beings hung down carelessly; now and then, however, they
seemed to extend them tenderly, as if they wished to embrace or
offer us a token of friendship.
 I really think, said I to the boys, who were steadfastly gazing at so
novel a spectacle, that we are in the country of the pygmies, and
that, having discovered us, they wish to form a friendly alliance.
Jack. Oh, no! father, they are certainly Lilliputians, though
somewhat bigger than those of whom I read the description in
Gulliver’s Travels.
You, then, child, said I, consider those travels as true; that there is
an island of Lilliput, and inhabited by dwarfs?
Jack. Gulliver says so. He met also with men of an immense
stature, besides an island inhabited by horses.....
And yet I must tell you that the only reality in all his discoveries is
the rich imagination of the author, whose taste and feeling led him to
resort to allegory for the purpose of revealing grand truths. Do you
know, Jack, what an allegory is?
It somewhat resembles a parable, I presume.
Right, one is very similar to the other.
Jack. And the pygmies you mentioned, are any to be found?
No more than there are Lilliputians; they exist only in poetical
fiction, or in the erroneous account of some ancient navigator, in
which a group of monkeys has been fallaciously described as
diminutive men.
Fritz. Such probably are the mannikins that we see now stretching
out their arms towards us. Ah, now I begin to perceive that they have
beaks, and that their arms are short drooping wings;—what strange
birds!
You are right, son, they are penguins or ruffs1. They are of the
stupid species; Ernest killed one soon after our arrival. They are
excellent swimmers, but cannot fly; and so confused are they when
on land, that they run in the silliest way into danger; catching such
birds as these, is a fit sport for none but the indolent.
While we were talking I steered gently towards shore, to enjoy the
uncommon sight the longer; but the very moment we got into shallow
water, my giddy boy Jack leaped out of his cask up to his waist into
it, and was quickly on land battering with his stick among the
penguins before they were aware of his approach, so that half a
dozen of them were immediately laid flat; they were not dead, but
only stunned: the remainder, seeing they were so roughly accosted,
plunged into the sea, dived, and disappeared.
Fritz murmured audibly at his brother for having frightened them
away before he could fire. I could not help laughing at this perpetual
shooter of guns, who was so disposed to waste his powder on
animals which were to be taken with the hand without resistance: I
also taunted Jack a little for having jumped into the water at the risk
of being drowned. While I was making these observations, the birds,
that had been merely stunned, gradually recovered, rose upon their
legs and began a tottering sort of march with a gravity which
irresistibly excited our laughter. I did not allow Jack’s game to
escape; I took hold of them, tied their legs together with reeds,
without hurting them, and laid them on the beach while we were
landing our treasures. But as the sun declined, and we despaired of
finishing before night set in, each of us filled a barrow in order to take
home something. I requested that the tobacco-graters and iron
plates might be in the first load; to these we added the penguins
living and dead, and then set out. As we drew near Falcon’s Stream I
heard with pleasure the watchful dogs proclaim our approach with
loud barking: they no sooner saw us than they ran up with lively
demonstrations of joy, and in the midst of their rough greetings
completely overset poor Jack, who was wheeling along his barrow
with difficulty and some ill-humour, and to this he gave vent by two or
three lusty cuffs of his fist, which were divided between his friends
Turk and Ponto, who so little thought of resenting them, that they
sprang upon him as often as he took his barrow, and thus renewed
the contest to the no small amusement of his brothers, who ran up to
disengage him. My wife was highly pleased with the wheel-barrows
and for the most part with their contents, but she had no partiality for
the tobacco-graters.—In the name of Heaven, said she, what is the
use of these graters? Are our four sons to become snuff-takers?
Luckily for my fears, said she, the article is not to be obtained in our
island.
