Since we know relatively little about what the historical Socrates actually believed, scholars rely heavily on the way he is depicted in Plato’s various dialogues to try to piece together some sense of his views. This piecing together is, of course, complicated by the fact that Plato likely had his own agenda when he portrayed Socrates somewhat differently in each dialogue’s different setting and context (cf. Tarrant 2000; Waugh 2000). As a result of this and other complications, there ends up being two versions of Socrates, and his approach to death and the afterlife, that have a significant impact on the early moments of the existentialist tradition. One version, as I mentioned, has a profoundly positive influence on Kierkegaard’s approach to immortality, while the other version is a serious source of concern for Kierkegaard and Nietzsche alike. This latter version is often considered to be the result of Plato’s own evolving metaphysical ideas, but given the difficulty of distinguishing between the contributions of Socrates and those of Plato, it will perhaps be clearer (at least for the moment) to put things solely in terms of Socrates’ dual impact.

In the Apology, Socrates defends the philosophical way of life against those who see in his dialectical method a public nuisance. There is more to the legal proceedings depicted in the dialogue than this single issue, of course, but this is probably a fair description of Socrates’ outlook and intentions. Understood in this way, his defense can be considered a great success (even thousands of years later), but not so much if the goal was acquittal for Socrates himself. In fact, he treats the entire trial with a remarkably cavalier attitude for someone in mortal danger. After he is convicted and sentenced to death, Socrates famously explains to the jurors why he is not afraid to die (see Plato 2002: 40c–41d). Although he does not know exactly what death holds, he is convinced that for someone who lives in the right way—i.e. like a philosopher (a true lover of wisdom)—there is no need to fear. As Socrates sees it,

If death leads to nothingness, it will be like a permanent “dreamless sleep,” which everyone appreciates; and if it leads to a continuation of his consciousness and philosophical activity in the company of heroes and demi-gods in Hades, then that also sounds amazing. Because such activity is itself the good life, and Socrates would pursue it wherever he is, he does not even consider the possibility that a good man like himself will ever be miserable “either in life or in death.” In the eyes of many (including at least one of Kierkegaard’s pseudonyms), the point of Socrates’ optimistic ambivalence about the possibility of an afterlife is that death does not really matter so long as one is living well. This is an idea that will show up in some form or another again and again in the coming chapters, especially the next one.

In the Phaedo, on the other hand, the ambivalent version of Socrates is nowhere to be found. As he sits in his prison cell awaiting execution, he offers several arguments in an attempt to prove that the soul is indeed immortal and that his consciousness will carry on after he dies. Many of these arguments are predicated on the notion that life, as a mortal human being, is pretty terrible. It is full of bodily corruption, sensory imperfection, and uncertainty, just to name a few of its many deficiencies. If there were no life beyond this one, then genuine knowledge would be impossible and our time here would seem rather pointless. For philosophers,

Thus, a lot rides on Socrates demonstrating the immortality of the soul. It is still true that the best possible outcome for the soul depends on living rightly—again, as a philosopher—but there is really no positive outlook without immortality in the Phaedo. Although no firm conclusions are ever reached (we are talking about a Platonic dialogue, after all), Socrates nevertheless doubles down on the notion of mortal life’s worthlessness in his final words. He tells his friend to “make [an] offering” on his behalf to thank Asclepius, the god of medicine, for curing him of the disease of being alive (Plato 2002: 118a).

This more pessimistic version of Socrates serves primarily as a punching bag for thinkers like Nietzsche and, to some extent, Kierkegaard. In his dissertation, for example, the latter associates the lessons of the Phaedo with Plato, rather than Socrates, but he is nonetheless critical of the “weariness with life” he finds there (CI 77/SKS 1: 136).² A similar criticism is made more frequently, and vehemently, throughout Nietzsche’s writings. For him (as we shall see), Socrates is among the first in a long line of notable philosophers and religious figures who denigrate mortal life, and often combine this denigration with promises of a better existence to come.³ Since the goal of the various thinkers associated with the existentialist tradition is to explain how lives that end in death can be understood as worthwhile, they are generally reluctant to make any such promises. They are also less inclined to join this version of Socrates in seeing mortality as an argument against life. Thus, depending on which version of Socrates one has in mind, it is possible to find in him either an inspirational precursor or an example of what not to do when trying to make life meaningful.

Unlike in the case of Socrates, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche both have several complimentary things to say about Pascal alongside their more critical assessment. For example, Kierkegaard praises Pascal for his passionate dedication to a somewhat anachronistic ascetic lifestyle, and sympathizes with his perseverance in the face of personal and social difficulties (see e.g. KJN 8: 528/SKS 24: 518–9; also see Maia Neto 1991: 163–4). Nietzsche admires Pascal’s intellect and his commitment to living out his ideals, even if they are Christian ones (see e.g. AC, section 5; D, section 192). As for the criticism, Kierkegaard primarily takes issue with Pascal’s use of reason and evidence in the service of Christian faith, but this is a point of contention that falls a bit outside the scope of the present inquiry.⁴ Nietzsche’s concern, on the other hand, is roughly the same one he has when talking about Socrates and the other figures discussed in this chapter. The problem is that Pascal offers a rather harsh assessment of life in this world; and, even worse, like the version of Socrates seen in the Phaedo, Pascal connects this assessment with longing for life in a better world to come.⁵ Interestingly, Kierkegaard’s and Nietzsche’s respective worries appear to converge in Pascal’s most famous argument—the Wager.

