Reasons to live and to sing life in long-lived societies

In my book Reasons to Live and Sing Life. Ideas for Growing, Sharing and Transforming the World (Pirámide), I wanted to return to a question as ancient as it is urgent: what to do with our life. It is not a minor issue nor a matter reserved for philosophers. It is, in fact, the great human question. We all live, but we do not all live in the same way. We all move through time, but not all of us find sufficient reasons to do so with meaning, with dignity and, as far as possible, with joy.

Kant formulated three great questions that continue to illuminate our existence: what can I know, what should I do, and what may I hope for. The first refers to knowledge; the third places us before mystery; the second, however, challenges us directly. What do we do with our life? How do we orient it? What decisions do we make? What biography do we build? That is, for me, the central issue. We do not choose to be born. We arrive in the world conditioned by family, culture, school, social norms and circumstances. But even so, we have a margin of freedom. And with that margin we trace our path, sometimes with clarity and other times stumbling along.

Today this question is especially important. We live in societies that have managed to extend life as never before. It is an indisputable historical achievement. But precisely for that reason we must ask a complementary question: not only how long we live, but how we live, what we live for, and with what reasons we continue wanting to live. Because a long-lived society cannot be satisfied with simply adding years to the calendar. It must aspire to fill those years with meaning, affection, care, participation and beauty.

Science has greatly expanded our knowledge of health, the body, ageing and well-being. Technology also offers extraordinary resources. However, we should not deceive ourselves: neither science nor technology can, on their own, answer the essential question of the good life. They can help us live better, prevent, heal and support. But they do not replace the responsibility of thinking, deciding and orienting our existence. And even less so if those resources are not guided by a democratic, just and truly human ethics.

I am concerned to say this in a time marked by wars, hate speech and growing forms of suffering. I do not say it out of naïve optimism. I say it precisely because I believe we need to defend, more strongly than ever, a vision of life that does not surrender to cynicism or destruction. In this sense, Spinoza remains a major reference. He understood that life contains a deep impulse to persevere in being, a desire to continue living, to seek what favours our existence and improves our well-being. Amid so much sombre noise, I continue to believe that this impulse remains alive and deserves to be strengthened.

Camus also accompanies me in this reflection. I admire him for his honesty, his courage in the face of totalitarianism and his refusal to lie about the human condition. In his works we find the absurd, exposure to the elements and rebellion; but also the possibility of finding meaning in shared responsibility. The Plague, for example, shows us a doctor and a priest who, from different positions, converge on a fundamental truth: when life is threatened, caring for others becomes a higher form of meaning. Believers and non-believers alike have much to learn from this lesson.

In the book I also devote central attention to emotions and personality. There is no good life without an education of the emotions. From both a personal and social perspective, sexual and empathic-social emotions are decisive. Desire, attraction and falling in love are part of our vital experience. But so are care, attachment, friendship, social networks and altruism. We are beings who need others. We need to be loved, recognised, accompanied and supported. And we also need to care, protect and give.

This becomes especially evident in old age. We may lose independence or autonomy in some aspects, but the need for affection never disappears. Attachment does not vanish. The need for care does not fade. The desire to remain important to someone does not dissolve. When this fails, very deep forms of suffering appear: emotional loneliness, due to lack of attachment and care; social loneliness, due to lack of friendship or relational networks; and romantic or sexual loneliness, when shared intimacy disappears. To speak of ageing without speaking of emotions is to understand almost nothing.

This is why I resist a purely biological, functional or administrative view of longevity. Human life is not exhausted in clinical health or survival. It also needs the playful, the symbolic and the aesthetic. It needs to enjoy nature, music, literature, art, conversation, play, shared silence. There is a part of existence that cannot be measured only in terms of performance, productivity or utility, and yet is decisive for our well-being.

In this horizon, Beethoven holds a very special place for me. He was able to recognise the best and the worst of the human being without giving up a radical hope. When he composed the Ode to Joy, he was not expressing naïveté, but a civilizational commitment: that of a humanity that, despite its abysses, can recognise itself as a community of destiny. It is no coincidence that this hymn came to represent Europe. It resonates with a deeply moral conviction: all human beings are brothers.

Happiness or personal well-being does not consist of constant euphoria or the absence of pain. It consists, more modestly and more profoundly, in being able to look at one’s own life and recognise that one has tried to live with meaning, to improve what was within one’s reach and to contribute, even modestly, to the good of others. All the time we devote to reflecting, analysing, deciding and carrying out improvements in our life and in the lives of others—especially those closest to us—brings us closer to a deeper form of well-being.

This is, ultimately, the conviction that sustains the book and that I want to share here today: in long-lived societies, living longer is not enough. We need reasons to live. Reasons to care, to create, to share, to learn, to love, to give thanks and, despite everything, to sing life.

Written by: Félix López Sánchez