No, dear wife, I replied; and pray do not be uneasy about them;
these graters are not for the gratification of our noses; I am too
happy in having myself abandoned the bad and filthy habit of snuff-
taking, to permit my sons to use it. Come, children, said I, pointing to
the penguins, look after the new-comers to the poultry-yard. I then
directed them to fasten the birds one by one to a goose or a duck, as
a means of taming and inuring them to the society of their
companions. This essay, however, was tedious and inconvenient to
our feathered animals, who were but slowly reconciled to their
singular companions. My wife now showed me a good store of
potatoes which she had got in during our absence, and a quantity of
the roots I had taken for manioc, and in which I was not mistaken: I
much applauded her diligence and foresight, and gave Ernest and
little Francis their share of approbation.
Papa, we have worked very hard indeed, said the latter; what will
you say when we have a fine crop of maize, melons, dates, and
gourds? Mamma has planted all these in the potatoe holes.
I must tell you, master Francis, exclaimed his mother, you are a
little thoughtless babbler. Why did you tell my secret? you have
spoiled all the pleasure I promised myself in surprising your father
with my new plantation.
Father. I am sorry for this, my dear; but be assured I am not the
less gratified for hearing of your kindness in this unexpected manner.
But tell me, I beseech you, where did you procure all these seeds
and grains, and how came you to think of so extraordinary a plan?
Mother. I took the grain and seeds from the bottom of my
enchanted bag, and your thirst after fresh booty and your endless
trips to the wreck are the sources of the resolution I formed to
increase the number of your comforts at home, and thus render them
the less necessary. I determined then during the fine season to fit up
a kitchen-garden, and to sow as much of it with seed as I was able to
dig and put in order; at the same time taking particular care to leave
all the smallest-sized potatoes in the ground, that they might produce
us a full and abundant crop.
Father. This was well thought, my love; but we must not despise
the trips to the vessel neither; this very day we unexpectedly
discovered in her a new and handsome little pinnace, which at some
time or other may be of the greatest service to us.
 Mother. I cannot say that this discovery gives me very much
pleasure; I have no desire to trust myself again on the sea; but
should it at any time be absolutely necessary, I must confess I
should prefer a well made solid vessel to our miserable raft
composed of tubs.
Father. Well, this you shall possess, if you will consent to my
returning once more to the wreck; in the mean while, let us have
some supper, and then we will retire to rest; and if my little workmen
should be industriously inclined to-morrow, I shall reward them with
what to children is always a source of pleasure—the novelty of a
new trade to be learnt. This did not fail to excite the curiosity of all;
but I kept my word, and made them wait till the following day for the
explanation I had to give.
 CHAPTER XX.
The bake-house.

I waked the boys very early, reminding them that I had promised
to teach them a new trade. What is it? What is it? exclaimed they all
at once, springing suddenly out of bed and hurrying on their clothes.
Father.—It is the art of baking, my boys, which at present I am no
more acquainted with than yourselves; but we will learn it together,
and I am much mistaken if we shall not be able to produce an
excellent batch of bread, which will be the greater luxury, from our
having been altogether deprived of it during our residence in this
island. Hand me those iron plates that we brought yesterday from
the vessel, and the tobacco-graters also.
Mother.—I really cannot understand what tobacco-graters and iron
plates can have to do with making bread; a good oven would afford
me much better hopes, and this, unfortunately, we do not possess.
Father.—These very iron plates, the same you looked so
disdainfully upon no longer since than yesterday, will serve the
purpose of the things you are now wishing to have.—I cannot, it is
true, promise, in this early attempt, to produce you light and
handsome-looking bread; but I can answer that you shall have some
excellent-tasted cakes, though they should be a little flat and heavy;
—we will immediately make our experiment. Ernest, bring hither the
roots found underground: but first, my dear, I must request you to
make me a small bag of a piece of the strongest wrapper linen.
My wife set instantly to work to oblige me; but having no great
confidence in my talents for making cakes, she first filled with
potatoes the large copper boiler we had brought from the ship, and
put it on the fire, that we might not find ourselves without something
to eat at the time of dinner: in the meanwhile I spread a large piece
of coarse linen on the ground, and assembled my young ones round
me to begin our undertaking; I gave each of the boys a grater, and
showed him at the same time how to rest it on the linen, and then to
grate the roots of manioc; so that in a short time each had produced
a considerable heap of a substance somewhat resembling pollard.
