“Give Me a Leonard Cohen Afterworld:” Musings on Mortality
The silhouetted appearance of a tall, shadowy figure with a voice, devoid of melody but full of passion and wisdom, and a presence that transcends mere mortality, lingering somewhere between earthly and divine… This is the excessively romantic image that my mind manifests at the simple thought of Leonard Cohen.
Over the past couple of days, many fans have read the story of Cohen’s final letter to former love, Marianne Ihlen. The couple met and began their romance on the Greek island of Hydra in 1960, shortly after Marianne had given birth to a son and was subsequently left by her husband: a relationship unusual and epic from its very conception. The relationship endured for most of the ’60s and resulted in some of Cohen’s most beautiful poetry. Ihlen served as the muse for both “Bird on the Wire” and “So Long, Marianne,” songs that now immortalize the woman and eternalize the love story.
In late July, Cohen received word that Marianne was entering her final hours and immediately penned an eloquent and uncomplicated farewell to his friend and former partner. Cohen spoke of her coming departure from this earth as well as his own impending death. Without haste, he wrote this letter in a way that suggests the most difficult topic for human beings to approach is a conversation that Cohen was prepared for at the drop of a hat.
Thinking about death and talking about death, especially to one who is dying, leaves the typical person speechless. Debating whether to reflect, laugh, cry, offer condolences or remain silent is the torment that causes many of us to ignore the subject whenever possible. But not Leonard Cohen. He demonstrates his understanding about the limitations of time, explaining to Marianne that he doesn’t feel any need to discuss why he has loved her or to marvel at her beauty and wisdom because she “know[s] all about that.” He doesn’t seek to reflect on the past, and there isn’t a tone of sympathy. The letter is truly a goodbye, or even a “see you later.”
He reveals that his own mortality has been a source of introspection. In perhaps the most poignant lines of the letter, Cohen writes: “Well Marianne it’s come to this time when we are really so old and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.” The lyrics and poetry of Leonard Cohen have earned him an association with melancholy and gloom over the years. And though you can almost hear Cohen deeply sighing as you read those words, there isn’t dread or apprehension in his farewell to Marianne. Cohen’s ability to speak so fluidly and confidently about the inevitable condition of humanity is admirable and quite comforting to me. Reportedly, Ihlen herself was rather comforted and deeply moved upon receiving the letter, at one point even physically outstretching her hand as Cohen’s words suggested.
Though the artist has bared much of his soul to us for decades, reading pieces of such intimate correspondence meant to be the final communication shared between two people who have loved each other, admittedly feels a bit intrusive. But I think we stand to gain from Cohen’s response to death and loss. I recall once reading an interview from years ago in which Cohen said, “I’ve always been free from hope.” Sure, those words confirm the morose perception that often surrounds him. But they stuck with me because of the reprieve that such a statement actually carries. There is freedom in hopelessness. In Cohen’s letter for Ihlen, it is denial that he seems to be free from. The denial that keeps most of us fearful and careful. His musings on mortality are a deep understanding of a concept beyond human comprehension, and it comes from the wisdom to recognize the uselessness in challenging the fleeting and fragile nature of life.
Marianne Ihlen died on July 28, 2016, at the age of 81. Her funeral took place is Oslo, Norway.