Although Pascal is suspicious of certain trends and movements within the post-Reformation Catholic Church, he is still an ardent defender of the Christian religion. Faced with growing skepticism about numerous elements of its doctrine in the midst of the Scientific Revolution (to which he in some ways contributed), Pascal wanted to produce an apologetic treatise to offer support (cf. Ariew 2005: xi). While he was unable to complete the project, he did leave behind a collection of fascinating notes, among them one of philosophy’s classic arguments. The purpose of the Wager seems to be to convince people that being a Christian or wanting to be a Christian without having proof of Christianity’s core tenets is not the blameworthy foolishness detractors often say it is. It is not the case, as is sometimes popularly believed, that the Wager is intended to lead directly to faith. Pascal recognizes that faith requires action and divine assistance; it is not something that one can just rationally decide to have. Nonetheless, he argues that since “you are committed”—i.e. you already exist—you have to take a position for or against the existence of God and the afterlife. Practically speaking, to refuse to take a position is to be against, since such a refusal means rejecting the potential benefits of God and the afterlife. Death is coming (and sooner than you might like) regardless of which way you go, so your life is staked no matter what, but because only one option (however unlikely) comes with the hope of “infinite gain,” it makes sense to want to believe. In Pascal’s (2005: S680/L418) words: “Let us weigh the gain and the loss in calling heads that God exists. Let us assess the two cases. If you win, you win everything; if you lose, you lose nothing. Wager, then, without hesitation that he exists!” Belief in God—if God exists—brings with it eternal reward in heaven, and this trumps any other possible outcome of the Wager so profoundly that belief is actually the only reasonable option.

As I said, this little thought experiment is not sufficient to generate faith, according to Pascal, because faith in God and the promise of an afterlife that comes with him is at least as much about how one lives out a relationship with him as it is about giving one’s mere assent to the proposition “God exists.” Furthermore, living out such a relationship requires a lifelong commitment—only possible by the grace of God—which is fraught with difficulty that goes far beyond any momentary struggle with decision-making. Having expanded on this point, it is still worth noting that one of the main reasons the belief option trumps the non-belief option—even if it turns out that God does not exist—is because even the best of ordinary mortal lives is not really worth anything. In Pascal’s estimation, even the slim chance of an infinite reward sounds vastly superior to the relative certainty of absolutely any sort of finite/mortal existence.

And this brings the discussion back to what bothers Kierkegaard and Nietzsche about Pascal. The former finds this kind of rational calculation about the benefits of Christian faith to be a distinctly problematic (and perhaps even unchristian) way to provide comfort and support to those struggling with belief (cf. FSE 68/SKS 13: 90; KJN 8: 116/SKS 24: 119). For Nietzsche, Pascal may well be the best Christianity has to offer, but insofar as his desire for immortality gets him caught up in disparaging mortal life in this world, he is complicit in a pathetic and bitter decadence that seeks to undermine all that is natural, healthy, and strong within us (cf. BGE, section 46; WLN 195–7; WP, section 246). As Gilles Deleuze (1983: 37) puts it, Pascal “is governed by the ascetic ideal and the depreciation of life. Nietzsche is right to oppose his own game to Pascal’s wager.” But before we can hear anything more about Nietzsche’s game (or Kierkegaard’s, for that matter), there are still two other modern thinkers to consider who have some things in common (for better or worse) with Pascal when it comes to the valuation of immortal and mortal life.

What Kant and Pascal have in common is that they both come to the conclusion that there are practical reasons for, or benefits in, believing in God even if there are no compelling theoretical demonstrations that such a being exists. It is unclear whether or not Kant would approve of the Wager,⁶ but there is a certain kinship between Pascal’s famous argument and Kant’s account of the Highest Good and the Practical Postulates. The key connection is that they both seem to recommend the subjugation of one’s own immediate and finite interests for the sake of some infinite or absolute good. In Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, this good is largely wrapped up with the rewards of the afterlife. At this relatively early stage in his work, punishment and reward function as the primary motivation for moral behavior. Why would one refrain from following one’s immediate inclinations if not for the hope of something better to come as long as one does so? Since God is the being that is capable of meting out rewards and punishments based on our behavior, and this does not seem to happen in “the sensible world,” we have a practical need to “assume” the existence of “God and a future life” (Kant 1998: A 811/B 839). Putting all of this together, Kant says, “without a God and a world that is now not visible to us but is hoped for, the majestic ideas of morality are, to be sure, objects of approbation and admiration but not incentives for resolve and realization” (Kant 1998: A 813/B 841). In other words, even if we cannot prove that God exists, we need God and the justice he brings to the universe in order to motivate moral behavior (cf. Pasternack 2011: 305–6). Not only does belief in God bring with it the possibility of infinite personal gain in a future world, it also makes possible the absolute value of living in a moral universe.

After further developing his moral theory in subsequent work, most notably the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals and the Critique of Practical Reason, Kant provides an argument for belief in God that does not rely so heavily on the desired personal outcome of moral behavior, but more so on the nature and demands of morality itself. We do not need to believe in God in the hope of some future reward, but because God’s existence helps us understand how morality works. Without getting into all of the specifics of his more mature view of moral matters, the main difference is that in this later work morality is more intimately bound up with the Highest Good; the latter is necessary in order for the former to make sense (Kant 1997: 5:114). Morality would be undermined if people did not get what they deserve (good or bad) in the long run. Despite its somewhat different role here, as we see in the first Critique (e.g. Kant 1998: A 810/B 838), the Highest Good is simply moral worth dictating the final distribution of happiness.⁷ And following a similar line of reasoning, God and the afterlife remain necessary for making this distribution possible.

Since pure practical...