The occupation, as is always the case with novelties, proved
infinitely amusing to them all, and they looked no further into the
matter; one showed the other his heap, saying in a bantering tone:
Will you eat a bit of nice cake made of grated radishes?
Father.—Make as merry as you please, young gentlemen, on the
subject of this excellent production of nature, which ere long you will
acknowledge to have yielded you a most palatable kind of food; a
food which is known to be the principal sustenance of whole nations
of the continent of America, and which the Europeans who inhabit
those countries even prefer to our wheaten bread. I must tell you,
there are many kinds of manioc; one of these shoots rapidly, and its
roots become mature in a short time; a second sort is of more tardy
growth; and there is another, the roots of which require the space of
two years to be fit for use. The first two kinds have pernicious or
unwholesome qualities when eaten raw, but the third may be eaten
without fear: for all this, the two first are generally preferred, as being
more productive, and requiring a shorter time for being fit for use.
Jack.—One would think only madmen could prefer those that are
pernicious: we cannot to be sure but be overwhelmed with gratitude
for some cake that is to kill us (and the young rogue threw his grater
from him as he spoke)! who shall tell us that our fine roots here are
not of the same pernicious kind?
Father.—At all events we shall not eat them raw; as nearly as I
recollect, the tardy kind, like these we have procured, grow in the
form of a bush; while the other two are creeping plants. However, to
be quite sure, the first thing we will do, shall be to press the pollard.
Ernest.—For what end, father, shall we press it?
Father.—Because, even in the pernicious kind it is only the sap
which is hurtful; the more substantial part being when dried
extremely wholesome and even nourishing. But that we may act with
the greatest possible prudence, we will give some of our cakes to the
fowls and to the monkey, before we venture to eat of them ourselves;
if they do them no harm, we may then proceed to feast on them with
safety.
Jack.—Thank you, father; but I have no fancy to let my monkey be
poisoned.
Father.—You may be perfectly easy, Jack, for the preservative
instinct of your monkey is such, that he would not touch it if it were
poisonous; animals are in this respect better treated than man, who
is called upon to use his reason in supplying the deficiency: at all
events, however, we will give him so little that no harm can possibly
ensue.
Upon this Jack picked up his grater, and with the others began to
grate the roots with new alertness: dread of the poison had for an
instant palsied every arm; but a very short time was now sufficient
for producing a considerable quantity of ground manioc. By this time
my wife had completed the bag. I had it well filled with what we
called our pollard, and she closed it effectually by sewing up the end.
I was now to contrive a kind of press: I cut a long, straight, well-
formed branch, of considerable strength, from a neighbouring tree,
and stripped it of the bark; I then placed a plank across the table we
had fixed between the arched roots of our tree, and which was
exactly the right height for my purpose, and on this I laid the bag; I
put other planks again upon the bag, and then covered all with the
large branch, the thickest extremity of which I inserted under an
arch, while to the other, which projected beyond the planks, I
suspended all sorts of heavy substances, such as lead, our largest
hammers and bars of iron, which, acting with great force as a press
on the bag of manioc, caused the sap it contained to issue in
streams, which flowed plentifully on the ground.
Fritz.—This machine of yours, father, though simple, is as effectual
as can be desired.
Father.—Certainly. It is the simplest lever that the art of
mechanism can furnish, and may be made extremely useful.
 Ernest.—I thought that levers were never used but for raising
heavy masses, such as blocks of stone, and things of that degree of
weight; I had no notion that they were ever used for pressing.
Father.—But, my dear boy, you see that the point at which the
lever rests on the planks, must always be the point of rest or
compression; the point at which its extremity touches the roots of the
tree would no doubt be that of the raising power, if the root was not
too strong to yield to the point of the lever; but then the resistance at
the point of compression or rest is still stronger, and presses
effectually, as you see, the contents of the bag. The Negroes,
however, have another manner of proceeding; but it would have
been much too tedious in the process for us to imitate. They make
tresses of the bark of a tree, and with it form a kind of basket of
tolerable size; they fill it with manioc, and press it so tightly that the
baskets become shorter, and increase in breadth; they then hang the
baskets to the strongest branches of trees, and fasten large stones
to them, which draw the baskets again lengthways; by which action
upon the manioc, the sap runs out at the openings left by the
tresses.
Mother.—Can one make no use of this sap?
Father.—Certainly, we may: the same Negroes use it as food, after
mixing with it a considerable quantity of pepper; and, when they can
procure them, some sea crabs. The Europeans, on the other hand,
leave it to settle in vessels till it has formed a sediment; they then
pour off the liquid part, wash the sediment with fresh water, and
place it to dry in the sun: in this manner they obtain from it an
excellent sort of starch, which is used for clearing linen. I must tell
you that the potatoe also contains the same sort of substance, which
may be put to the same use: for the rest, the latter is less nourishing
than the manioc.
Mother.—But pray tell me, are we to prepare the whole of this
manioc at once? If so, we have at least a whole day’s work, and a
great part must be spoiled at last.
Father.—Not so, my dear; when the pollard is perfectly dry, it may
be placed in casks, and being shut closely down, it will keep for
years; but you will see that the whole of this large heap will be so
reduced in quantity by the operation we are going to apply of baking,
that there will be no cause for your apprehension.
Fritz.—Father, it no longer runs a single drop; may we not now set
about making the dough?
Father.—I have no objection; but it would be more prudent to
make only a small cake, at first, by way of experiment, which as I
said before we will give to the monkey and the fowls, and wait to see
the effect, instead of exhausting our whole store at once.
We now opened the bag, and took out a small quantity of the
pollard, which already was sufficiently dry; we stirred the rest about
with a stick, and then replaced it under the press. The next thing was
to fix one of our iron plates, which was of a round form, and rather
convex, so as to rest upon two blocks of stone at a distance from
each other; under this we lighted a large fire, and when the iron plate
was completely heated, we placed a portion of the dough upon it
with a wooden spade. As soon as the cake began to be brown
underneath, it was turned, that the other side might be baked also.
Ernest.—O how nicely it smells! what a pity that we may not eat
some of it immediately!
Jack.—And why not? I would eat some without the least fear; and
would not you, Francis?
Father.—Hah, hah! What is then become of our terrible fear of
being poisoned, which made you even throw your grater from you?
Ah, I see how it is; the passion of gluttony is stronger than your fear.
—However, I certainly believe that in this case it might be gratified
without doing you an injury; nevertheless it is better perhaps to wait
till the evening, and not run a greater risk than the loss of one or two
of our fowls and of the monkey; and we may say this trial of the cake
will be the first service he has rendered us.
As soon as the cake was cold, we broke some of it into crumbs,
and gave it to two of the fowls, and a larger piece to the monkey,
who nibbled it with a perfect relish, making all the time a thousand
grimaces to testify his content, while the boys stood by envying the
preference he enjoyed.
 Fritz.—Now tell me, father, how the savages manage to grate their
manioc, for surely they have not, like us, an instrument fitted for the
operation:—and tell me also, if they call their composition by the
name of cake or bread, as we do?
Father.—The savages having no such article as bread in their bill
of fare, have consequently no word in their language to express it. At
the Antilles, the bread from the manioc is called cassave; the
savages make a kind of grater with sharp stones, or shells; or when
they can get nails, on which they set a high value, they drive them
into the end of a plank, and rub the manioc upon it. But now, I pray
you, good wife, give us quickly some dinner, and we will afterwards
resume the baking trade, provided our tasters show no signs of the
colic or swimming in the head.
Fritz.—Are these, then, the only effects of poison, father?
Father.—At least they are the most ordinary ones: there are
poisons which paralyse and induce a heavy sleep; such are opium, if
taken in too large a quantity; hemlock, &c. &c. Others are sharp and
corrosive, attacking the stomach and intestines: of this class are
arsenic, sublimate, and the pernicious sorts of mushrooms. If, when
either of these has been swallowed, there be not immediate
assistance procured, the human machine stops, becomes
disorganized, and the patient dies.—I will take this occasion, my
dear children, to caution you against a kind of fruit extremely
dangerous in its nature, and the more so from the remarkable
attraction of its external appearance. This fruit is frequently found in
America on the banks of rivers or in marshes, and you may perhaps
meet with it in this island. Its aspect is agreeable to the eye,
resembling a handsome kind of yellow apple with red spots. It is,
however, one of the strongest poisons in the world: it is even said to
be dangerous to sleep under the shade of the tree which produces it.
Be very careful, therefore, should you happen to meet with it: it is
known by the name of mancenilla. Indeed I cannot too seriously
exhort you not to venture on eating any thing you may find, however
alluring in appearance, till you have first consulted me. Promise me
this, children, one and all of you.
 Jack.—I promise you heartily, father; and still further, I will keep my
word more faithfully than Adam did towards God, who had forbidden
him to eat of a certain apple.
Father.—You will do well in this; but do not so presumptuously and
so readily blame that in another which under the same
circumstances you would have done yourself; I would lay a wager
that you would be the first to be led away by any worthless knave
who should come and tell you that I had been laughing at you all the
while, that the mancenilla is the finest apple in the world, and that by
eating it you would be rendered as strong as a lion; that ready
appetite of yours, and that little vanity we now and then discover in
you, would make you, I fear, forget my advice, and greedily devour
the apple.—But this is enough on the subject; instead of thinking
more of poisons, let us resort with confidence to our plentiful dish of
boiled potatoes; perhaps, dear wife, you have some little relish to
add to them to day:—what, I pray you, may there be in that boiling
vessel yonder?
Mother.—It is the penguin that Jack killed and brought home.
To say the truth, we did not take a fancy to the dish, the bird being
of a strong and fishy flavour. Jack, however, was of a different
opinion, and he was left at full liberty to regale himself to his
appetite’s content.
The first thing we did after dinner was to visit our fowls. Those
among them which had eaten the manioc, were in excellent
condition, and no less so the monkey, who gave us sufficient proofs
of life and health in the multitude of gambols and grimaces he
exhibited. Now then to the bakehouse, young ones, said I—to the
bakehouse as fast as you can scamper. The grated manioc was
soon emptied out of the bag, a large fire was quickly lighted, and
when sufficiently fervent, I placed the boys where a flat surface had
been prepared for them, and gave to each a plate of iron and the
quantity of a cocoa nut full for them to make a cake apiece, and they
were to try who could succeed the best. They were ranged in a half
circle round the place, where I stood myself, that they might the
better be enabled to observe how I proceeded, and adopt the same
method for themselves. The result was not discouraging for a first
experiment, though it must be confessed we were now and then so
unlucky as to burn a cake; but there was not a greater number of
these than served to feed the pigeons and the fowls, which hovered
round us to claim their share of the treat. My little rogues could not
resist the pleasure of frequently tasting their cake, a little bit at a
time, as they went on. At length the undertaking was complete; the
cakes were put in a dish and served in company with a handsome
share of milk, to each person; and with this addition, they furnished
us an excellent repast: what remained we distributed among our
animals and fowls. I observed with pleasure that the penguins which
I had preserved alive, accommodated themselves perfectly to this
kind of food, and that generally, they began to lose their former timid
behaviour; I therefore indulged my inclination to compassionate their
captive state, and ventured to disengage them from their comrades:
this indulgence procured me the pleasure of seeing them seemingly
in a state of newly acquired content.
The rest of the day was employed by the boys in making several
turns with their wheel-barrows, and by myself in different
arrangements in which the ass and our raft had a principal share,
both being employed in drawing to Tent-House the remaining articles
we had brought from the ship. When all this was done we retired to
rest, having first made another meal on our cakes, and concluded all
with pious thanks to God for the blessings his goodness thought fit to
bestow upon us.